Read Online Saint Overboard by Leslie Charteris - Free Book Online Page B

myself,” said the
Saint unblushingly. He sat on the arm of a chair, making patterns in the
atmosphere with ciga rette-smoke. “Been here long?”
    “Landed at Cherbourg this
morning.”
    “Did you ask for Loretta downstairs?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Notice anyone prick up his ears?”
    Murdoch shook his head.
    “I didn’t look.”
    “You should have,” said the Saint reprovingly.
“I didn’t ask, but I looked. There was a bloke kicking his heels in a
corner when I arrived, and he had watchdog written across his chest in letters a
foot high. He didn’t see me, because I walked through with my face buried inside a newspaper; but
he must have seen you. He’d ‘ve seen anyone
who wasn’t expecting him, and he was placed
just right to hear who was asked for at the desk.”
    There was a short silence. Loretta leaned back against a table with her hands on the edge and her long legs
crossed.
    “Did you know Steve was here?” she
asked.
    “No. He only makes it more difficult.
But I discovered that a ferret-faced bird with the most beautiful line in gent’s half hose was sitting on my tail, and that made me
think. I slipped him and came round
to warn you.” Simon looked at her steadily. “There’s only a
trace of suspicion attached to me at the moment, but Vogel’s taking no chances. He wants to make sure. There’s probably a hell of a lot of suspicion about you.
so you weren’t likely to be forgotten.
And apparently you haven’t been. Now Steve
has rolled up to lend a hand—he’s branded himself by asking for you, and he’ll be a marked man from
this moment.”
    “That’s okay,” said Murdoch
phlegmatically. “I can look after myself without a nurse.”
    “I’m sure you can, dear old skunk,”
said the Saint amiably. “But that’s not the point. Loretta, at
least, isn’t supposed to be looking after herself. She’s the undercover
ingenue. She isn’t supposed to have anything to look after except her
honour. Once she
starts any Mata Hari business, that boat is sunk.”
    “Well?”
    Simon flicked ash on to the carpet.
    “The only tune is the one I’m playing.
Complete and childlike innocence. With a pan like yours, Steve,
you’ll have a job to get your mouth round the flute, but you’ve got to
try it. Because any sucker play you make is going to hit Loretta. The first
thing is to clean yourself up. If you’ve got a star or anything like
that of Ingerbeck’s, flush it down the lavatory. If you’ve got anything in writing
that could link you up, memorise it and burn it. Strip yourself of every
mortal thing that might tie you on to this party. That goes for
you too, Loretta, because sooner or later the ungodly are going to
try and get a line on you from your lug gage, if they haven’t
placed you before that. And then, Steve, you blow.”
    “What?”
    “Fade. Waft. Pass out into the night.
Loretta can go down stairs with you, and you can take a fond farewell in the
foyer, with a few well-chosen lines of dialogue from which any listeners can gather that you’re an old
friend of her father’s taking a holi day in
Guernsey, and hearing she was in Dinard you hopped an excursion and came
over for the day. And then you beetle down to the pier, catch the next ferry to
St Malo, and shoot on to the return steamer
to St Peter Port like a cork out of a bottle. Vogel will be there to-morrow.”
    “How do you know that?” asked
Loretta quickly.
    “He told me. We got into conversation
before lunch.” Simon’s gaze lifted to hers with azure lights of
scapegrace solemnity play ing in it. “He was trying to draw me
out, and I was just devilling him, but neither of us got very far. I think he
was telling me the truth, though. If I chase him to St Peter Port, he’ll be
able to put my innocence through some more tests. So when you’re say ing goodbye to Steve, he might
ask you if you’re likely to take a trip to
Guernsey, and you can say you don’t think you’ll be able to—that may
make them think