Even at the risk of further confusing or alienating Arabella for a time, he had played up the sixth-man mystery for the sake of the advantage it might be presumed to buy him with Descartes and his cronies. The Saint sensed that the more he could keep them guessing about his precise role and interest in the affair, the more time he was likely to gain. So long as he had time in hand, he had a sublime confidence that his resourcefulness, added to that generous providence which had always come up with some twist of events in his favour when he had needed it most, would win through in the end. Therefore his strategy was to play for as much time as he could: to watch and wait.
For the moment, he couldn’t be sure how much any of the other principals in the developing drama of the Phoenix and the gold of Charles Tatenor actually knew or surmised. Descartes had clearly done enough thinking in the last day or two to have come to the same conclusion as Simon himself — Corsica held the key. At any rate, Descartes had told Finnegan to set the same course he would have set for Simon and Arabella had their uninvited guests not turned up. The Saint didn’t know exactly how much Finnegan himself knew about the real purpose of those regular fishing trips to Corsica.
“Always the same little bay,” he said, without giving any sign of attaching to that consistency of destination the significance which Simon, and evidently Descartes as well, suspected it had.
The Saint had familiarised himself with the instruments and studied the chart that had been unrolled and spread out, which included Marseilles at the north-west corner. It covered one sector in a large-scale Mediterranean series, and bore the number 12. He pulled out the drawers of a massive ship’s plan-chest nearby and found them full of rolled-up charts of the same series, numbered up to 22. Number 12, of course, was missing; but so was number 18.
Which was an interesting piece of corroborative evidence, if any was needed, that they were headed in the direction most likely to yield something of interest. For the missing chart 18, according to the small-scale over-all map on the bulkhead over the chart drawers, covered an area which included the extreme south-western extremity of Corsica.
For the best part of an hour and a half more the Saint stood at the helm of the Phoenix, almost automatically making the necessary small corrections of course, as the pink and yellow of the sunset faded and the sky and sea darkened towards night.
His cogitations were interrupted when the door was opened, hesitantly, and Arabella came somewhat sheepishly into the wheel-house.
“Simon,” she began, in a small and conciliatory voice, “I’m sorry if I’ve jumped to the wrong conclusions... sorry if I’m wrong... I mean, sorry if I was wrong. But all this — being threatened, abducted, nearly gored to death by a bull... people looking for gold, people waving guns at me... It’s right outside my experience.”
Simon nodded, smiled, and put his hands on her shoulders to look directly into the eyes that matched the blue of his own.
“I know that,” he said simply. “The fact is, you’ve stood up to it all magnificently. Perhaps I should have got around to saying this before now. Very few women, or men for that matter, would have come out of that bull-ring ordeal as creditably as you did.” The Saint put a finger under her chin, and kissed her lightly — with understanding rather than passion. “The fact is,” he added, “I’ve worked alone too long now to be in the habit of sharing all my thoughts or hypotheses.”
She searched his features reflectively.
“Well, try sharing some of them,” she suggested.
Simon grinned, having seen that coming.
“I’ll try to be less mysterious,” he agreed.
“Starting now?” Arabella persisted.
“Starting right now. Fire away.”
“Right. What do you think really happened on Charles’s boat. You said you thought there was another man on board.”
“Somebody,” he said slowly, “got ashore from that boat just before she hit the rocks and blew up. I found a scuba outfit buried near the beach, and someone out of the normal run of rail passengers, someone with a French accent and without luggage, caught a train to London from the local station. It may not be much to go on, but it looks as if Fournier, as we knew him, set up the explosion to make it appear that the two of them had died in the crash.”
“What about the two bodies they found in the wreckage?”
“That can be explained,” Simon said. “Remember one thing. There was no positive identification of the bodies. Fournier could have hidden another body aboard before the race. Most likely an already dead body.”
Arabella nodded keenly and thoughtfully.
“I see. And then, Tranchier would have knocked Charles out, jammed the helm at the right moment, and quietly vanished underwater, coming up on the beach while all eyes were on the blazing boat.”
“You have to admit,” said the Saint, “it sounds possible — in fact it sounds likely. Maybe Tranchier had got what he needed from Charles, namely the low-down on the gold and how to get it. And maybe he then got greedy. He had a bright idea. He would do a Charles, and keep all the remaining gold for himself. But to do that, and be able to enjoy it without constantly looking over his shoulder for Descartes and the others, he needed to convince them, as well as the rest of the world, that both he and Charles were no more.”
Simon paused to turn on a chart-light in the wheel-house.
“What doesn’t seem to have occurred to him,” he continued, “was that Descartes would be harder to shake off than that — that he’d turn his attentions to you, as the only other person who might have access to the gold — assuming, of course, that there’s some left and that it is still in the form of gold.”
Arabella toyed thoughtfully with one of the charts in the open drawer.
“And what do you think about that? Is there gold? Is it in Corsica?”
“In Corsica?” He shook his head. “No. I think there’s gold all right, but I think it’s off Corsica. Somewhere in the sea. And I think your Charles used to go back to that spot in this yacht twice a year for the express purpose of bringing up a bar or two to boost his bank balance — until the next time.”
Arabella pursed her lips in a long whistle of amazed appreciation.
“Why, that’s — that’s perfect. What a smart man he was! A secure private bank. Just bring the gold up a bit at a time, sell it discreetly someplace...”
Simon nodded agreement.
“The odd bar or two wouldn’t attract too much attention.”
“The only weakness,” she observed thoughtfully, “—the one point of vulnerability in his banking system — would appear to be Finnegan. Surely he must know about the gold?”
“Maybe,” the Saint said. “The good Captain’s still a bit of a question mark in my mind for the moment. But he certainly wasn’t near enough to have toppled that crate; nor was he driving the van; nor did he stab Lebec’s man in the Bidou Club. But somebody did.”
“Then who?” No sooner had she spoken the words than she answered her own question. “You mean Fournier!” Then she added: “And where does the Saint’s clairvoyance tell him Fournier is now?”
By way of a reply, Simon stepped outside on to the deck and pointed aft.
“See that speck on the horizon? It’s a smallish boat, some kind of power cruiser. It’s been following about ten miles behind us for at least the last couple of hours. I’d be willing to bet it’s been on our tail ever since we left Marseille. And if it isn’t Fournier,” said the Saint, looking hard at Arabella as he paused, “I’d lay ten to one it’s your friend Inspector Lebec.”