The Saint in Miami

supposed to be a sort of romantic Robin Hood, but how could I know how much of that was to be trusted? I couldn't take a chance. Until now-I've got to.'

'Finish it now,' he said quietly.

She put her cigarette back to her lips and drew at it more evenly than she had done since he lighted it. It was as though a die had been cast and a decision made, and now for the first time she could rest a little while and let herself go with the tide.

'It started as a very ordinary assignment,' she said. 'The Foreign Office knew about Randolph March, as they know about most people who might give them trouble one day. They knew he'd spent a lot of time in Germany since 1933, and had a lot of powerful Nazi friends, and a lot of leanings towards their point of view. But he isn't the first rich man who's thought the Nazi system might be a good thing. You know the technique-you scare a rich man into the Fascist camp with the bogey of Communism, because he's worried about his possessions, and you scare the poor man into the Communist camp with the bogey of capitalism; and then the Communists and the fascists make an alliance and clean up . . . Well, after Czechoslovakia, they found out that March was doing some heavy speculation in Nazi bonds.'

'Through the Foreign Investment Pool?'

She nodded.

'So when the real war started, he was somebody to be watched. It was more or less routine at first-until I found out about Friede. Of course, I had to pretend that I had Nazi sympathies myself, but it was a long time before they'd open up at all. Even then, they never let me get near anything im­portant-most of what I did find out was from listening at keyholes. Until last night . . . But before that, I'd heard the word 'submarine' once. I suppose I'd worked out the tanker business more or less the way you did. But if that was the scheme, I had to find the submarine base. That's why I went with them last night because it seemed almost certain that they'd be going there. I was right. So as soon as I knew all I had to know, I slipped away. That was this morning ... I saw from the map that the road couldn't be very far away, and I'd have made it by now if those wild pigs hadn't attacked me.'

The Saint thought back over the country they had traversed, and smiled rather grimly.

'I don't suppose they've even bothered to try and catch you,' he said. Because they know better. We've been pushing this wall-eyed wheelbarrow through the swamp for about fourteen hours with an Indian guide who has X- ray eyes; and we haven't arrived yet'

'But I've got to get out!' she said desperately. 'You can take me. I can identify myself to the British Ambassador in Washington. I've only got to get to a telephone. He'll drop a word to the State Department, and in half an hour the Navy and the Coastguard will be here.'

'Looking for a most illegal German submarine base,' said the Saint. 'But not particularly interested in a couple of friends of mine.'

She stared at him almost incredulously.

'Are you still thinking about them?'

'It's a weakness of mine,' he said.

She sat still.

Then she let the stub of her cigarette fall carefully into the stream. She reached out and took his own cigarette-case out of his pocket, and helped herself to another. She waited until he gave her a match.

She said: 'For three months I've let myself be pawed by Randolph March and leered at by Heinrich Friede. I've pretended to sympathise with a philosophy that stinks to high heaven. I've let myself gloat over the invasion of peaceful countries and the bombing of helpless women and children and the enslaving of one nation after another. I've made myself laugh at the slaughter of my own people and the plundering of Jews and the torture of concentration camps. I've even let you walk blindly into what might have been your death, while all my heart loved you, because I'm not big enough to decide who is to live and who is to die while the civilisation that made us is trying to save all the lights in the world from going out. And all you can think of is your friends!'

Simon Templar gazed at her with clear eyes of bitter blue.

For a long time. While the intensely even tones of her voice seemed to hang in the sultry air and beat back savagely into his brain.

Lake an automaton, he lighted the fresh cigarette he had taken, and put his cigarette-case away. In the infinite silence, every scintilla of feeling seemed to empty out of his face, leaving nothing but a fine-drawn shell that was as readable as graven stone.

The mask turned towards Hoppy Uniatz.

'Do you think you could drive this thing?'

'Sure, boss,' said Mr Uniatz expansively. 'I loin it on de farm at de reform school.'

The Saint's eyebrows barely moved.

'Of course, you wouldn't have thought of volunteering before.' His accent was amazingly limpid and precise. 'Will you take it back the way Charlie Halwuk tells you?' He turned to the motionless Indian. 'Which way is where we were going, Charlie?'

The Seminole raised a mahogany arm.

'Plenty straight into sun. No can miss now.'

Simon stood up, and caught a bough over his head, and swung himself swiftly on to the quivering shore.

'Thanks-Karen,' he said.

Her lips were white.

'What are you doing?' she asked shakily.

His smile was suddenly gay and careless again.

'You've got enough men to look after you, darling. I'm going to see if I can find Patricia and Peter before the Navy gets there. Give my love to the Ambassador.' He waved his hand. 'On your way, Hoppy-and take care of them.'

'Okay, boss,' said Mr Uniatz valiantly.

He hauled back on the clutch levers. The giant wheels made a quarter turn, and stalled. Hoppy started the engine again and raced it up. Too late, the Saint saw what had hap­pened. A log that had drifted down while they were talking had nosed in between the back wheels and embedded itself in the soft bank of the stream. But by the time he saw it, he could do nothing. Never a man to waste time on niggling finesse, Mr Uniatz had slammed the clutches home while the engine roared at full throttle. There was a deafening screech of rending metal, and every moving part came to a shuddering standstill with an unmistakably irrevocable kind of finality.

Mr Uniatz pumped homicidally at the starter, and suc­ceeded in producing a slow spark and a soft puff of expiring smoke.

'Let it rest,' said the Saint wearily, and glanced at Karen again. 'I did my best, darling, but I think Fate had other ideas.'

3 'I'll have to go on on foot,' said the girl. 'The way I started. If I had a guide-'

'What about it, Charlie?' Simon interrupted. The Seminole shook his head impassively.

'Indian go. Maybe three-four days. White man no can do. White man die plenty quick.'

Karen Leith covered her eyes, just for a moment.

The Saint touched her shoulder.

'We may be able to steal a boat and get you out through the islands,' he said. 'But we've got to get to the base first. And we've got to step on it'

Without the bright beams of the marsh buggy to light the way, an attempt to get through the trackless Everglades at night was hopeless and might well be fatal. And there was not much more time. Florida twilights were short, and dark­ness would drop like spilled ink as soon as the sun was gone.

Simon stood up.

'Charlie, you lead. We've got to make Lostman's River be­fore dark. Travel fast, but be as quiet as you can.'

The Indian nodded and got out. The ground quivered badly under Simon, but Charlie Halwuk's moccasined feet seemed to possess some native buoyancy that prevented them from sinking.

Karen spoke to him with tormented calm.

'You'd better keep your eyes open, too. There may be a party out looking for me, in spite of what he said.'