Beyond was a fairly roomy saloon with a chart table in the centre and bunks on either side. A door forward gave access to a small water closet, and right forward, divided from this cubicle by a wooden partition with a sliding panel, was the usual chain locker. There were fitted drawers for clothes under the bunks, and one of them contained a piece of old blanket, a piece of oilskin, and a length of string; more evidence that Ernest Jansen had been thorough in preparing for the lay-up, for it was plain enough that here the magneto had been wrapped and stowed.
The wrappings were the sole find. The saloon, like the galley and pantry, had been stripped. Once, no doubt, there had been mattresses and cushions but at some time, in Dalmatian or Calabrian waters, someone had gone through the craft and left only the bare boards. Was it rational, then, to suppose that anything of value remained in the yawl?
Andrew peered into corners, resisting the thought of the anti-climax that now seemed inevitable. But it was difficult to resist with much conviction. He was a fool, and must appear doubly a fool in the eyes of Ruth Meriden. Kusitch had thrown away his life in pursuit of a myth. Kretchmann and Haller had committed murder for nothing and embarked on a futile errand. The treasure coveted by Kusitch and his assassins had vanished. Whatever it was, a booty of jewels or a priceless old master, someone had removed it. Unless there was some secret hiding place in the craft. As well expect to find a hiding place in a matchbox.
“If there ever was anything, we’re too late,” Ruth said.
She was thinking that Kretchmann and Haller might have preceded them by a few hours, even an hour. The possibility was not to be dismissed, but if Kretchmann and Haller were the interlopers, why had they taken the magneto from the saloon drawer and fitted it to the engine?
Andrew went forward and opened the panel of the chain locker, but it was empty except for some rusty anchor chain. He rapped on timbers and looked behind the drawers. There were no secret cavities that he could discover.
Ruth had returned to the well to watch the wheeling sea gulls. Perhaps she had been merely curious about the yawl, for she showed no sign of disappointment. Andrew imagined that there was even a hint of secret amusement in her smile when he emerged from the saloon and shrugged his shoulders.
She said: “If the masts were hollow, you could hide a few Rembrandts in them.”
He grinned but a trifle sheepishly. She climbed ashore again and watched him from the landing stage, while he rummaged among fragments of canvas and broken tools and other odds and ends in the sail lockers.
“While you do that,” she said after a moment, “I’m going to take a look at my new cottage. It may be full of Persian miniatures or Aztec birdbaths.”
Andrew looked after her gloomily as she limped up the knoll. The implied criticism may have been aimed at the late Uncle John, but it could have had another target. This hypothetical treasure of the tender to Moonlight must seem absurd to her now, but it had been real enough to Kusitch.
Somewhere in this shabby tub there was or had been something, but Andrew could think of no further place where he might search. If there were a concealed cache, an unsuspected space behind an undiscovered bulkhead, he did not know what he could do about it short of ripping the craft to pieces. He looked up at the solemn heavens, but they just went on being solemn. He looked down at the rust-marked, oil-stained boards on which he stood, and they were but little more inspiring. He observed, but without conscious intention, how neatly they were fitted together to make a floor; how each board had a finger hole for ease in lifting. An idea came to him, but when he translated it into action it was with no eagerness.
He lifted one of the boards from the bilge stringer and detached it from its ledge on the middle bearer. He lifted a second board, but he was already convinced that no one would have hidden an art treasure in such a place. The wash of water in the bilge was filthy with grease and drippings of oil from the engine. Ribs, strakes and keelson were smeared with something that looked like tar, and the heavy slabs of metal that served as ballast had been daubed with the stuff. He tapped one of the bars with a screwdriver from a locker. Pig iron.
Rocking in the slow swirl of the bilge was a tin can with part of a bright new label attached.
If he had not observed it, he might not have realised that someone had been bailing out the bilge, though the little depth of water in the bottom should have told him that at once. Since Jansen tied up the craft, the bilge would have filled with water in one way or another. The fact that it had been bailed out linked up with the curious business of the magneto. Some sort of overhaul had been attempted. The floor boards had been removed to get at the propeller shafting and coupling.
Andrew gazed down at the dark water and the iron pigs for a moment. Then he replaced the floor boards and closed the companion hatch, putting the padlock back as he had found it. He saw then that the deck was almost level with the landing stage and the tide was still running in.
Ruth called from the knoll, “There’s a man coming along on a bike.”
One of the local inhabitants, no doubt! Might even be a coast guard or something. Possibly he would know if anyone had been nosing round the yawl in the last few days.
Andrew stepped ashore and climbed the knoll to Ruth’s side. The man was pedalling slowly across the wade, taking the bumps, weaving and twisting in his course to avoid the worst of the depressions in the track. Andrew watched without suspicion until he saw that the burden of a two-gallon petrol tin was adding to the cyclist’s difficulties. The fact was too peculiar not to be taken as a warning. If the tin contained petrol, the fellow’s objective must be the yawl. At once the other peculiarities fell into line: the sawn padlocks, the cigarette end, the magneto.
At that moment the cyclist saw them. No doubt he also saw the car in the yard. He came on without hesitation, quite confidently, as if he knew his way about.
Andrew gripped Ruth by one arm. “Don’t say anything,” he told her. “Leave it to me.”
She turned to smile. The smile said clearly: “Oh, come now!”
“We must find out what he’s up to,” Andrew added in justification. “I’ll bet he’s been messing around with that engine.”
“If he’s that interested, maybe we can sell him the whole thing.”
The man was about forty-five. He had a hard, weather-tanned face and fairish grizzled hair. He wore toil-marked grey slacks and an old brown jacket over a dark green sweater. He dismounted and leaned the bike against the mill. He was cheerful and friendly, with a proprietorial assurance. He put an empty pipe in his mouth.
“Afternoon,” he said. “Come out to see the mill?”
“That’s it,” Andrew agreed. “I suppose it’s quite noted.”
“I suppose.” The man nodded and grinned, jumped into the well of the yawl, and began to pour the petrol into the fuel tank aft. Andrew and Ruth followed to the landing stage and watched him.
“What do you think you’re doing with that craft?” Andrew inquired, forcing back his indignation.
“Making her work,” came the affable reply. “Owner’s instructions. Mr. Robison says make her work. So, I make her work.”
Having disposed of the petrol, he uncovered the engine, fussed with the carburettor for a moment, then swung the starting handle.
There was no result.
“Is Mr. Robison the owner?” Andrew asked.
“No, he’s the boss.” The fellow looked up for a moment. “Bad state this engine’s in! Bad! Know you anything about them?”
“Not much. Do you?”
“Nothing I don’t know.” He swung on the handle again, and again there was no result. “Looks like real trouble. Maybe the plugs.” He frowned, taking it hardly. His heart was in his work.