Señor Saint by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online

trick to doing business with these South American governments. Now I can vouch for it. You’ve just got to know the right people-and I don’t know them. That seems to be the end of it.”
    The Saint was not making any effort to eavesdrop, but he didn’t have to. The restaurant was quiet, and they were talking in clear normal voices, as if they were confident in the security of speaking a foreign language; but that very contrast made it easier for him to separate their conversation from the background tones of Spanish.
    The waiter brought him another snifter of Rémy Martin, with the parting compliments of Captain Xavier, and went on to deliver two Martinis across the room. Simon gazed innocently into space, and let his ears receive what came to them.
    “What an incredible hard-luck story it is,” the husband said glumly. “First I get a contract to supply all those rifles and machine-guns to Iran-over the heads of all the big arms companies. Then I pull all the strings in Washington to get an export permit, which everyone said couldn’t be done. Then I manage to charter a boat to carry them, which isn’t so easy these days. And then, two days after the boat sails, they have a revolution in Iran and the new government cancels the order!”
    “And you’ve paid for the guns, haven’t you? Your money’s tied up.”
    “It sure is. But I wasn’t worried until now. I’d gotten them legally out of the States, so I could still sell them anywhere in the world where I could find a buyer. And I thought Mexico would be a cinch. Their Army equipment is nearly all out of date anyhow. And yet I can’t even get to talk to anyone. I’ve got fifty thousand late-model rifles and five thousand machine-guns cruising around the Caribbean, with five million rounds of ammunition-and nobody seems to want ‘em!”
    It should be recorded as a major testimonial to Simon Templar’s phenomenal self-control that for an appreciable time he did not move a muscle. But he felt as unreal as if he had been sitting still in the midst of an earthquake. It required a conscious adjustment for him to realize that the seismic shock he experienced was purely subjective, that the mutter of other voices around had not changed key or missed a beat, that the ceiling had not fallen in and all the glassware shattered in one cataclysmic crash.
    But nothing of the sort had happened. Nothing at all. Of course not.
    “It’s not your fault, Sherm,” the wife was saying. “You’ll just have to try somewhere else. There are plenty of other countries, and I’ve always wanted to see them.”
    “I don’t know what’d make it better anywhere else. I guess I don’t know the right way to approach these people.”
    It began to dawn on the Saint that his continued immobility could eventually become as conspicuous, to a watchful eye, as if he had jumped out of his skin.
    With infinite casualness, he removed a length of ash from his cigarette, and inhaled with heroic moderation.
    Then he lifted his brandy glass, and let his eyes wander across the room.
    The Enriquez brothers were watching the American couple too, and their expression made him think of a couple of Walt Disney wolves discovering a hole in the fence of a sheep corral.
    “For two cents,” said the husband morosely, “I’d start looking around for someone who wants to organize a revolution here, and offer to sell him the guns. It might do me a lot more good.”
    Manuel Enriquez spoke earnestly to Pablo, and Pablo nodded vehemently.
    Manuel stood up and approached the adjacent table.
    “Please excuse me,” he said in good English, “but I could not help hearing what you were saying.”
    The couple exchanged guilty glances, but Manuel smiled reassuringly.
    “I appreciate your problem. As you said, it is important to know the right people. I believe my brother and I could help you.”
    “Gosh,” said the husband. “That sounds wonderful! Are you serious?”
    “Absolutely. May I introduce