Saint Overboard by Leslie Charteris Page A

Wegener’s theory of continental
drift,” concluded the Professor.
    “I see,” said the Saint
intelligently.
    A man wandering about the terrace with a large
camera pushed his way to their table and presented a card with the in scription
of the Agence Fran ç aise Journalistique.
    “Vous permettez, messieurs?”
    Yule grinned ruefully, like a schoolboy, and
submitted blushingly to the ordeal. The photographer took two snapshots of the group, thanked them, and passed on with a vacuous air of wait ing for
further celebrities to impinge on his autocratic ken. A twice-divorced
countess whom he ignored glared after him indig nantly ; and Kurt
Vogel beckoned a waiter for the addition.
    “Won’t you have another?”
suggested the Saint.
    “I’m afraid we have an engagement. Next
time, perhaps.” Vogel discarded two ten-franc notes on the
assiette and stood up with a flash of his bloodless smile. “If
you’re interested, you might like to come out with us on a trial
trip. It won’t be very sensational, unfortunately. Just a test for the new apparatus in moderately deep water.”
    “I should love to,” said the Saint
slowly.
    Vogel inclined his head pleasantly.
    “It won’t be just here,” he
said—“the water’s too shallow. We thought of trying it
in the Hurd Deep, north of Alderney. There are only about ninety fathoms there, but
it’ll be enough for our object. If you
think it’s worth changing your plans, we’re leaving for St Peter Port in
the morning.”
    “Well—that sort of invitation doesn’t
come every day,” said the Saint, with a certain well-timed embarrassment.
“It’s cer tainly
worth thinking about—if you’re sure I shouldn’t be in the way… .”
    “Then we may look forward to seeing
you.” Vogel held out his hand. He had a firm muscular grip, but there
was a curious rep tilian coldness in the touch of his skin that prickled
the Saint’s scalp. “I’ll give you a shout in the morning as we go by, and
see if you’ve made up your mind.”
    Simon shook hands with the Professor, and
watched them until they turned the corner by the Petit Casino. His blue
eyes were set in a lambent glint, like polished sapphires. He had got what he
wanted. He had made actual contact with Kurt Vogel, talked with him,
touched him physically and experienced the cold-blooded fighting presence of the man,
crossed swords with him in a breathless
finesse of nerves that was sharper than any bludgeoning battle. He had gained more than that. He had re ceived
a gratuitous invitation to call again. Which meant that he was as good as on the prize list. Or in the coffin.
    3
    A highly conclusive and illuminating
deduction, reflected the Saint grimly… . And then all the old reckless
humour flickered back into his eyes, and he lighted another cigarette and ordered
himself a second drink. So be it. As Loretta Page had said, there were no
dividends in guessing. In the fullness of time all uncertainty would doubtless
be removed—one way or the other. And when that happened, Simon Templar
proposed to be among those present.
    Meanwhile he had something else to think
about. A man came filtering through the tables on the terrace with a sheaf
of English and American papers fanned Out in his hand. Simon bought an Express, and he had
only turned the first page when a single- column headline
caught his eye.
     
    TO SALVE
    CHALFONT CASTLE
    ——————
    £5,000,000 Expedition Fits Out
    —————
    A SHIP will leave Falmouth early in August
with a contract for the greatest treasure-hunt ever attempted in British waters.
    She is the Restorer, crack steamer of
the Liverpool & Glasgow Salvage Association——
     
    Simon skimmed through the story with
narrowing eyes. So that was it! If Kurt Vogel was cruising in the vicinity of
the Channel Islands on active business, and not merely on a holiday, the Chalfont
Castle was his most obvious target. And it seemed likely—otherwise why
not take Professor Yule and his bathystol