“No,” came the weak reply.
She was sagging against a tree, holding one hand at her throat, and the Saint rushed to her.
“Did he hit you?” he asked, slipping his arms around her for support.
“No,” she whispered, clinging to him, “but I’m sure not all right. I just... don’t think I like this kind of game.”
Simon laughed, “Cheer up, girl. We made it. Now let’s go tell Timonaides how much fun we had and thank him for his hospitality,”
11
First they tied Wyler and Halston hand and foot. Both were still unconscious and had every appearance of intending to stay in that condition for a long while, but to be on the safe side the Saint carried Wyler — the less heavy of the two — about fifty feet along the way to Timonaides’ house and dumped him in the bushes where he and Halston could not conveniently collaborate in getting untied when they woke up.
“Do we have to go back to that house?” Jenny pled. “Couldn’t we just concentrate on getting out of this place?”
“Maybe you should stay here while I go to the house. It would be safer.”
“No,” she shivered, taking his arm as he walked on. “I’m too scared. What’ll we do? Just knock on the door and say ‘Too bad, Kuros old boy, you lose.’ ”
“Sounds like a pretty good plan,” Simon said. “And just about as specific as anything I’ve come up with.”
He took her stealthily along side paths toward the glaring lights of the house. When they were at the edge of the clearing, beyond which there was no more cover, they heard Timonaides’ voice.
“Wyler? Halston? Has anything happened?”
The Saint and Jenny could see him now, standing just outside the door, the room light behind him turned out. Simon got a firm grip on Wyler’s revolver, which he had reloaded with a clip taken from the previous user’s pocket, and then he moved boldly into the light, aiming the weapon at Timonaides.
At that range of fifty feet or more the pistol had little sure value except as a bluff, but Simon hoped that the Greek, taken by surprise, would crumble without too much thought about problems of ballistics.
“Put up your hands and come this way,” the Saint called, but as he had feared, Timonaides was not so easily intimidated.
With a crouching motion he was inside the door, and instantly the dull glint of a rifle barrel appeared.
“Drop the gun, Templar!” came Timonaides’ voice.
The Saint had prudently gone no more than two or three feet from the cover of trees and shrubs. He quickly sidestepped and heard the futile crack of the rifle as he dashed into the bushes.
“You might as well give up,” Timonaides called. “Well have you soon anyway.”
“Come out or well come after you,” the Saint replied with more taunting bravado than strict honesty.
“This place is a fortress,” Timonaides said. “You couldn’t get in with a cannon.”
With that, he slammed the door and there was no more sight or sound of him.
“What’ll we do now?” asked Jenny. “Make a battering ram?”
“I imagine he’s telling the truth,” Simon answered. “It would take more than a battering ram to get in there, and I’m sure that even our combined charm wouldn’t persuade him to come out voluntarily.”
“You mean we can go now?” she asked hopefully.
“We can try. Timonaides is probably on his radio to shore right now, telling Edelhof to send reinforcements. I have to admit I can visualize the general embarrassment with quite a bit of relish.”
They hurried through the trees, and then took the asphalt path down to the dock.
“Let’s hope the boys have obeyed orders and stayed below decks,” Simon said.
“I think they’d be frightened not to.”
“They seem to have been.”
There was no one in sight on the dock or the upper decks of the cruiser. Simon inspected the lock that held the gate.
“I think a shot or two should take care of that,” he said. “Now boys, just be good and keep your heads down, no matter how close that rabbit hunt comes.”
He pushed Jenny back, fired twice, and shoved the gate open. There was no response from the boat.
“Won’t he call them or something?” Jenny whispered as Simon moved out onto the dock.
“I don’t think he could, because there’s no reason why they should have the ship-to-shore on.” He paused as they reached the place where the boat was moored. “Now, you just stay out of the way, and when I’ve got things under control hop aboard and we’ll take off.”
Simon stepped quietly onto the deck and went to the open hatchway which led down to the sleeping quarters and galley. He detected the smell of strong tobacco smoke, the radio music of a steel band, and the murmur of voices — probably subdued by the proximity of gunfire.
The Saint deliberately made a sound with his foot.
“Mistah Timonaides?” said a voice in the cabin.
He stepped down another step.
“Mistah Timonaides? Dat you, sah?”
Simon stuck his head inside the cabin, and showed them a friendly smile and his pistol.
“No, it’s not Mr Timonaides, but I’ll do till he comes along. Just quietly put your hands on top of your heads, lock your fingers tightly, and don’t let go until I tell you to.”
Two of the men had been lounging on bunks, but were already sitting bolt upright when Simon gave his order. The third, the watchman, was on his feet. They obeyed, linking their hands on top of their heads and following him in single file as he backed onto the deck.
“We ain’ supposed to come up, sah. Mistah Timonaides, he say we...”
“I’m sure my pistol is just as worth paying attention to as Mr Timonaides, at least for the moment. Come on, now, and no fast moves.”
When they were neatly arranged in a row on the afterdeck, he called to Jenny.
“Look what I found: See-No-Evil, Hear-No-Evil, Speak-No-Evil.”
Jenny did not seem responsive to humor, so he turned back to the three colored men.
“Now, gatekeeper, go sit on the stern facing the water. Hang your feet over the edge and keep your hands back where I can see them.”
The watchman did as he was told.
“You gone hurt us?” he inquired meekly.
“Not a bit if you do as I tell you. Just stay there. Now, mate, get ready to cast off. Captain, start the engines. I can keep my gun on all of you from here, so be quick and efficient about it.”
Within a few seconds the engine was rumbling and exhaust smoke was bubbling from the stern. The mate cast off the lines as Jenny jumped aboard.
“Good,” Simon called to the captain. “Take her out.” He turned toward the mate. “You — go sit by the watchman, and dangle your toes over just the way he is.”
By the time the mate was perched on the stern, the boat was clear of the jetty and heading slowly into open water.
“Now, captain, go join your friends.”
The boat held its course more or less, as the captain left the wheel and went to the stern.
“Now, Jenny,” the Saint said, “you go be the pilot for a minute.”
“How?”
“Just steer — like a car.”
Jenny ran to take the wheel.
“Where do I go?” she begged nervously.
“We’ll head south — to Nassau.”
“Which way is that?”
“Never mind. Just don’t run into anything till I take over.”
Simon went to the three men arrayed with their backs to him along the stern.
“You boys know bow to swim?” he asked sociably.
“Yassuh,” the watchman said cautiously.
“That’s good.”
The Saint placed his foot gently in the small of the watchman’s back and launched him smoothly into space. Almost before his splash had reached the ears of the captain and mate, they had joined him in quick succession. Simon could see them swimming back toward the island. Then he went to take the wheel from Jenny, who sank down into one of the comfortable chairs with which the pilothouse was furnished and flopped back her head in a near faint.