4
How Captain Fowler Was Displeased, and Abdul Haroon’s Hospitality Was Imposed On
1
The Saint shot his blond fellow-prisoner a silencing look and neither of them said anything. Above the sound of his own controlled breath, Simon listened for any clue that his ears might draw from the commonplace sounds outside the walls. Presumably the new arrival would be the co-conspirator referred to by Kalki as “Captain Fowler”: if so, Simon thought with the ridiculous optimism that would never allow him to take disaster as seriously as he should, a temporary setback could already have brought them miraculously close to what after all had been their goal from the beginning.
“What...” Tammy began, but the Saint stopped her with a shake of his head.
He listened intently. The car sounded heavy, and its engine had a smooth expensive quietness, before it was switched off. A single door of the automobile opened and slammed hurriedly. The footsteps that spurned the gravel had a purposive male rhythm. There was no knock at the boathouse door, which opened, closed, and set off a babble of excited voices over which there suddenly rose a single incredulous infuriated shout:
“Here?”
The voice which uttered the almost despairing cry had a tantalisingly familiar tone, but Simon had no immediate chance to hear any more of it. The single word, like a lion trying to hurl itself out of a trap, was instantly smothered in a net of appeals and explanations. Although few other words were distinguishable, the tones and tempo failed somewhat to suggest a gathering of happy souls in harmonious relaxation.
Then the communicating door was flung open, and Captain Fowler himself strode in, with his cohorts crowding behind him.
It could have been nobody else. For he was the talkative Empire-builder whom Simon had met before dinner at the Golden Crescent, and the semi-familiarity of a voice which had puzzled the Saint a moment ago was explained.
“Well, well, well!” murmured the Saint. “What a surprise. But I suppose it shouldn’t be, really. In most of the detective stories I’ve read, it’s the most innocent-looking character who turns out to be the criminal mastermind. Only they usually don’t unmask him until the very end.”
“Dammit!” said Fowler. “What makes you think this isn’t the end?”
His sandy hair was swept back as if by a recent typhoon, and his face was redder than ever. He had come to a halt a few feet in front of the Saint and Tammy, peering at them as if he had not really believed they could be there until he had seen them for himself. He clamped his jaws together and breathed noisily. Kalki came up beside him while Mahmud and Shortwave hovered in the comfortable obscurity of the background.
“For them, it must be,” Kalki said.
“Thanks to a lot of stupid blundering,” Fowler agreed angrily. He turned back to the Saint “Why did you have to get yourself into this, Templar? Who was bothering you?”
“I might ask you the same question,” Simon countered. “Why aren’t you off ruling the waves somewhere instead of picking on cooks and bottle-washers? Not a very noble pursuit for an officer and a gentleman.”
“Ex-officer,” Fowler reminded him.
“And ex-gentleman,” the Saint concluded agreeably.
“I’d thrash you for that if you weren’t tied,” Fowler said.
“Then untie me,” Simon suggested.
Fowler clenched his hands at his sides and turned to Kalki and his henchmen.
“You’ve all managed to botch this up beautifully!” he raged. “First that idiotic arm-breaking idea of Mahmud’s, and then bollixing the car accident, and now bringing them here!”
“Don’t forget, Fowler,” Simon began, “the captain is always responsible—”
Fowler swung around to send a broadside at Kalki.
“Who told him my name?” he demanded furiously.
Kalki’s tremendous chest expanded with hostility before he answered.
“It does not matter. We are going to kill him anyway.”
“Yes. You’ve left us no choice, have you? Simple enough. Blabber everything to anybody we happen to run into. We can always kill them!”
Kalki’s face became characteristically enpurpled and his tiny eyes seemed to draw closer together.
“There is nothing else to say,” he growled sulkily.
“Right, there isn’t!” Fowler snapped. He looked down at the Saint again. “You wanted to say something? I may as well hear it.”
“I was just going to remind you that you don’t have all that excuse for playing Captain Bligh with your cronies here, because while they were arranging charades in the back room of the Golden Crescent you were loafing around chatting with me about current history.”
“What else could I do?” Fowler said. He calmed down a little, behaving more like an officer enjoying a conversation with a captured equal — not unconscious of the fact that men of lower rank were listening. “I walked into the restaurant expecting to go through to the back to talk to my people, and there you were.”
“Sometimes I’m starting to consider plastic surgery,” said the Saint.
“I recognised you, of course,” Fowler said, “and naturally I had no idea whether you were there by chance or by design.
“Well said, forsooth. ‘By chance or by design.’ You were born too late, Admiral. You have a lovely Victorian style.”
Fowler looked uncomfortable, but went on.
“I assumed you knew nothing about me,” he said, “but I had to find out what you did know, if anything.” He turned his attention to Tammy for the first time. “Miss Rowan, I believe we’ve met only by telephone, and now that I’ve seen you in person I must say that I’m sorry we weren’t able to become acquainted under different circumstances.”
“You’re the swine who rang up threatening to slash my face, I suppose,” she said, with a defiance that surprised and impressed the Saint.
Fowler smiled and shrugged, his hands behind his back.
“I’m afraid so. You’ll have to pardon my crudity at that time, but my experience in handling these things comes mostly from American films.”
“I won’t pardon anything,” Tammy retorted. “Just untie us and let us out of here, or you’ll be in real trouble.”
Fowler reacted with a sigh and a quick fading of cordiality from his face.
“I am in real trouble,” he said. “And so are you. It’s unfortunate that only by putting you in much worse trouble can I save myself. I have a very valuable business going here — which I amply warned you not to interfere in. If either you or Mr. Templar got out of this house it would be the end of my livelihood — not to mention me. Unless...” He studied Simon thoughtfully. “I should have thought that what I’m doing might have appealed to you, actually. Helping a lot of unfortunate people, even in a technically illegal way, into a better life—”
“And even into Paradise, via the old-world crucifixion route.”
“That was only to make an example of an ungrateful traitor, even if it was rather crude.”
“And to encourage the faithful to pay up promptly.”
“From all I’ve heard,” Fowler said irritably, “you’ve never been averse yourself to making a profit out of your so-called good deeds. Why do you suddenly have to be so righteous? Why do we have to be on opposite sides?”
“Because I never believed in blackmailing my so-called beneficiaries, just for one thing.” The Saint shook his head. “No sale, Captain. If this is your idea of a proposition, I can only suggest that you try it as a suppository.”
Fowler’s thin lips compressed, and his florid complexion blanched momentarily; and then he shrugged.