Saint Overboard Read Online Free PDF Page A

over sized bathrobe, understanding the rest.
    “You came out to be human with
him.”
    The turn of her head was sorcery, the sculpture of her neck merging into the first hinted curve between the
lapels of the bathrobe was a pattern
of magic that made murder and sudden death
egregious intrusions.
    “I didn’t succeed—so far. I’ve tried.
I’ve even had dinner with him, and danced at the Casino. But I haven’t
had an invitation to go on board his boat. To-night I got the devil in me,
or some thing. I
tried to go on board without an invitation.”
    “Didn’t you guess there’d be a watch on
deck?”
    “I suppose so. But I thought he’d
probably be sleepy, and I could move very quietly.” She grimaced. “He got me, but
he let me go when I fired a shot beside his ear—I didn’t hurt him—and I dived overboard.”
    “And thereby hangs a tale,” said
the Saint.
    4
    He stood up and flicked his cigarette-end
through a porthole, helping himself to another. The lines of his face were
lifted in high relief as he drew at a match.
    “You didn’t tell me all this to pass the
time, did you?” he smiled.
    “I told you because you’re—you.” She
was looking at him directly, without a trace of affected hesitation. “I’ve
no author ity. But I’ve seen you, and I know who you are. Maybe I thought
you might be interested.”
    She straightened the bathrobe quickly, looking round for an ashtray.
    “Maybe I might,” he said gently. “Where are you
staying?”
    “The Hotel de la Mer.”
    “I wish you could stay here. But
to-night—I’m afraid there must be a thin chance that your boy friend wasn’t quite satisfied with my lines when we exchanged words, and you
can’t risk it. Another time—— ”
    Her eyes opened wider, and he stretched out his hand with a breath of laughter.
    “I’m going to row you home now,” he said. “Or do we
have another argument?”
    “I wouldn’t argue,” she began
silkily; and then, with the cor ners of her mouth tugging against her will,
she took his hand. “But
thanks for the drink—and everything.”
    “There are only two things you haven’t
told me,” he said. “One is the name of this boat you
wanted to look at.”
    She searched his face for a moment before she
answered:
    “The Falkenberg”
    “And the other is the name of the boy
friend—the bloke who passed in the night.”
    “Kurt Vogel.”
    “How very appropriate,” said the
Saint thoughtfully. “I think’ I shall call him Birdie when we get
acquainted. But that can wait. … I want to
finish my beauty sleep, and I suppose you haven’t
even started yours. But I’ve got a hunch that if you’re on the beach before lunch we may talk some more.
I’m glad you dropped in.”
    The fog was thinning to a pearl-grey
vagueness lightening with the dawn when he rowed her back; and when he woke up there were ovals of yellow sunlight stencilled along
the bulkhead from the opposite
portholes. He stretched himself like a cat, freshen ing his lungs with the heady nectar of the
morning, and lighted a cigarette.
For a while he lay sprawled in delicious laziness, taking in the familiar cabin with a sense of new
discovery. There she had sat, there
was the cup and glass she had used, there was the crushed stub of her cigarette in the ashtray.
There on the carpet was still a
darkened patch of damp, where she had stood with the salt water dewing
her slim legs and pooling on the floor. He saw
the ripple of gold in her hair, the shaft of challenge in her eyes, the
exquisite shape of her as he first saw her like a shy nymph spiced with the devil’s temper; and knew a
supreme con tent which was not artistically rewarded by the abrupt
apparition of a belligerent face sheltering
behind a loose walrus moustache in
the door leading to the galley.
    “Lovely morn’n, sir,” said the face, and limped
struttingly in to plunk down a glass of orange
juice beside him. “Brekfuss narf a minnit.”
    The Saint grinned ruefully and