Saint Errant by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online Page A

Iris Freeman said cannot be printed without grave risk to the publisher.
    Simon and Patricia strolled south on Michigan Avenue in a rather noticeable silence.
    “Kearney was pretty nice about you, wasn’t he?” said Patricia at last.
    “He’s not a bad guy,” Simon agreed. “And he’s got something to thank me for. Getting the real blackmailers ought to be worth more to him than trying to hang a shaky rap on me… . Of course, it started to be obvious as soon as Iris showed up as a connecting link. It would have been too much for her to imitate my voice, but the only thing left was to identify her stooge. It occurred to me at once that we couldn’t rely on Stratford Keane’s definition of Belden. A ham like Keane wouldn’t know the difference between one vaudeville performer and an other, but I’ll bet Belden wasn’t a hoofer. I’ll bet he was one of those dreadful acts which start: ‘I would like to give you my impression of …” I always wanted to see something unpleasant happen to that kind of artist, but I never hoped I should have the chance to arrange it.”
    There was a further silence.
    “Now,” said Patricia with difficulty, “I suppose you’re only waiting to tell me that you knew all along I wouldn’t shake Kearney off.”
    “I was betting on it,” said the Saint blandly. “And I owe you a lot for your co-operation.” He turned and hailed a passing taxi. “However, I shall let Rick the Barber contribute to your reward. Things may not be too happy for him when Iris blows her top, as she probably will, and I think Rick ought to pay us quite well for a tip-off.”
    III. Lida
THE MOON WAS A PASTE-UP JOB. True, it had come up dripping out of the sea two hours before, but now it hung in the Florida sky like a cutout from golden paper, and looked down with a bland open countenance on the denizens of Miami Beach and all the visiting firemen therein.
    Including wives whose husbands were busy in their offices from Chicago to Boston providing the wherewithal for their helpmeets to fritter around; certain characters who went around with thousand-dollar bills in their pockets but never paid any income tax; touts, pimps, and prostitutes; hopeful gents and girls who felt that one more throw of the dice would get them even with the board again; and Simon Templar and Patricia Holm.
    Simon, known as the Saint in varying degrees of love, hate, and envy, lounged behind the wheel of a long low convertible, and pushed that rented job up Collins Avenue at ten miles more than the law allowed. Patricia, her golden head making the moon look like a polished penny, sat easily beside him.
    “Simon,” she said, “look at that moon. It can’t be real.”
    “Strictly a prop, Pat,” the Saint said. “The president of the Chamber of Commerce hangs it up each night.”
    “If you had any romance in what you call your soul,” Patricia complained, “you’d admit it was pretty lush.”
    “And when we get to the Quarterdeck Club, the atmosphere will be even lusher.”
    After a contemplative silence, the girl said: “There must be something beyond that, Simon-something that scared Lida Verity half out of her mind. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been so desperate on the phone.”
    “You know her better than I do. Is she the hysterical type?”
    “Not even in the Greek meaning of the word,” Pat said. “She’s a swell gal. Nice family, nice husband in the Navy, plenty of money, and she has her head screwed on tight. She’s in trouble, all right.”
    “Then why didn’t she call Sheriff Haskins? … Ah, I see things.”
    “Things” were a neon sign which read The Quarterdeck and a driveway which led through an avenue of royal palms, past a doorway labeled Gangplank, to a vista of macadam which could have served as the flight deck of an aircraft carrier, but appeared to be used as a parking lot. On this bit of real-estate development were parked Cadillacs, Chryslers, Chevrolets, and cars further along in the