“Did you find the Phoenix?”
Simon told her the harbourmaster’s bad news. But it had less impact on her than expected. She had been through enough of a shock to her way of life recently, he supposed; she was almost resigned to expecting that things would go wrong at every turn.
“But it has to be there,” she said without much conviction. “I mean, that’s the only reason I’m... Anyway, how do you know all about the bullion and these men, and Charles, and all?”
“I have a friend in high places,” he said. “And that’s the truth.”
Later, more from a need of breathing-space than in any positive hope of locating the elusive Phoenix, they wandered along by the magnificent private-yacht harbour in the dying sunshine of a matchless September evening.
“I don’t even know what she looks like,” Arabella lamented. “It seems quite hopeless, doesn’t it? Anyway, we can surely believe the harbourmaster if he says she’s not here. Or is he involved too?” She eyed the Saint quizzically. “Maybe you think he’s the sixth man.”
“Stranger things have happened,” said the Saint, whose thoughts at the time, if the truth be told, were mostly preoccupied with the logistics of making himself and Arabella vanish at the right moment from the sight of the tall white-haired shadow who had been lurking at a not quite discreet enough distance behind them since the start of the evening’s expedition.
It was not that Simon Templar had any immediate plans to get up to anything nefarious, or which he would otherwise not wish Inspector Lebec or one of Lebec’s men to observe. But the Saint did have a rooted dislike of being followed about.
Doubtless there exists, in some shadier nook or cranny of Whitehall’s less public departments, or their equivalents in other countries, an official but restricted manual codifying the various available manoeuvres for shaking off a professional shadow; and it may be that item 17.3 b/l therein treats of the timely interposition of visually obstructive obstacles and of making a rapid alteration of pedestrian course under cover of such an obstacle. But to the Saint’s thought processes, which dealt with the world in as direct and tangible a way as they could, it was a simple, enjoyable and uncluttered matter. You waited till something got in the way between you and the shadow, and then you dodged off niftily in the opposite direction. Ideally, to complete the enjoyment you then found a vantage point from which you could watch the shadow stumble around scratching his head, wondering where on earth you had vanished to.
In this instance, a longish sailing-craft which was being slowly pushed along the wharf on a dray supplied the obstacle. Simon chose his moment to place himself and Arabella on the opposite side of it from the white-haired detective, and then he cut rapidly back, dragging her into a narrow alleyway between wharf-side yacht chandleries, and thence via some steps to a tiny buvette, from a back window of which they had a good but discreet view below, and they watched Lebec’s man as he figuratively, if not actually, scratched his head for a while before he finally gave up and went away.
Later that night, after a leisurely dinner, they still had to admit that they were no farther forward with the problem of locating the Phoenix. As there seemed nothing constructive to do for the moment, a look at the nightlife, with some appropriate unwinding, seemed as good an idea as any. No doubt they would have the white-haired detective or his replacement trailing along behind; but that at least offered the optional entertainment of shaking him off again if all else proved tedious; though it might not be so easy next time. They drove to the Club Bidou, which was recommended by the hotel’s friendly reception staff.
Named after a traditional provencal bar-counter dice game, it was a drink-and-dance club where the decor was based on mirrors repeating every image to infinity, the style was excuse-me, and the table cloths were symbolically green-baize plastic. At the entrance there were shelves full of semitrans-parent plastic cubes with dice markings, large enough to fit over a reveller’s head and be kept in place by wire clips inside, providing complete anonymity from the neck up. Thus, unexpectedly, Simon Templar became for a time a blue “six” and Arabella a pink “three”.
Two drinks later, they were enjoying some energetic dancing when abruptly the music changed to a samba, and a buxom red “two” tapped the Saint on the shoulder and danced away with him. While he was trying to disengage himself with reasonable civility, Arabella found herself grabbed by a green “five.” She could see little of him in the dim lighting, but what was visible of his dark clothing below the mask made her uneasy, for no reason she could immediately put her finger on.
Then, as they moved around and the light glanced on his torso, she stifled a gasp. He was wearing a black shirt, open almost to the waist, and on his chest a gold chain glinted as it caught the light.
The green cube leaned close.
“Where is the gold?” hissed Bernadotti’s voice.
He tilted back his mask-helmet and stared hard at her in the half-light. The wolfish white teeth flashed briefly. She wrenched herself away, tried to run — only to find her way barred by a grotesque Tweedledum figure.
“Where is the gold?” whispered Descartes, raising his mask.
She turned to run the other way — and was promptly grabbed by a shorter man who tilted his cube to reveal the blubbery lips of Pancho Gomez. Frenzied, she somehow managed to tear herself from the nightmarish trio, who were trying to hem her in.
She slipped away under the outstretched arm of Bernadotti and almost threw herself upon a nearby blue “six.”
“Simon! Simon it’s them! They’re here!” The “six” said nothing, but leaned heavily against her.
“Simon, did you hear me? It’s...” Her voice tailed away as the “six” slumped forward, revealing a slim dagger buried between his shoulderblades.
2
Arabella gasped and jumped back. The “six” crashed to the ground and lay still. The dancers spread back, clearing a space around the fallen man. The music came, it seemed unwillingly, to a halt.
Then someone bent down and took off the “six” helmet. It was not the Saint. It was the white-haired detective. That was too much for Arabella. She fainted dead away — only to be deftly caught by a man who had pushed through the crowd from behind. He raised his “six” cube. It was the Saint. He patted her face to revive her, at the same time gazing intently around the room.
One of the dancers, a man, was sliding around the back of the crowd, making quietly for the exit.
Arabella opened her eyes.
“Welcome back,” Simon said as, supporting her, he hustled her after the man.
“Simon — I thought it was you!” she said weakly.
He nodded grimly.
“So did someone else.”
As they emerged into the street, a small blue van was just moving off some twenty or thirty yards away. In the available light it was impossible to get any view of the driver’s face, but within seconds they were following in the Hirondel.
The driver of the van had just a fraction too much of a start: he made turn after rapid turn, down ever narrower side-streets — a type of driving in which a car the size of the Hirondel could hardly be at its best, even with the formidable skill of a Simon Templar behind the wheel. Inevitably, there came a time when Simon had to come to a screeching halt for a party of inebriates crossing the road just after the van had sped around a corner ahead of them and out of sight; and then they lost it.