'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. . . .'
'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
TO SALVE
?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
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
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?'
'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
