The Saint in Trouble (9 page)

He stepped towards the wheel as Samantha released her grip on it. She stood to one side as he cut the engines and the boat shuddered and lost way.

The Saint’s attention was focussed on the helicopter as he signalled to the pilot that he was safe but to remain close, and it was only by chance that he caught the sudden movement to his right. He ducked and turned as a pair of powerful binoculars flashed past his head and hurtled overboard.

Samantha was wearing only shorts and a bikini top of minimal proportions, neither of which was in any way adequate to the task of concealing the perfection of her body, and Simon regretted that she seemed to be so out of tune with the ideas that such a costume would normally be calculated to inspire.

He straightened up, wagging a finger in solemn admonishment.

“Naughty, naughty.”

The girl glared at him.

“I wish I’d killed you.”

The Saint approached cautiously, a slight lingering soreness in his neck reminding him of her ability to fulfill her wish. But she did not make any of the countermoves that he was prepared for as he picked up a lifebelt that hung beside him and suddenly dropped it over her head, and forced it down over her shoulders to where the hole in it, conflicting with her exquisite chest measurement, was a perfect fit to pinion her arms to her sides as effectively as if they had been roped there.

“I think you could do with some time to reflect on your evil ways and the inhospitality you show to unexpected guests,” he murmured, and swung himself nimbly down the ladder which he had scaled only a few moments before.

A stream of expletives culled from a dockside dictionary fol lowed him, but the Saint didn’t stay to appreciate the scope of her vocabulary.

Forward from the open after deck, immediately below the flying bridge, was the small but comfortable saloon-cum-charthouse, and at the other end of that a companionway led down to the forward quarters. Simon was halfway towards it when he heard the shot and the splintering of wood a couple of inches above his head.

He knew he could never reach the opening befor the gunman corrected his aim and nailed him, and he was stranded too far into the saloon to spring back out again to safety. The only alternatives were a second more accurate bullet or surrender. The Saint considered both in a fraction of a second, and raised his hands slowly so that his move was clearly visible to the man in the shade below.

The man came up the companionway warily, his gun aimed steadily at the Saint’s stomach. Simon gradually lowered his arms until the palms of his hands rested on top of his head. The fingers of his right hand slid beneath his left cuff, feeling for the handle of his throwing knife.

There was the sound of a heavy bump overhead, which the Saint knew must be connected with Samantha’s efforts to free herself, but it made the sailor look up in alarm. And in that instant of distraction the Saint’s hand flashed forward, the knife flying through the air in a silver blur. The man screamed as the blade sliced across his knuckles and the pistol fell from his fingers.

Simon had started to follow the knife even before it had found its mark. The man was staring stupidly at his blood-covered hand and made no move to fight. Simon kicked the gun aside before unleashing a straight left that contained every gram of his strength to put the unfortunate sailor out of his misery.

He stepped over the body and retrieved his knife, fastidiously wiping it on the sailor’s T-shirt before slipping it back into its sheath. Then he knelt down and inspected the man’s wound. Satisfied that he was in no danger of bleeding to death, Simon left him and went down the companionway.

The steps led to a narrow passageway. The first door on one side opened onto a small cabin that was almost entirely taken up by two bunks and a couple of lockers. The bottom bunk was curtained off, and the Saint stood to one side and swished back the drapes. The crewman he had seen taken by Cartwright and his henchman the previous afternoon lay there in a drugged sleep.

Simon winced at the state of the man’s face. It looked as if someone had used a razor to play noughts and crosses. Bandages were rolled around the top of his head, reaching down over the ears to meet similar repair work around his neck. One eye was hidden beneath a soft pad, while the other was bruised purple and so badly swollen that only a thin slit between the lids showed that there was still a pupil beneath.

The Saint drew the curtain and stepped back into the passage. The slight narrowing of his eyes was the only visible sign of the anger that burned within. He cursed himself for not having prevented Cartwright from taking the man, even though he realised that there was no way he could have guessed the agent’s intention. The scarring of the sailor had been no haphazard affair but a methodically and expertly executed job of torture. He could only guess at the reason for it, but he longed for a chance to let Cartwright experience similar suffering.

Another door opened onto the galley, and there were two guest cabins which were slightly larger than those for the crew, as well as the predictable sanitary facilties. Simon searched every cupboard and even looked under the bunks, also into the tiny engine room and hold.

In the end, just one thing was certain: Professor Maclett was not on board.

“And then there were none,” he reflected quietly as he returned to the saloon.

The crewman was just beginning to revive, and the Saint pulled him to his feet, half carrying, half dragging him below and locking him in the cabin with his injured colleague.

Samantha’s struggles had succeeded in freeing one arm, with devastating consequences to her skimpy bikini top, when the Saint returned to the bridge. She glared at him implacably.

“Been having fun?”

“Where’s Maclett?”

“How the hell should I know? You’re Mr. Bright Guy, you tell me.”

Simon grasped her roughly by the shoulders and shook her, his eyes drilling into hers.

“Stop playing the spoilt little girl. If you haven’t got him, why are you running away?”

“I’m running away because I don’t want to end up like Pierre.”

“Pierre? The sailor with the facelift?”

“Yes. Curdon’s bully-boy gave me two hours to leave Cannes or get the same treatment. No lousy professor is worth that kind of risk. When I saw the helicopter, I thought it was Mm coming after me just to make sure.”

The final piece of the jigsaw locked into place. Simon felt the satisfying glow of knowing his theory had been correct, but it was cooled by the sickening realisation that he might be too late to do anything about it.

It had been a very simple ploy that had succeeded solely because it was so basic. He had been searching under stones when all the time the creature he hunted had been basking on top of the biggest rock of all, astute enough to understand that the Saint would overlook him just because he was not hiding. The trick with the fishing boat that morning had made him think of the sea and yachts, putting Samantha in the spotlight and the Saint in jail. And when that had failed, the enemy had sent Samantha packing, knowing that the Saint would try and stop her, all the while losing valuable time on a trail of irresistible red herrings.

“Our friend is quite a fisherman/’ Simon mused as he leaned out of the bridge and waved the hovering copter lower.

“Pardon?”

“Forget it, Sam.”

Simon caught the swinging harness and hooked it on. “It’s been nice seeing you, but I’m afraid I must fly. Perhaps we’ll bump into each other again some time.”

Demmell was beginning to revive and Samantha would soon have help with her Houdini efforts. But for several minutes yet she would be incapable of taking any offensive action against the Saint’s departure. She looked up in raging impotence as he was winched aloft.

“If we do,” she shouted, “I hope I’m driving a tank instead of a yacht!”

Simon laughed and waved a generous adieu. His last glimpse of her was as she turned back towards the semi-conscious Demmell with a withering contempt in her eyes and a stream of invective on her lips.

The pilot and Gaby looked questioningly at the Saint as he unbuckled himself in the cabin.

“A loud bark up a very wrong tree, I’m afraid.” Simon pointed rougMy northwards. “Home, James, and don’t spare the horses.”

As they flew he explained what had happened not so much to illuminate his companions as to sort out the details in his own mind. He studied the aerial maps and located Curdon’s villa, pointing it out to the pilot.

“Can you take me there?”

The pilot nodded and banked the helicopter over Antibes, swinging slightly towards the east and flying Mgh until they were directly over the villa.

Simon could make out two cars parked in the driveway, Cartwright’s Renault and Curdon’s silver-grey Mercedes. The swimming pool was empty and but for the presence of the cars the villa might have been deserted. Behind the house was a small area of lawn circled by a belt of trees, beyond them a barren stretch of hillside that could have been recently cleared for some new building.

“I want you to fly over the villa and then double back, come in below the tree line so that there is as little chance as possible that we will be spotted by anyone in the house.”

The pilot did as he was instructed, flying over the brow of the hill and then skimming back barely ten feet from the ground to bring the helicopter to earth at the edge of the trees.

“I don’t know how long I shall be,” Simon said. “How long can you wait for me?”

The pilot shrugged.

“I’m not on duty until this evening, so you can have until then if you wish. Anyway, as far as I am concerned you have hijacked me and therefore how can I argue?”

Simon slapped him on the back.

“Merci. You are a true philosopher.”

He climbed out of the craft but barred Gaby from following.

“I can’t allow you to risk your neck, Gaby.”

The taxi driver looked crestfallen. Simon punched him playfully on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry, mon vieux. You may get more excitement than you can handle before long.”

The man’s face brightened.

“I hope so. It is dull for a driver to become only a passenger, you know.”

Simon nodded.

“I understand.”

He waved and was gone. He had an almost supernatural ability to arrive or depart as he wished, sometimes, without those around him being immediately aware of his coming or going.

He merged into the band of trees passing like a wraith be tween the trunks, his feet making no sound on the carpet of dry cones and pine needles.

He had forgotten more about field craft and the skill of stalking than most white men ever learn. He had been taught by those whose existence depended on their ability to master their environment and to control it with the aid of only the most primitive of weapons and the minimum of disturbance to the balance of life around them, whether that environment was the steaming jungles of Borneo and Brazil or the dry savannahs of Africa.

He reached the final line of trees and stood behind them, as still as any of their trunks. Only his eyes moved as he judged distances and angles of sight.

The rear of the villa seemed to consist mainly of windows, and with twenty yards of open ground separating the nearest tree from the house anyone who happened to look out of a window could not fail to see him. But there was one consolation: most of the windows on the ground floor were open, and if the alarm was not raised immediately when he left the protection of the trees, he would be able to get inside the house before anything could be done about it.

A pair of french windows opened onto a small patio, and the Saint raced towards them. He covered the distance with the long sure strides of the trained athlete, and stood for a moment outside, waiting for any shout or commotion that might warn that he had been seen. Hearing none, he stepped into the villa.

He found himself in a spacious dining room furnished with Empire chairs and sofas, oil paintings and gilt-framed mirrors, but he did not linger to admire the decor. He passed through it quickly into the corridor outside, which apparently bisected the villa, connecting the entrance hall in the center with the twin wings of the building.

Simon flitted along it, peering into every room. Most were shrouded in dust sheets, and only a couple of sitting rooms and a study looked as if they had been recently used. He reached the hall and was considering whether to go upstairs or continue the search at the other end of the ground floor when a door opened a few yards in front of him.

He stepped back into the shadow of the stairs as Cartwright emerged, carrying a tray full of bottles and glasses. He looked as scrubbed and immaculate as when the Saint had first met him, except for a long bruise that disfigured his cheek where the fire extinguisher had connected. The Saint resisted an almost overwhelming desire to get his fingers around that slender throat, but contented himself with watching Cartwright disappear into a room at the far end of the corridor.

He could hear Emma’s voice clearly as the door was opened: “Daddy, I was afraid you’d been spirited off to the Russians or something.”

Simon moved swiftly along the passage and stood close to the door. Maclett’s rich Scottish accent was unmistakeable.

“As a matter of fact, I am. Y’know I’ve had t’claw ‘n scratch m’way through, don’t y’lass. All me life. Well, I’ve got t’be sure it comes to something.”

“But what are you talking about? Sir William, what’s going on?”

Curdon’s tone was as smooth and polished as if he were addressing a committee of civil servants.

“Our Official Secrets Act says that what your father has to offer may not be offered. National security and all that. So he’s chosen to go where he and his work will find proper appreciation.”

“Emma, y’have t’understand.” Maclett’s gruff tones were soft, almost pleading. “The Russians’ve promised me m’work will be used t’benefit everyone. I’ve been planning t’go all along. I couldn’t tell ye.”

Emma sounded close to tears.

“But Sir William, you’re D16. You represent our government!”

“After twenty years of loyal poverty, miss, I am now taking the opportunity of representing me. And it is time to go, Professor.”