Call for the Saint by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online Page A

dat is.”
    “We didn’t get a receipt,” Simon pointed out.
    CHAPTER NINE
The Saint had expected Mrs. Laura Wingate’s penthouse on Lake Shore Drive to be fairly palatial, but he was not quite prepared for the rococo perspectives that opened before him as he followed Monica Varing out of the elevator and the cocktail party exploded around them like a startled barnyard.
    “My God,” he said in a dazed undertone, as he fought their way through the seething throngs. “Monica, are you sure this is the right place?”
    “I think so. We could have crashed the gate without any trouble. Everybody’s here.”
    This seemed fairly correct. Across the broad acres of terrace, tables were set up, beach umbrellas made gay patterns, and trays of cocktails were levitated toward thirsty throats. The Saint seized two passing Martinis and shared his loot with Monica.
    “Let’s cruise around,” he suggested. “I don’t know exactly what we’re looking for, but there’s one way to find out. If you stumble on a clue, such as a rigid body with a knife hilt protruding from its back, whistle three times.”
    “I wouldn’t be too hopeful,” she said. “The servants must be too well trained to leave rubbish cluttering up the lawn. Still, there may be some rigid bodies around here before the day’s over,” Monica pondered, watching a sleek young socialite tossing off drink after drink with the desperation of a fire-breathing dragon trying to put itself out.
    They drifted through the yammer of high-pitched voices, conveniently allowing an eddy among the other guests to cut them off from their sponsors the Kirklands. The Saint’s casually roving eyes inventoried the crowd without finding in it anything to give direction to his unformed questions. It seemed to be composed of fairly standard ingredients-playboys old and young, businessmen, and politicians, blended with their wives, concubines, and prospectives. He sought and failed exasperatingly to find a single sinister aroma in the brew.
    Then through a gap in the crowd he glimpsed a white head that looked like Stephen Elliott, and started to steer Monica towards it. But before they had made much progress the throng parted in another quarter, spilling away like a bow wave before the onrush of a monumental figure that bore down upon them like an ocean liner. Simon only had a moment to hope that it could stop in time, before it rammed them with its monstrous bosom.
    “I thought I recognized you,” Mrs. Wingate cried, ignoring Simon to concentrate on his companion. “It must be Monica Varing. Imagine!”
    Monica smiled and said: “I’m afraid I wasn’t invited, Mrs. Wingate, but I was with the Kirklands this afternoon and they insisted I come along with them. I do hope you won’t mind.”
    She played the gracious lady with such perfect restraint and charm that even Simon was impressed, while Mrs. Wingate almost swooned.
    “I’m so glad. How could I possibly mind? I’ve admired your art for so long, my dear Miss Varing-oh! A cocktail?”
    She beckoned urgently, and a servant came with his tray. He offered it to Simon last, and Mrs. Wingate’s attention was directed to Monica’s escort.
    “Oh, dear-I should know you too,” she gushed-and giggled helplessly. “I’m sure I should. I have such a dreadful memory for names.”
    “There’s no reason why you should know mine,” said the Saint amiably. “I’m uninvited too. I came with Miss Varing. My name is Templar. Simon Templar.”
    “Simon Templar,” Mrs. Wingate echoed, looking at him along her nose, over a battery of chins, “It’s familiar, somehow. Oh, I know. The Senator from —”
    Behind the Saint a deep, mild, slightly treacly voice said: “Not quite, Laura. Not quite.”
    Stephen Elliott moved into the group with a sort of apologetic benevolence that reminded the Saint of an undertaker associating with the bereaved.
    Seen without interference by the dark glasses through which Simon had observed him first,