Saint Overboard by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online Page A

Corsair had swung round on
the tide so that she screened his movements from any chance backward
glances from the quay, and he started off up-river and came round in
a wide circle to avoid identifying himself by his point of departure. Not
that it mattered much; but he wanted to avoid giving any immediate impression
that he was deliberately setting off in pursuit.
    He cruised along, keeping his head down and
judging time and distance as the Falkenberg’s tender squeezed in
to the steps and Vogel and his companion went ashore. Looking back, he judged that with any luck no curious
watcher on the Falkenberg had observed his hurried departure, and by
this time he was too far away to be
recognised. Then, as Vogel and the grey-bearded man started up the causeway towards the Grande Rue, the
Saint opened up his engine and scooted
after them. He shot in to the quay
under the very nose of another boat that was making for the same objective, spun his motor round into
reverse under a cloudburst of Gallic
expostulation and profanity, hitched the painter deftly through a ring-bolt, and was up on land and away before the running commentary he had provoked had
really reached its choicest
descriptive adjectives.
    The passengers who were disembarking from
the ferry effec tively screened his arrival and shielded his advance as
he hustled after his quarry. The other two were not walking quickly,
and the grey-bearded man’s shabby yellow Panama was as good as a beacon.
Simon spaced himself as far behind them as he dared when they reached the
Digue, and slackened the speed of his pursuit. He ambled along with his
hands in his pockets, submerg ing himself among the other promenaders with
the same happy- go-lucky air of debating the best place to take an
aperitif be fore lunch.
    Presently the yellow Panama bobbed across the
stream in the direction of the Casino terrace, and Simon Templar
followed. At that hour the place was packed with a chattering
sun-soaked throng of thirsty socialites, and the Saint was able to
squeeze himself about among the tables in the most natural manner of a lone man
looking for a place—preferably with company. His route led him quite
casually past Vogel’s table; and at the pre cise moment when the
hook-nosed man looked up and caught his eye, Simon returned
the recognition with a perfect rendering of polite interest.
    They were so close together that Vogel could
scarcely have avoided
a greeting, even if he had wished to—which the Saint quietly doubted. For a moment the man’s black expressionless stare drilled right through him; and then the
thin lips spread in a smile that had all the artless geniality of a snake’s.
    “I hope you didn’t think I was too
unceremonious about disturbing you last night,” he said.
    “Not at all,” said the Saint
cheerfully. “I didn’t leave the baccarat rooms till pretty late, so I was only just
settling in.”
    His glance passed unostentatiously over the
grey-bearded man. Something
about the mild pink youthful-looking face struck him as dimly familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
    “This is Professor Yule,” said the
other, “and my name is V ogel. Won’t you join us, Mr—er—— ”
    “Tombs,” said the Saint, without
batting an eyelid, and sat down.
    Vogel extended a cigarette-case.
    “You are interested in gambling, Mr
Tombs?” he suggested.
    His tone was courteous and detached, the tone
of a man who was merely accepting the obvious cue for the opening of a con ventional
exchange of small talk; but the Saint’s hand hovered over the proffered case for an
imperceptible second’s pause be fore he slid
out a smoke and settled back.
    “I don’t mind an occasional flutter to
pass the time,” he mur mured deprecatingly.
    “Ah, yes—an occasional flutter.” Vogel’s eyes, like two
beads of impenetrable jet, remained fixed on
his face; but the cold lipless smile
remained also. “You can’t come to much harm that way. It’s the people who
play beyond their