Saint Overboard by Leslie Charteris

on the ocean
floor nearly a mile below the ship from which he was lowered. He was the
man who had perfected and proved a deep- sea costume compared
with which the “iron men” of previous diving experiments
were mere amateurish makeshifts, a combina tion of metallic
alloys and scientific construction that promised to revolutionise the exploring
of the last secrets of the sea… . And now he was in Dinard, the guest of
Kurt Vogel, arch hi jacker of Davy Jones!
    That long pregnant breath floated back
through the Saint’s lips and carried a feather of cigarette-smoke with
it—the pause during which he had held it in his lungs was the only physical
index of his emotion. He became aware that the Professor was joining in with
some affable common-place, and that Vogel’s black eyes were riveted on him
unwinkingly. With a perfectly steady hand he tilted the ash off
his cigarette, and schooled every scrap of tension out of his
face as he turned his head.
    “Of course you’ve heard about Professor
Yule?” said Vogel urbanely.
    “Of course… .” Simon’s
rendering of slight apologetic confusion was attained with an effort that no
one could have felt but himself. “Now I know who he is. … But I
hadn’t placed him until that lady said something just now.” He looked
at Yule with a smile of open admiration. “It must have been an
amazing experience, Professor.”
    Yule shrugged, with a pleasant diffidence.
    “Naturally it was interesting,” he
replied frankly. “And rather frightening. Not to say uncomfortable.
… Perhaps you know that the temperature of the water falls
rapidly when you reach really great depths. As a matter of fact, at
five thousand feet it is only a few degrees above freezing point. Well, I had been so
taken up with the other mechanical details of pressure and lighting and air
supply that I actually forgot that one. I was damned cold!” He chuckled engagingly. “I’m putting an electrical
heating arrangement in my improved
bathystol, and I shan’t suffer that way
next time.”
    “You’ve decided to go down again,
then?”
    “Oh, yes. I’ve only just started. That
first trip of mine was only a trial. With my new bathystol I hope to get down twice as far—and that’s nothing. If some of the latest
alloys turn out all right, we may be able to have a look at the Cape
Verde Basin— over three thousand fathoms—or
even the Tuscarora Trough, more than
five miles down.”
    “What do you hope to find?”
    “A lot of dull facts about depth
currents and globigerina ooze. Possibly some new forms of marine life.
There may be some astounding monsters living and dying down there, and
never seeing the light of day. We might even track down our old friend the
sea serpent.”
    “There are some marvellous possibilities,” said the
Saint thoughtfully.
    “And some expensive ones,”
confessed Yule, with attractive candour. “In fact, if it hadn’t been for Mr Vogel they might
not have been possibilities at all—my first descent just about ruined me. But
with his help I hope to go a lot further.”
    The Saint did not smile, although a sudden
vision of Kurt Vogel as a connoisseur of globigerina ooze and new
species of fish tempted him almost irresistibly. He saw beyond that
to other infinitely richer possibilities—possibilities which had proba bly never
occurred to the Professor.
    He knew that Vogel was watching him,
observing every mi croscopic
detail of his reactions with coldly analytical precision. To show a poker-faced lack of interest would be
almost as suspi cious as breaking
loose with a hungry stream of questions. He had to judge the warmth of his response to the exactest hun dredth
of a degree, if he was to preserve any hope of clinging to the bluff of complete unsuspecting innocence which
he had adopted. In the next twenty
minutes of ordinary conversation he worked
harder than he had done for half his life.
    “… so the next big descent will show
whether there’s any chance of supporting