“I’m afraid I have no idea, sir. I’d gone into Somerset to do some shopping, and when I came back Mr Dayne was gone.”
“Well, when you came back, was another of the boats from here over at the landing, besides the one you’d taken?”
“No, sir. Just the one I’d used.”
“Then someone must have come and picked him up in a boat.”
“That must be right, sir.”
The Saint rubbed his chin for a moment.
“By the way,” he said. “I noticed a small Chris-Craft tied up at the dock last night. Is that working?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think we might use it to run into Hamilton this morning.”
“Yes, sir, of course — to get your ticket.”
Simon’s eyes flickered fractionally.
“How did you know I was going anywhere?”
“Mrs Dayne just told me what happened last night, sir. She’s in the kitchen, fixing breakfast. I’m sorry, sir,” the caretaker said stiffly.
“So am I,” said the Saint briefly, and went on into the house.
He put his head in the kitchen door and asked, “How soon are you serving?”
“In about five minutes, or whenever you’re ready,” she answered, and added, “You’ll find an electric razor in our bathroom.”
“Thanks.”
In well under ten minutes he had shaved, rinsed himself under a shower, dressed, and was sitting down to a platter of perfectly cooked eggs and bacon.
“I see you were brought up right,” he said. “Frying an egg sounds like the easiest job in the world, but I’m always amazed how seldom it’s done properly, without making bubbles in the white and a leathery brown crust underneath. Even in France, the land of the great chefs, nobody has the faintest notion of how to fry an egg.”
“You don’t have to cover up,” she said steadily. “I know how the idea of running away must be hurting you. So I’ve decided that if you think it’s the wrong thing to do, you mustn’t do it — even if I beg you to.”
“I have to make a plane reservation anyhow,” he said. “Has it dawned on you that you’re being watched? I’d never met you till yesterday evening, and yet I was the main thing our pal had on his mind when he phoned you last night.”
Her eyes widened a little.
“You mean Ivalot himself could have been at the Van Hessens’ — or at the restaurant where we had dinner—”
“Not necessarily. He may have an accomplice, or even a gang — we don’t know. But he’s pretty sure to find out whether I’ve booked myself out of here as ordered. Then if his phone call meant anything at all, he’ll be practically forced to wait and see whether I do leave. And maybe I’ll wait and see, too.”
He stared out of the window of the dining alcove with such a preoccupied air that she would have sworn that his thoughts were on anything but the view which it framed, so that it surprised her when he said presently, “This is an even dreamier spot in the daytime. I wonder why the owner doesn’t live here all year round.”
“Perhaps his home in Canada is even nicer.”
“D’you know anything about him?”
“Only that his name is Stanley Parker. And I believe he’s quite elderly. Why do you ask?”
“I’m practising — I’ve got a lot of questions to ask in a hurry today. As soon as we’re finished, I’m going to Hamilton and start in earnest. I guess you’d better come with me so I won’t have to worry about you. We’ll take the speedboat, because it’s quicker than a taxi, and it’ll make it tougher for anyone who’s thinking of tailing us.”
He had already observed with approval that, doubtless because of her professional background, she breakfasted with hair and clothes and make-up in shape to face the world as soon as she stood up from the table, and she joined him at the dock with a minimum of delay after their second cups of coffee. The caretaker had the Chris-Craft waiting alongside and was wiping off the seats.
“Do you know the way, sir, or do you wish me to take you?” he inquired disinterestedly.
“I can find it, thanks,” said the Saint. “And you’d better be here in case there are any more messages.”
He pushed the clutch forward and opened the throttle until the light hull was planing. For less than a mile he drove the boat north-east across the Sound, and then he began to veer more to the east, towards Burgess Point and the coastline of Warwick Parish. Lona Dayne twitched his shirtsleeve and pointed.
“Stay as you were, to the left of that island. It’s the shortest way through to Hamilton.”
“I’ve got a call to make on the way,” he explained.
He swung still further to starboard, to miss another larger island that emerged ahead. As they ran along its shore the façade of a Florida Keys fishing village came into view, with the functionally arched roof of an enormous hangar rising above the picturesquely weather-beaten fronts. Simon cut the engine and laid the speedboat skilfully in beside a pier that projected from the strikingly un-Bermudian waterfront.
“This is Darrell’s Island, where our host of last night operates,” he said. “I just want to ask him something — and we haven’t got time to show you how they make TV pictures. I’ll be right back.”
He left her sitting in the boat and disappeared through an opening in the scenery. Having been given the tour once before, on his arrival, he found his way with the faultless recall of a homing pigeon through the partitioned alleys which had miraculously created a modern television picture studio within the shell of an abandoned airport that dated back to those pessimistic days when only seaplanes and flying boats were thought suitable for air travel over water; and Dick Van Hessen looked up defensively as he crashed into the office, and then recognized him with a grin.
“Well! What can we do for you today?”
“You’re busy and I’m in a hurry,” said the Saint, “so I’ll leapfrog the trimmings. All I want is a good lawyer.”
“What? Did she hook you already?”
“Let’s try to build it into a half-hour show — some other time.”
“The one I like best is a fellow named Fred Thearnley,” Van Hessen said. “He’s done a few things for me, and he’s a lot more on the ball than some of ’em.”
“Would you phone him and use your influence to see if he can squeeze a few minutes for me about as soon as I can get there?”
“Sure.”
Simon returned to Lona with an appointment for eleven o’clock. He started up the boat again and sent it skimming through the channel to the left of Hinson’s Island, and then threading between other smaller islands towards the north shore of the gradually narrowing bay, now sheltered between the hills of Pembroke and Paget on either side with the white-sugar roofs and pink-icing walls of fairy-tale candy houses studding their green slopes. He slowed up past the Princess Hotel, a birthday cake moulded in the same style, and stopped and tied up at the Yacht Club dock farther on. He looked at his watch.
“We’ve got plenty of time to do my airline errand first,” he said.
They cut through by the Bank of Bermuda and walked eastwards past the open wharf where the cruise boats berth in the very heart of the city, and up Front Street to the BOAC office. Their last plane left for New York at 4:00 p.m., and he was able to get a seat on it.
The lawyer’s office turned out to be back in the direction they had come from, a few doors from Trimingham’s, which is the biggest department store that the highly conservative proportions of Hamilton have to offer. Simon escorted Lona to its entrance.
“You’ll be as safe here as you could be anywhere, and with all this merchandise to look at, unless you’re a female impersonator you won’t even miss me. Just stay away from the doors, and I’ll find you in about half an hour,” he said, and left her.