best he could. But it could not be prolonged a moment beyond the requirements of the bare physical facts; and with an inaudible prayer to the hardworked gods of all good buccaneers, the Saint flattened his discarded butt in the ashtray and opened the communicating door.
Simon Templar could rake over his memory at any time and comb out an impressive crop of moments which he had no desire to live over again. In spite of the ultimate balance of success that showed on the books of his meteoric career, his life had contained its full quota of occasions that definitely looked their best in distant retrospect. But of all that collection of unenjoyable contingencies there were very few to which he would so fervently have refused an encore as those hectic instants during which the vista beyond the saloon unrolled itself before the opening door. The spectacle of Orace sitting curled up in the diminutive galley, alone, with a paper-covered detective story on his knee, was such a dizzy anti-climax that it made the Saint feel somewhat lightheaded. He could have raised the protective curtain of Orace's moustache and kissed him.
Fortunately the presence of Kurt Vogel precluded any such regrettable demonstration. Simon cleared his throat and spoke almost hesitatingly through the ecstatic glow which enveloped him.
'This is the kitchen, where we heat the tins and open the bottles. On the right, the refrigerator, where we keep the beer warm ...'
He exhibited all the features of the galley with feverish pride; and Vogel, as flatteringly impressed as any proud owner could want a guest to be, admired them all in turn—the cunningly fitted glass and crockery racks, the planned compartments for all kinds of provisions, the paraffin geyser that provided hot water at the turn of a tap, the emergency stove slung in gimbals for use when the weather was too rough for a kettle to stand on the ordinary gas cooker, and all the other gadgets which had been installed to reduce discomfort to the vanishing point. All the time Simon was casting hopeful glances at Orace, searching for a hint of what his staff had done to meet the situation; but the staff had returned phlegmatically to its volume of blood, and its battle-scarred face offered as many clues as a boiled pudding.
Eventually they had to move on. Beyond the galley there was a short alleyway, and Simon led the way briskly down it.
'That's the bathroom and toilet,' he explained casually, indicating the first door on the left as he went by; and he would have gone quickly on, but Vogel stopped.
'A bathroom—really? That's even more remarkable on a boat this size. May I look at it?'
Simon turned, with the glow of relief on him dying down again to a cold resignation. Of all the places where Orace might have been expected to dump his charge in a hurry, the bathroom seemed the most probable. Simon looked innocently at Vogel; and the edge of his gaze, overlapping his guest, sought frantically for inspiration over Vogel's shoulder. But Orace was deep in his sanguinary literature: only the back of his head could be seen, and he had not moved.
'There's nothing much to see,' began the Saint diffidently; but Vogel had already turned the handle.
Simon leaned sidelong against the bulkhead and very deliberately estimated the chances of a shot going unheard by the seaman whom Vogel had left outside in charge of his speedboat. He also gave some consideration to the exact spot on Vogel's anatomy where a bullet could be made to do a regulated amount of damage without leaving any margin for an outcry to add itself to the noise. His left thumb was tucked loosely into his belt; his right hand was a little behind his hip, the fingers hovering on the opening of the pocket into which he had slipped his gun. The cigarette between his lips slanted out at a rakish angle that would have made certain people who knew him well stand very still while they decided what scrap of cover they were going to dive for when the storm broke loose. And yet there was the ghost of a smile lingering on his mouth, and a shifting twinkle in his blue eyes, which might have misled those who were not so well informed.
'But that's almost luxurious!' came Vogel's bland ingratiating accents. 'And a shower, too ... I certainly am learning a lesson—I almost wish I could find something that you've forgotten.'
Simon prised himself off the bulkhead and let his right hand fall to his side. He didn't take out a handkerchief and mop his brow, but he wished he could have indulged in that sedative gesture. His shirt felt damp in the small of his back.
'I hope you won't do that,' he said earnestly. 'Now, this is just a small single cabin——'
The tour went on. Vogel praised the small single cabin. He studied the berth, the lockers under it, and peeped inside the wardrobe.
The Saint began to wonder if he was simply undergoing one of Vogel's diabolically clever psychological third degrees.
