“Okay, okay,” he finally rasped. “That’s enough.”
“If you have any doubts, there’s plenty more where that came from,” said Simon. His voice became deadly earnest. “And if this kind of treatment seems namby-pamby to you, I’m sure you do understand we can become a lot more inventive, especially since we don’t have all day to soften you up.”
Shortwave was looking genuinely defeated.
“They’ll kill me if I tell,” he said.
“We’ll do worse if you don’t.”
Shortwave could think of no answer to that.
“What’ll you do if I do tell?” he asked.
“If I were in your seat I’d concentrate on what’ll happen if you don’t start telling fast — but just to set things straight I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll keep you alive and in one piece, tucked away somewhere so we can really work you over if we find out you’ve given us the wrong information.”
“But sometimes Fowler makes a plan and changes it,” Shortwave said hastily. “What if I told you what I know and he changed his mind? Then you’d think...”
“Never mind what we’d think. What is the plan?”
Shortwave sat back in his chair, putting as much space as possible between his gullet and what was left of the curry. He took a deep breath.
“Fowler’s got this cabin cruiser that he runs these wogs in on, and he moves it up and d-down the coast between jobs so nobody gets wise. What he uses is one of these...” Shortwave stopped. “He’ll kill me if I tell you.”
“I think I’d better have a word with your personal chef,” the Saint said, looking around towards Abdul Haroon, who was watching from the other side of the room.
“I’d rather eat that stuff than what Fowler would do to me,” Shortwave averred hopelessly.
“I wasn’t thinking of fattening you up any more for the slaughter,” Simon told. “I was just considering how you might do in a curry yourself. Abdul, how about bringing in a butcher knife and a long fork?”
“Seriously?” Abdul asked.
“Very seriously,” said the Saint.
The glint in his eyes would have outdone the sharpness of the best-honed steel blade in Abdul’s culinary arsenal. Shortwave did not wait to find out just how serious the Saint was.
“Okay,” he said. “Just don’t tell him I told you. It’s one of them forts they sunk out in the water in the war. You know what I mean?”
“In the Thames estuary?” the Saint asked him.
“Right.”
“If they sunk it, how can Fowler use it?” Tammy asked.
“They were big things they floated out into the estuary and sank to use as anti-aircraft emplacements,” the Saint explained. “The top part sticks up above the water. I’ve never seen one, unfortunately.”
“Oh, I know,” Tammy said. “And people tried to use them as pirate radio stations because they were outside the three-mile limit.”
“And now they’re abandoned,” Simon said. “Or they were supposed to be. Which one does Fowler use — and what does he use it for?”
“The guys who bring the load over from the Continent stow them there and Fowler picks them up,” Shortwave said.
He tried to describe the location of the unused fort which Fowler used.
“Who brings them over to the fort?” Simon asked.
“I d-d-dunno. He never comes and stays. He’s just the one that runs loads over here for Fowler to pick up. These Indian guys wait on the fort for Fowler to run them in at night.”
“And where does he run them in?”
“I couldn’t tell you. Sometimes it’s one place and sometimes it’s another. There’s plenty of places where nobody could see them coming in at night.”
The Saint looked at Tammy.
“Does that sound like the truth to you?”
“What good’s it to me to make it up?” Shortwave said. “Like you said, if I lie you come back and mess me up good.”
“All right then,” Simon said. “Tell me exactly how to find this fort — and I mean exactly.”
For the next five minutes Shortwave gave instructions for locating the fort. It was less than five miles offshore, and it was lucky for the Saint that it was no farther, since Shortwave’s direct experience with it was limited to two trips, and since his talent for observation and navigation left quite a lot to be desired.
“I can’t help it,” he finally said wearily. “That’s all I know. You can find it. It ain’t that hard.”
“What time does he pick them up?” Simon asked. “Does he stay out there on the fort during the day?”
“I think he goes out in the afternoon and then comes in with the load after dark.”
“What sort of boat does he have?”
“Some kind of cabin cruiser. Not too big.” Obviously Shortwave was no boating buff. “Sometimes he keeps it at a yacht club down towards Southend.”
“What’s it called?”
“I dunno.”
“For somebody with his own private built-in communications system there sure is a lot you dunno,” the Saint said.
Shortwave’s eyes rolled briefly up as if to inspect the top of his own head.
“I think you broke it,” he said. “Since you kicked me I ain’t heard nothing.”
“That would be a pity,” the Saint commiserated. “However, if your directions turn out to be helpful, maybe I’ll reward you by having you wired for cassettes.”
He looked at his watch and stepped away from the table, touching Tammy’s arm to signal her to follow him. They walked alone back into the hall.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I think it’s all we’ve got to go on. It’s even possible he is telling the truth. I think we threw a pretty good scare into him.”
“So we go to the fort?” she asked almost brightly.
“Didn’t last night dampen your enthusiasm?” he asked. “I’d rather you stayed in London and kept watch over Shortwave.”
“And I’d rather go with you,” she said staunchly. “You promised. And anyway, we can leave Shortwave here with Mr. Haroon.”
“Aren’t you awfully trusting?” the Saint said, pulling her into the kitchen to be certain that Haroon could not hear. “What if Abdul lets Shortwave go?”
“He wouldn’t dare,” she said. “For one thing. Shortwave would kill him for cooking up that curry.”
“That’s the sort of motive only a newspaper-woman could dream up,” the Saint said. “Let me just say it straight out: I don’t think you should come with me because it’s too dangerous and because we don’t need two people — especially one who’s inclined to dive for the barrels of rifles when they’re pointed right at her.”
“I’m going,” Tammy said.
“What about your car?” he suggested temptingly. “It’s probably still lying wounded out in that ditch near Wraysbury. Shouldn’t you take care of it?”
“I’ll call up my paper and tell them what happened and they can see about the car.”
“No, you won’t,” the Saint said firmly. “To Fowler and Kalki you’re supposed to be dead, remember? You’ll have to stay missing so that they don’t change their plans for tonight. And, as I said, it would be a lot safer for you to stay missing right here.”
“I won’t stay here!” she persisted. “You promised me!”
Simon looked hard at her and shook his head with angry admiration.
“For that I should have my head examined,” he said. “But if you’re determined to have a hole in yours like Shortwave—”