"Then we may look forward to seeing you." Vogel held out his hand. He had a firm muscular grip, but there was a curious reptilian coldness in the touch of his skin that prickled the Saint's scalp. "I'll give you a shout in the morning as we go by, and see if you've made up your mind."
Simon shook hands with the Professor, and watched them until they turned the corner by the Petit Casino. His blue eyes were set in a lambent glint, like polished sapphires. He had got what he wanted. He had made actual contact with Kurt Vogel, talked with him, touched him physically and experienced the cold-blooded fighting presence of the man, crossed swords with him in a breathless finesse of nerves that was sharper than any bludgeoning battle. He had gained more than that. He had received a gratuitous invitation to call again. Which meant that he was as good as on the prize list. Or in the coffin.
3
A highly conclusive and illuminating deduction, reflected the Saint grimly. . . . And then all the old reckless humour flickered back into his eyes, and he lighted another cigarette and ordered himself a second drink. So be it. As Loretta Page had said, there were no dividends in guessing. In the fullness of time all uncertainty would doubtless be removed—one way or the other. And when that happened, Simon Templar proposed to be among those present.
Meanwhile he had something else to think about. A man came filtering through the tables on the terrace with a sheaf of English and American papers fanned Out in his hand. Simon bought an Express, and he had only turned the first page when a single-column headline caught his eye.
TO SALVE
CHALFONT CASTLE
——————
£5,000,000 Expedition Fits Out
—————
A SHIP will leave Falmouth early in August with a contract for the greatest treasure-hunt ever attempted in British waters.
She is the Restorer, crack steamer of the Liverpool & Glasgow Salvage Association——
Simon skimmed through the story with narrowing eyes. So that was it! If Kurt Vogel was cruising in the vicinity of the Channel Islands on active business, and not merely on a holiday, the Chalfont Castle was his most obvious target. And it seemed likely—otherwise why not take Professor Yule and his bathystol down to some place like Madeira, where there was really deep water close at hand for any number of experiments? The Chalfont Castle could not wait. If an authorised expedition was being organised so quickly, there was not much time for a free-lance to step in and forestall it. Perhaps the underwriters, taught by past experience, had thought of that. But for a man of Vogel's nerve there might still be a chance. . . .
Simon Templar lunched at the Gallic, and enjoyed his meal. The sting of the encounter from which he had just emerged had driven out every trace of the rather exasperated lassitude which had struck him an hour or two before; this providential hint of new movement swept new inspiration in like a sea breeze. The spice of certain danger laced his wine and sparkled through his veins. His brain was functioning like an awakened machine, turning over the urgencies of the moment with smooth and effortless ease.
When he had finished, he went out into the main foyer and collected a reception clerk. "You have a telephone?"
"Oui, m'sieu. A gauche——"
"No, thanks," said the Saint. "This isn't local—I want to talk to England. Let me have a private room. I'll pay for it."
Ten minutes later he was settled comfortably in an armchair with his feet on a polished walnut table.
"Hullo, Peter." The object of his first call was located after the London exchange had tried three other possible numbers which he gave them. "This is your Uncle Simon. Listen—didn't you tell me that you once had a respectable family?"
"It still is respectable," Peter Quentin's voice answered indignantly. "I'm the only one who's had anything to do with you."
Simon grinned gently and slid a cigarette out of the package in front of him.
"Do any of them know anything about Lloyd's?"
"I've got a sort of cousin, or something, who works there," said Peter, after a pause for reflection.
"That's great. Well, I want you to go and dig out this sort of cousin, or something, and stage a reunion. Be nice to him—remind him of the old family tree—and find out something for me about the Chalfont Castle."
"Like a shot, old boy. But are you sure you don't want an estate agent?"
"No, I don't want an estate agent, you fathead. It's a wreck, not a ruin. She sank somewhere near Alderney about the beginning of March. I want you to find out exactly where she went down. They're sure to have a record at Lloyd's. Get a chart from Potter's, in the Minories, and get the exact spot marked. And send it to me at the Poste Restante, St Peter Port, Guernsey— to-night. Name of Tombs. Or get a bearing and wire it. But get something. All clear?"
"Clear as mud." There was a suspicious hiatus at the other end of the line. "But if this means you're on the warpath again——"
"If I want you, I'll let you know, Peter," said the Saint contentedly, and rang off.
That was that. . . . But even if one knew the exact spot where things were likely to happen, one couldn't hang about there and wait for them. Not in a stretch of open water where a floating bottle would be visible for miles on a calm day. The Saint's next call was to another erstwhile companion in crime.
"Do you think you could buy me a nice diving suit, Roger?" he suggested sweetly. "One of the latest self-contained contraptions with oxygen tanks. Say you're representing a movie company and you want it for an undersea epic."
"What's the racket?" inquired Roger Conway firmly.
"No racket at all, Roger. I've just taken up submarine geology, and I want to have a look at some globigerina ooze. Now, if you bought that outfit this afternoon and shipped it off to me in a trunk——"
"Why not let me bring it?"
The Saint hesitated. After all, why not? It was the second time in a few minutes that the suggestion had been held out, and each time by a man whom he had tried and proved in more than one tight corner. They were old campaigners, men with his own cynical contempt of legal technicalities, and his own cool disregard of danger, men who had followed him before, without a qualm, into whatever precarious paths of breathless filibustering he had led them, and who were always accusing him of hogging all the fun when he tried to dissuade them from taking the same risks again. He liked working alone; but some aspects of Vogel's crew of modern pirates might turn out to be more than one man's meat.
"Okay." The Saint drew at his cigarette, and his slow smile floated over the wire in the undertones of his voice. "Get hold of Peter, and any other of the boys who are looking for a sticky end. But the other instructions stand. Ship that outfit to me personally, care of the Southern Railway—you might even make it two outfits, if you feel like looking at some fish—and Peter's to do his stuff exactly as I've already told him. You toughs can put up at the Royal; but you're not to recognise me unless I recognise you first. It may be worth a point or two if the ungodly don't know we're connected. Sold?"
"Cash," said Roger happily.
Simon walked on air to the stairs. As he stepped down into the foyer, he became aware of a pair of socks. The socks were particularly noticeable because they were of a pale brick-red hue, and intervened between a pair of blue trousers and a pair of brown and yellow co-respondent shoes. It was a combination of colours which, once seen, could not be easily forgotten; and the Saint's glance voyaged idly up to the face of the man who wore it. He had already seen it once before, and his glance at the physiognomy of the wearer confirmed his suspicion that there could not be two men simultaneously inhabiting Dinard with the identically horrible taste in colour schemes. The sock stylist was no stranger. He had sat at a table close to the Saint's at lunch-time, arriving a few moments later and calling for his bill in unison— exactly as he was sitting in the foyer now, with an aloof air of having nothing important to do and being ready to do it at a minute's notice.