But the Saint had hesitated — knowing Duport’s nocturnal inclinations — to attempt to trace him at two in the morning. Judging from Lebec’s manner, a night in the cells was in any case a certainty, come what might, for both him and Arabella.
In the morning, and before any formal charges had been laid, he had no hesitation in claiming his right to a telephone call and in using it to make contact with Duport. He outlined the problem tersely, and Duport immediately undertook to telephone Lebec’s superiors and explain to them in the strongest as well as the simplest terms that Monsieur Simon Templar, whatever else he might have done in his unorthodox life, did not kill policemen on such slender acquaintance.
The call must have had its effect; for less than an hour later the two of them were brought before a strangely subdued Lebec.
“I am very sorry your man is dead, Inspector,” Simon told him. “Unfortunately he was wearing a mask identical to mine, and we’re of similar height. Obviously someone thought he was me.”
“Indeed?” Lebec said without conviction. He returned to his previous practice of addressing himself primarily to Arabella. “Whether Monsieur Templar was the target intended, is perhaps open for debate, which I do not propose to enter. It is enough that there is confirmation of your story from several of the other dancers. Nobody observed the stabbing.” Lebec sniffed disdainfully, as if utterly unwilling to be convinced himself by what he was saying. “Therefore, nobody saw who wielded the knife. Therefore, I must release you both.” He bowed slightly to Arabella. “In your case, Madame, it is a pleasure. In the case of Monsieur Templar, a great regret.”
“I love you too, Gerard,” said the Saint.
Lebec got up from his chair and moved around on the desk to sit, less formally, on its edge.
“Madame — a few words of friendly advice. Already you have spent a night in the police cell. I regret any discomfort — which, I suggest, you would not have risked but for travelling with this notorious criminal Templar. Be very careful with this man, Madame. I have told you of the gold robbery — and of the sixth man. Your husband alone knew his identity.”
“Inspector Lebec,” Arabella said loyally. “I think you ought to stop intimating that Simon is that man.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Simon put in with a brief baring of the teeth. “That’s one I owe you. Don’t let me forget it.”
“But I put it to you, Madame,” Lebec persisted, “that if he is the sixth man, he will be as merciless with you as with the other three survivors who already seek the gold.”
Simon yawned elaborately and twiddled his thumbs.
“May we please go, Inspector? It really is very boring in here. Something to do with the conversation.”
Lebec nodded stiffly and showed them out, though not without repeating his earlier instruction that they were to report to him before leaving Marseille.
There was no need for them to discuss where they were going. Only breakfast might have stood between them and an exploration of the Phoenix; and breakfast, of a kind, they had been given at the police station.
One of Lebec’s men had nervously driven the Hirondel over from the dock area where it had been left, and now the Saint drove back there and found the orthodox entrance to the dry dock where they had seen the Phoenix.
During the drive, he was conscious of some sidelong and quizzical glances from his passenger. Lebec’s words, it seemed, had re-watered the small seed of doubt which had already threatened to burgeon into fullblown mistrust once before, after their first meeting with the Inspector. Arabella was turning over past events in her mind, comparing what she knew of Simon from personal acquaintance — in truth not a great deal — with the scenario Lebec had implied. But Simon said nothing; he knew that Arabella would surface with her own conclusions or questions, or challenges, when she was good and ready, and it would have gained him nothing to have broached the matter again himself there and then.
The Phoenix, to Arabella’s delight, was exactly as they had seen her. If anything she was even more impressive in daylight. She was a beautiful hundred-footer, her hull and superstructure gleaming with new white paint. For a minute or two Arabella just stood and gawped; then she walked up and down and gawped some more from several different angles for another minute or two. There was no one in sight.
“Well,” she said finally, “what are we waiting for? Let’s go aboard.”
There was silence as they crossed a gangway to the main deck. Simon kept his eyes skinned, and his muscles were alert for instant action. He hadn’t forgotten the fugitive of the night before, he who had driven the van; and neither had he forgotten the strange freak of chance — if that was what it was — that had caused a crate to fall at the very instant when he was about to walk under it.
There was no sign of anyone on deck. They opened the door to the main saloon and went in. It was lavishly appointed, with heavy ornate furniture and an apparently well-stocked bar; but dominating the room was a hugh oil painting on the far wall, a portrait of the familiar face of Charles Tatenor — an almost photographic likeness of the man, complete with yachting cap.
“Cha—” Arabella began in an automatic exclamation, but Simon put his finger to his lips warningly. His acute hearing had picked up the faintest susurration from somewhere within the accommodation. He led the way silently through a teak door in the after bulkhead, and then along a short passageway. The noise was louder there, and increased still more as they approached a door marked “Galley” at the end of the passageway.
Suddenly there was a crash from within. The Saint wrenched open the door — and almost tripped over an empty bottle.
It was a bottle that had held Irish whiskey.
And on his knees, and held upright only by the counterweight of one arm slung across the galley stove, was a middle-aged, very Irish-looking, very drunk-looking, dishevelled and unshaven man, who had yet managed somehow, through all that, to keep his gold-braided cap on.
“... second thoughts, I think I’ll rest in me cabin,” he muttered; and the voice was instantly recognisable as that of the tipsy crooner from the night before. He was now, if anything, drunker than he had been then. Even as they watched, his eyes glazed and he toppled over on his face.
Arabella looked at Simon, then at the inert figure, which had begun to snore, then back at Simon.
“What are we going to do with him?”
“I suppose,” Simon mused, “we’d better have a shot at bringing him round, so that we can try to figure out who he is and what he’s doing here. Do you suppose there’s any coffee in the place that isn’t eighty proof?”
It took an hour of repeated cold-water treatments, after the Saint had heaved him into a chair, before the man recovered enough to make any semblance of sense. Now half-awake, he spluttered through the black coffee that Arabella was pouring determinedly into his unwilling mouth.
“Every drop of it, Captain,” said the Saint, who had been thumbing through the ship’s log. “I take it you are what’s left of Captain William Finnegan?”
“Wha—...? How...? Who...? Where...?” He glowered at Simon. “None of your damn business. Get off me ship, the pair of yous.”