He had the potential to settle to a humdrum existence like any other man; but it remained a potential, like that of a winged seed staying always aloft.
Those who had worked with him, that select handful of men, and one woman, who had shared his ideals all those long years ago — his “gang” as Arabella had called them — they had once been the same, and had floated as free. But one by one, when their time had come, they had ceased to float, and had dropped to the ground, and put down roots, and settled.
Once, such a precarious and fateful time of choice had come for Simon Templar also, when he found himself poised in the air, becalmed; and it was with a great emptiness, at the time, that he had chosen as he knew he had been fated to choose from the beginning, and had watched as the person for whom he would have given up anything but his destiny, and who understood that as well as he did himself, went on her golden way.
And so he had continued to follow his own star as the years had rolled on; and if he had his way he would be doing so still in as many more years hence. It seemed as likely that the earth might stop, as that there would one day cease to be villains abroad and booty to be won — or, as in the present case, bullion to be grabbed, if the gods were willing, from under the noses of the villains.
And it was because of all this, which was unspoken, that the Saint had covered a hiatus with a flippant comment, and had kissed Arabella Tatenor before picking up her luggage and taking it out of the hotel with his own.
They were met by Finnegan as they boarded the Phoenix. But this was a very different Finnegan from the one they had seen before. Here was a tough old sea-dog — flinty-eyed, observant, exuding competence from the peaked cap down. His expression was serious and businesslike.
“Welcome aboard to you both.” He shook hands warmly with them. “Got no other hands for you, though.”
The Saint nodded. At such short notice, they could hardly have expected otherwise.
“We’ll have to crew her between us, then. As you and Mr Tatenor used to do. Start her up, Cap’n. I’ll be your deckhand, and let’s hope Mrs Tatenor is a good cook.”
As Finnegan headed for the wheelhouse, Simon left the suitcases on deck and moved to the anchor winch.
In a few minutes they were under way, and he rejoined Arabella and picked up the bags.
“Right. Let’s get settled in.”
They were too far from Finnegan, at his station in the wheelhouse, to see his grim and unsmiling face as he watched them head for the yacht’s main saloon. But as soon as they opened the door of the saloon, they met the cause of that grim expression.
They stopped short in the doorway.
There in front of them, sitting comfortably with iced drinks at their elbows, were Jacques Descartes and Enrico Bernadotti.
V: How Jacques Descartes played a Game, and Simon Templar went Under
1
“Ah! On se revolt, Madame. Welcome! And the knight errant, eh? Bonjour aussi, Monsieur Templar. Come in, come in. Make yourselves comfortable, please!”
Descartes beamed at them over his mountainous midriff, gold dental work gleaming, and beckoned them in as if they were long-lost friends.
“Surprise, surprise,” said the Saint. “And I suppose the third member of the boarding party is right behind us?”
Descartes beamed still more broadly, but Bernadotti’s attempted smile came out as more of a sneer.
“You got it, Mister,” he said silkily, making a fractional movement of the barrel of the automatic he was holding loosely in his lap. “And Pancho is, you know, a hotheaded kind of guy. The slightest thing scares him, he tends to let fly with that knife of his.”
“And if you was-a me, you’d be pretty damned careful, huh?” said the Saint, parodying Bernadotti’s Italo-American accent as he glanced behind to confirm the presence of Pancho. And to him, he said: “Now you won’t be a silly boy with that thing, will you?”
At a nod from Descartes, Pancho slid forward and frisked Simon expertly. Having found nothing, he was preparing to turn his attention to a still-incredulous Arabella, but Descartes signalled him to stop.
“If Monsieur Templar has no gun, I think we can assume the lady is also unarmed.” He inclined his head in a half-bow to Arabella. “Madame, we regret the intrusion upon your boat. But you must remember, our claim is older than yours. Your Charles, he owed us a great deal, which he had not paid at the time of his death. This boat, indeed, would not have been bought, I think, except for the gold which your Charles — our Karl — kept entirely for himself.”
“The lady told you before,” Simon said with steel in his voice. “She doesn’t know about any gold.”
Descartes nodded.
“It is another regret that we did not accept her statement. Perhaps, after all, he did not share with her the secret... the secret which lies, does it not Monsieur Templar, in the voyages of the Phoenix?”
“And what did you threaten Captain Finnegan with?” Simon enquired evenly.
The reply, an evil grin and a throat-cutting mime, came from Bernadotti.
“He would have gone the same way you’re gonna go, Templar. To feed the sharks.”
“Nice to know you’re feeling really hospitable,” Simon observed. “What a pity your chum Tranchier can’t be here to complete the party. He’d have made it a quartet of physical repulsiveness. But I must say you three do get around — for a bunch of farmers.”
“Who’s looking after the pigs?” Arabella put in, having now partly adjusted her mind to the new development and the uncomfortable fact that the visitors were with them for the time being whether she liked it or not.
Descartes’ eyes blazed with anger and his voice cut across the room like the crack of a whip.
“We are not farmers! And we have no pigs! We are very seriously seeking that gold — and we will have it!” He fixed them both for a few moments. Then, ticking off the items on his fingers as he spoke, he added: “To save for you the trouble, we have smashed the radio — broken the signal lamps — thrown overboard the rifle — even the axe for fires. So — be at home with us.”
The Saint considered the invitation dispassionately and nodded to its reasonableness. He took Arabella’s arm and led her to some vacant chairs.
“Scotch and water, please,” he said expectantly.
“Gin and tonic — with ice,” Arabella added.
“Get it yourself!” growled Bernadotti.
Two hours and perhaps three or four spaced-out drinks later, Simon was just beginning yet another game of backgammon with Descartes, who had been animated by the play to a new exuberance of mood in which all other preoccupations were for the time forgotten.
“Finally, I have met a worthy opponent. Not for nothing am I titled, among the French players, Jacques du trictrac.”
“I’ve heard the name,” Simon lied, having seen at a very early stage of the proceedings that his reasonable knowledge of the game could be a valuable asset in dealing with Descartes.
“Monsieur Templar, you play very skillfully the difficult retarded game,” Descartes declared. “Have you read the Schneider book, by chance?”