booty of jewels or a priceless old master, someone had removed it. Unless there was some secret hiding place in the craft. As well expect to find a hiding place in a matchbox.
“If there ever was anything, we’re too late,” Ruth said.
She was thinking that Kretchmann and Haller might have preceded them by a few hours, even an hour. The possibility was not to be dismissed, but if Kretchmann and Haller were the interlopers, why had they taken the magneto from the saloon drawer and fitted it to the engine?
Andrew went forward and opened the panel of the chain locker, but it was empty except for some rusty anchor chain. He rapped on timbers and looked behind the drawers. There were no secret cavities that he could discover.
Ruth had returned to the well to watch the wheeling sea gulls. Perhaps she had been merely curious about the yawl, for she showed no sign of disappointment. Andrew imagined that there was even a hint of secret amusement in her smile when he emerged from the saloon and shrugged his shoulders.
She said: “If the masts were hollow, you could hide a few Rembrandts in them.”
He grinned but a trifle sheepishly. She climbed ashore again and watched him from the landing stage, while he rummaged among fragments of canvas and broken tools and other odds and ends in the sail lockers.
“While you do that,” she said after a moment, “I’m going to take a look at my new cottage. It may be full of Persian miniatures or Aztec birdbaths.”
Andrew looked after her gloomily as she limped up the knoll. The implied criticism may have been aimed at the late Uncle John, but it could have had another target. This hypothetical treasure of the tender to Moonlight must seem absurd to her now, but it had been real enough to Kusitch.
Somewhere in this shabby tub there was or had been something, but Andrew could think of no further place where he might search. If there were a concealed cache, an unsuspected space behind an undiscovered bulkhead, he did not know what he could do about it short of ripping the craft to pieces. He looked up at the solemn heavens, but they just went on being solemn. He looked down at the rust-marked, oil-stained boards on which he stood, and they were but little more inspiring. He observed, but without conscious intention, how neatly they were fitted together to make a floor; how each board had a finger hole for ease in lifting. An idea came to him, but when he translated it into action it was with no eagerness.
He lifted one of the boards from the bilge stringer and detached it from its ledge on the middle bearer. He lifted a second board, but he was already convinced that no one would have hidden an art treasure in such a place. The wash of water in the bilge was filthy with grease and drippings of oil from the engine. Ribs, strakes and keelson were smeared with something that looked like tar, and the heavy slabs of metal that served as ballast had been daubed with the stuff. He tapped one of the bars with a screwdriver from a locker. Pig iron.
Rocking in the slow swirl of the bilge was a tin can with part of a bright new label attached.
If he had not observed it, he might not have realised that someone had been bailing out the bilge, though the little depth of water in the bottom should have told him that at once. Since Jansen tied up the craft, the bilge would have filled with water in one way or another. The fact that it had been bailed out linked up with the curious business of the magneto. Some sort of overhaul had been attempted. The floor boards had been removed to get at the propeller shafting and coupling.
Andrew gazed down at the dark water and the iron pigs for a moment. Then he replaced the floor boards and closed the companion hatch, putting the padlock back as he had found it. He saw then that the deck was almost level with the landing stage and the tide was still running in.
Ruth called from the knoll, “There’s a man coming along on a bike.”
One of the local inhabitants, no doubt! Might even be a coast guard or something. Possibly he would know if anyone had been nosing round the yawl in the last few days.
Andrew stepped ashore and climbed the knoll to Ruth’s side. The man was pedalling slowly across the wade, taking the bumps, weaving and twisting in his course to avoid the worst of the depressions in the track. Andrew watched without suspicion until he saw that the burden of a two-gallon petrol tin was adding to the cyclist’s difficulties. The fact was too peculiar not to be taken as a warning. If the tin contained petrol, the fellow’s objective must be the yawl. At once the other peculiarities fell into line: the sawn padlocks, the cigarette end, the magneto.
At that moment the cyclist saw them. No doubt he also saw the car in the yard. He came on without hesitation, quite confidently, as if he knew his way about.
Andrew gripped Ruth by one arm. “Don’t say anything,” he told her. “Leave it to me.”
She turned to smile. The smile said clearly: “Oh, come now!”
“We must find out what he’s up to,” Andrew added in justification. “I’ll bet he’s been messing around with that engine.”
“If he’s that interested, maybe we can sell him the whole thing.”
The man was about forty-five. He had a hard, weather-tanned face and fairish grizzled hair. He wore toil- marked grey slacks and an old brown jacket over a dark green sweater. He dismounted and leaned the bike against the mill. He was cheerful and friendly, with a proprietorial assurance. He put an empty pipe in his mouth.
“Afternoon,” he said. “Come out to see the mill?”
“That’s it,” Andrew agreed. “I suppose it’s quite noted.”
“I suppose.” The man nodded and grinned, jumped into the well of the yawl, and began to pour the petrol into the fuel tank aft. Andrew and Ruth followed to the landing stage and watched him.
“What do you think you’re doing with that craft?” Andrew inquired, forcing back his indignation.
“Making her work,” came the affable reply. “Owner’s instructions. Mr. Robison says make her work. So, I make her work.”
Having disposed of the petrol, he uncovered the engine, fussed with the carburettor for a moment, then swung the starting handle.
There was no result.
“Is Mr. Robison the owner?” Andrew asked.
“No, he’s the boss.” The fellow looked up for a moment. “Bad state this engine’s in! Bad! Know you anything about them?”
“Not much. Do you?”
“Nothing I don’t know.” He swung on the handle again, and again there was no result. “Looks like real trouble. Maybe the plugs.” He frowned, taking it hardly. His heart was in his work.
“Who’s Mr. Robison?” Andrew persisted, ignoring an attempt by Ruth to draw him from the landing stage.
“I told you who he is.” The mechanic was less affable. “He has a garage, if you wish to know.”
“In Britsea?”
“Along the London road.”
“Who’s the owner of the craft?”
“That’s not my business.” The mechanic straightened himself. “And it’s not yours. This is private property. You have no rights here. You wish to look at the windmill, no one is going to object.” He took his pipe out of his mouth.
Ruth whispered: “For heaven’s sake, let’s go.”
Andrew stepped in front of her and glared down at the mechanic.
“I’m well aware it’s private property,” he snapped. “It belongs to this lady; all of it-the mill, the cottage, the yawl. What’s more, she hasn’t ordered any repairs by Mr. Robison or anybody else. You can leave the engine alone. Now get out of that craft and take yourself off, before I bring the police here.”
The man reached down and picked up a broken hammer from the sail locker. He stepped onto the deck and faced Andrew menacingly. For a moment he looked dangerous; then he changed back to the affable mechanic and smiled a slightly bewildered smile. He put his pipe back in his mouth.
“There must be a mistake,” he said, “though how that can be, I cannot explain. Mr. Robison is not usually confused. The craft by the windmill, he said to me, and there’s no other windmill here nor another craft. You talk to Mr. Robison. He’ll be here any minute. Promised to give me a hand with the engine because the owner’s in such a hurry. Quiet at the garage, we are, so Mr. Robison…” He broke off as he turned to look towards the track across the marsh from the slight elevation of the deck. “See, he’s coming now!” he said. “You can speak.”
The newcomer, like his mechanic, had a bike, but instead of riding he was wheeling it and balancing a
