The Saint and Mr Teal (Once More the Saint)

By which time the Saint was leaning on the bows of an old M.L. hull directly opposite the Seabird-he was close enough to read the name painted on a shining white lifebuoy.

A whiskered old salt a couple of yards away was parcelling the ends of a frayed length of rope; Simon caught his eye and waved vaguely towards the Seabird.

'That's a nice boat,' he said.

The old salt looked out over the water and spat.

'Not bad, sir, if you like that sorter thing. I wouldn't be seen dead in it, sir, if you ask me.'

'Nothing like sail, eh?' murmured the Saint sym­pathetically.

'Ar,' said the old salt, spitting emotionally. 'Now yer talkin'. Them jiggery things is all right fer ladies an' fancy toffs; but wot I says is, give me a man's boat every time.'

Simon screwed up his eyes. The Seabird had cast off and was sliding smoothly down towards the Channel. The man who had rowed the dinghy held the wheel, and Ronald Nilder stood with his hands in his pockets and gazed backwards towards the bridge benevolently.

'All the same,' Simon remarked, 'she looks as if she could stand some weather.'

'She goes to France all right,' conceded the salt reluctantly. 'The gentleman wot owns 'er often does it. Says 'e likes to look inside a casino now an' then.'

The Saint proffered a packet of cigarettes and switched a casual glance round the yard. Parked up beside the wall of a boathouse he saw the shape of a car under a waterproof dust cover, and identified the number on the exposed plate.

'Looks as if she might have gone there today,' he said, indicating the Buick.

' Shouldn't be surprised if she 'ad,' said his inform­ant, accepting the smoke. ' Can't be going for long, though, because the gentleman said 'e'd be back to­morrow.'

Simon nodded thoughtfully and lounged back on the M.L.

'I suppose you haven't got a little motorboat for hire, have you?' he asked.

The old salt's scornful attitude towards power under­went a rapid change when he found that the Saint professed his complete -personal indifference to the merits of canvas. Yes, he had an excellent motorboat. It was, he implied, such an exceptional motorboat that it could not be included in any general denunciation of mechanical craft. It could be chartered by the day, the week, the month, the year, or, presumably, by the century; and it was the property of a gentleman wot owned racehorses wot always seemed to win when 'e said they would, which naturally raised its virtues to a pitch that surpassed perfection.

Simon looked it over, decided that it would suit him, and arranged to take it out the next morning.

'I just feel like floating around and doing a spot of fishing,' he said.

He drove down to the inn at Warsash, and put a call through to Patricia.

'Ronald has gone to hit up the casinos, and I'm going to buy some string and bend a pin,' he said. 'We may say 'Ship ahoy!' to each other at seven bells.'

With a tremendous effort, which could only have been inspired by an unfaltering loyalty to his sense of duty, he managed to breakfast at six o'clock the next morning, and to parade at the boatyard at seven with a reason­ably professional-looking array of gear. He chugged down to the Solent and cruised up and down opposite the mouth of the Hamble with a cigarette in his mouth and a baited line over the side. Moreover, he caught a fish, which greatly lowered his estimation of piscine intelligence.

And whilst he was doing that he produced a Thought.

'There are boats tooling in and out of here every day during the season, and nobody gives a damn. It isn't the shortest crossing to the French coast, but for anyone running cargo it must have its advantages.'

It was nine o'clock when he sighted the Seabird's bow wave making up the Solent towards him, and it told him that Ronald Nilder's boat could certainly move fast. It was making over twenty knots, and he had very little time to prepare for the scene which he intended to stage.

He let his line go to the bottom and shut off the idling motor. He was directly in the Seabird's course as she headed for the entrance of the river, and as she came within hailing distance he stood up and flagged her vigorously, yelling some despairing sentence about a breakdown. It was an even chance that Nilder would ignore his signals and cut round him; but the Saint's luck was working that day. He saw the cruiser's white bow wave sink down and the water foaming astern as her engines went into reverse. She manoeuvred deftly alongside him, and they rolled together in the slight swell.

'I'm awfully sorry to trouble you,' said the Saint, 'but my motor's conked out, and I haven't any oars or anything.'

'Where do you want to get to?' asked Nilder.

He stood in the cockpit, with his cap tilted to what he obviously thought was a rakish angle.

'Bursledon,' said the Saint. 'But I expect someone could come out to me from wherever you're going to --'

'We're going there ourselves. We'll take you in tow.'

At a nod from Nilder, the helmsman went aft and flung out a rope. He seemed to comprise the entire crew of the Seabird, and seen at close quarters he appeared noticeably lacking in that winsome benignity of counte­nance which is found on the dials of governors of infant orphanages.

Simon made the rope fast, and Nilder leaned over the side.

'Why don't you come up here?' he suggested amiably. 'I'm afraid you'll get rather wet if you stay where you are.'

Simon had proposed to get aboard somehow from the beginning, but he had not expected such a prompt invitation. He climbed into the cockpit rather watch­fully, with a tiny question mark roving through his mind. It was