Saint Errant by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online Page B

alphabet, all with gleaming paint jobs and, as far as could be seen in the advertisable moon light, good tires.
    In case any patron might be arriving without a perfectly clean conception of the atmospheric motif of the joint, the requisite keynote was struck immediately by the resplendent personage who advanced to greet them as they pulled up alongside the “gangplank.”
    “Get a load of the Admiral,” Simon observed, as he set the hand brake.
    The “Admiral” was one to arouse exclamations. He had more gold braid than an Arabian-nights tapestry, his epaulets raised his shoulder height three inches, his cocked hat probably had John Paul Jones spinning in his grave, and the boots were masterpieces of dully gleaming leather. His face was square, and hearty and red as fresh beefsteak.
    He eyed the Saint and Patricia, resplendent in evening dress, with limited approbation.
    “Ahoy there!” he hailed them, in a restrained bellow. “Have you arranged for your moorings?”
    “If by that corny seagoing salutation you mean do we have reservations,” the Saint replied, “no. We do not.”
    “Then I’m sorry, skipper,” the admiral boomed. “You can’t drop anchor.”
    “But, Admiral,” Pat said, “we drove all the way from-“
    “Very sorry, miss. But the harbor’s overcrowded already.”
    “This is Patricia Holm,” the Saint said, “and I am Simon Templar.”
    “Sorry, sir, but it doesn’t matter if-” The man gulped, and peered at them more closely. “Templar, did you say?”
    “Yes, Simon Templar.”
    The Admiral removed his hat, mopped at his pink forehead.
    “Whew! That was a shot across the bow. I’ve heard about you, Mr-er-Sss-“
    “Call him Saint,” said Patricia. “He likes it.”
    “But I still can’t let you in the Quarterdeck, sir.”
    “You aren’t letting us,” the Saint said gently. “But you aren’t stopping us, either.”
    “I wouldn’t want to cause any unpleasantness, sir, but– “
    “No,” the Saint agreed, not so gently. “I wouldn’t, if I were you. It might be more unpleasant for you than you’d bargained for. Now if you’ll just slip anchor and drift to the northwest a trifle-“
    “For another thing,” Pat put in, “we were invited here.”
    The Admiral removed his uneasy eyes from the Saint’s blue stare. His face broke into a mass of uplifting wrinkles.
    “Invited?” he said genially. “Why didn’t you say so?”
    “You didn’t ask,” the Saint said. “Mrs Verity asked us to join her.”
    This name impressed the admiral. His eyes widened.
    “Mrs Verity? Then come aboard!”
    “We intended to,” the Saint said. “Ready, Pat?”
    “Aye, aye, sir. Boarding party, forward.”
    The Admiral fawned on the Saint more than befitted his dignified dress.
    “I hope you’ll pardon me, sir, for- Oh!” Somehow, his hand was convenient for the Saint to reach. His white glove closed around what the Saint put there. “Thank you, sir!”
    Simon took the girl’s arm and steered her along a short companionway, brass-railed on either side, to a doorway which bore a small brass plate: LOUNGE.
    The big room fanned out to impressive dimensions in three directions; but it was stocked with enough tables and patrons to avert any impression of bleakness.
    On the tables were numbers in patterns, pertaining to dice, roulette, and faro. On the feminine patrons were the fewest glittering scraps permitted by current conventions. Bare backs and white ties made a milling chiaroscuro backgrounded by hushed murmurs and the plastic chink of chips.
    The cash customers, in fact, were the only discrepancy in an otherwise desperately consistent decor. The roulette wheels were set in a frame intended to be a ship’s wheel. The crap table was a lifeboat, its deck the playing surface. Everywhere was the motif of the sea, polished and brazen. Waiters were dressed as stewards, with “Quarterdeck” embroidered on their gleaming jackets. The cigarette girl was dressed in white