"Are you staying long?"
"I haven't made any plans," said the Saint nebulously. "I might dart off at any moment, or I might hang around until they make me a local monument. It just depends on how soon I get tired of the place."
"It "doesn't agree with everybody," Vogel assented purringly. "In fact, I have heard that some people find it definitely unhealthy." Simon nodded.
"A bit relaxing, perhaps," he admitted. "But I don't mind that. Up to the present, though, I've found it rather dull."
Vogel sat back and stroked the edge of the table with his finger-tips. If he was disconcerted, the fact never registered on his face. His features were a flat mask of impassively regulated scenery behind that sullen promontory of a nose.
A waiter equilibrating under a dizzy tray of glasses swayed by and snatched their order as he passed. At the same time an adjoining table became vacant, and another party of thirst-quenchers took possession. The glance of one of them, sweeping round as he wriggled his legs in, passed over the Saint and then became faintly fixed. For a brief second it stayed set; then he leaned sideways to whisper. His companions turned their heads furtively. The name of Yule reached the Saint clearly, but after that the surrounding buzz of conversation and the glutinous strains of the Casino band swallowed up the conversation for a moment. And then, above all interfering undertones, the electric sotto voce of a resplendently peroxided matron in the party stung his eardrums like a saw shearing through tin: "I'm sure it must be! ... You know, my dear—the bathy-something man. ..."
Simon Templar's ribs lifted under his shirt with the deep breath that he drew into his lungs, and the twirtle of bliss within him rose to a sweet celestial singing. He knew now why the name of Professor Yule had seemed familiar, and why he had tried to place that fresh apple-cheeked face over the trim grey beard. Only a few months ago the newspapers had run their stories and the illustrated weeklies had carried special pictures; the National Geographic Magazine had brought out a Yule Expedition number. For Wesley Yule had done something that no man on earth had ever done before. He had been down five thousand feet into the Pacific Ocean, beyond any depth ever seen before by human eyes—not in any sort of glorified diving bell, but in a fantastic bulbous armour built to withstand the terrific pressure that would have crushed an unprotected man like a midge on a window-pane, in which he was able to move and walk about on the ocean floor nearly a mile below the ship from which he was lowered. He was the man who had perfected and proved a deep-sea costume compared with which the "iron men" of previous diving experiments were mere amateurish makeshifts, a combination of metallic alloys and scientific construction that promised to revolutionise the exploring of the last secrets of the sea. . . . And now he was in Dinard, the guest of Kurt Vogel, arch hijacker of Davy Jones!
That long pregnant breath floated back through the Saint's lips and carried a feather of cigarette-smoke with it—the pause during which he had held it in his lungs was the only physical index of his emotion. He became aware that the Professor was joining in with some affable common-place, and that Vogel's black eyes were riveted on him unwinkingly. With a perfectly steady hand he tilted the ash off his cigarette, and schooled every scrap of tension out of his face as he turned his head.
"Of course you've heard about Professor Yule?" said Vogel urbanely.
"Of course. . . ." Simon's rendering of slight apologetic confusion was attained with an effort that no one could have felt but himself. "Now I know who he is. ... But I hadn't placed him until that lady said something just now." He looked at Yule with a smile of open admiration. "It must have been an amazing experience, Professor."
Yule shrugged, with a pleasant diffidence.
"Naturally it was interesting," he replied frankly. "And rather frightening. Not to say uncomfortable. . . . Perhaps you know that the temperature of the water falls rapidly when you reach really great depths. As a matter of fact, at five thousand feet it is only a few degrees above freezing point. Well, I had been so taken up with the other mechanical details of pressure and lighting and air supply that I actually forgot that one. I was damned cold!" He chuckled engagingly. "I'm putting an electrical heating arrangement in my improved bathystol, and I shan't suffer that way next time."
"You've decided to go down again, then?"
"Oh, yes. I've only just started. That first trip of mine was only a trial. With my new bathystol I hope to get down twice as far—and that's nothing. If some of the latest alloys turn out all right, we may be able to have a look at the Cape Verde Basin— over three thousand fathoms—or even the Tuscarora Trough, more than five miles down."
"What do you hope to find?"
"A lot of dull facts about depth currents and globigerina ooze. Possibly some new forms of marine life. There may be some astounding monsters living and dying down there, and never seeing the light of day. We might even track down our old friend the sea serpent."
"There are some marvellous possibilities," said the Saint thoughtfully.
"And some expensive ones," confessed Yule, with attractive candour. "In fact, if it hadn't been for Mr Vogel they might not have been possibilities at all—my first descent just about ruined me. But with his help I hope to go a lot further."
The Saint did not smile, although a sudden vision of Kurt Vogel as a connoisseur of globigerina ooze and new species of fish tempted him almost irresistibly. He saw beyond that to other infinitely richer possibilities—possibilities which had probably never occurred to the Professor.
He knew that Vogel was watching him, observing every microscopic detail of his reactions with coldly analytical precision. To show a poker-faced lack of interest would be almost as suspicious as breaking loose with a hungry stream of questions. He had to judge the warmth of his response to the exactest hundredth of a degree, if he was to preserve any hope of clinging to the bluff of complete unsuspecting innocence which he had adopted. In the next twenty minutes of ordinary conversation he worked harder than he had done for half his life.
". . . so the next big descent will show whether there's any chance of supporting Wegener's theory of continental drift," concluded the Professor.
"I see," said the Saint intelligently.
A man wandering about the terrace with a large camera pushed his way to their table and presented a card with the inscription of the Agence Française Journalistique.
"Vous permettez, messieurs?"
Yule grinned ruefully, like a schoolboy, and submitted blushingly to the ordeal. The photographer took two snapshots of the group, thanked them, and passed on with a vacuous air of waiting for further celebrities to impinge on his autocratic ken. A twice-divorced countess whom he ignored glared after him indignantly ; and Kurt Vogel beckoned a waiter for the addition.
"Won't you have another?" suggested the Saint.
"I'm afraid we have an engagement. Next time, perhaps." Vogel discarded two ten-franc notes on the assiette and stood up with a flash of his bloodless smile. "If you're interested, you might like to come out with us on a trial trip. It won't be very sensational, unfortunately. Just a test for the new apparatus in moderately deep water."
"I should love to," said the Saint slowly.
Vogel inclined his head pleasantly.
"It won't be just here," he said—"the water's too shallow. We thought of trying it in the Hurd Deep, north of Alderney. There are only about ninety fathoms there, but it'll be enough for our object. If you think it's worth changing your plans, we're leaving for St Peter Port in the morning."
"Well—that sort of invitation doesn't come every day," said the Saint, with a certain well-timed embarrassment. "It's certainly worth thinking about—if you're sure I shouldn't be in the way. . . ."