The Saint in Miami by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online Page A

their constitutionals every day. I suppose Hoppy and I might get as much as thirty days up there for boarding your yacht without permission. I just wonder how much of that time you’d really feel like gloating over us.”
    There was nothing very menacing in his voice, certainly nothing frightening about his smile, but Randolph March fingered a wispy blond growth on his upper lip and shot a glance at the girl.
    “Karen, my dear, we may have some trouble with these men,” he said. “Perhaps you’d better go inside.”
    “Oh, please!” she pouted. “This is much too much fun to miss.”
    “That’s the spirit, Karen, darling,” murmured the Saint approvingly. “Don’t ever miss any run. I promise I won’t hurt you, and you may have some laughs.”
    “Damn your impudence!” March sprang up. He was bolder now that the tough-featured captain had arrived. “Don’t talk to her like that!”
    Simon ignored him, and went on: “In fact, darling, if you like tonight’s sample you might call me up tomorrow and well see if we can organise something else.”
    March took a step forward.
    “Damn your impudence,” he began again.
    “You repeat yourself, Randy.” Simon cocked a reproachful eyebrow at him. “Perhaps you’re not feeling very well. Do you have a sour stomach, burning pains, nervous irritability, spots before the eyes, a flannel tongue? Take a dose of March’s Duodenal Balm, and in a few minutes you’ll be mooing like a contented cow … Or do you really want to start something now?”
    It was curious what a subtle spell his lazy confidence could weave. Even with the added odds of the captain’s muscular presence, and the Luger which was really the dominant factor in the scene, there was something about the Saint’s soft-voiced recklessness which made Randolph March’s natural caution reassert itself. His clenched fists relaxed slowly.
    “I don’t have to dirty my hands on anyone like you,” he stated loftily, and half turned. “Captain, call some of the crew and have these men taken away.”
    “You’ll find a couple of your pirates tied up in the store locker,” the Saint told him helpfully. “I had to park them there to keep them out of the way, but you can let them out. You can probably wake up a few others. Bring as many as you can, so it’ll be interesting … And when you call the police, maybe you’d better tell them who they’re sending for. You forgot to be inquisitive about that.”
    “Why should we be?” The captain’s voice had a sudden sharpness.
    Simon smiled at him.
    “The name is Simon Templar-usually known as the Saint.”
    2
    So far as Randolph March was concerned, the announcement was a damp squib. A quick pucker passed across his brows, as if the name struck a faintly familiar note and he was wondering for a moment whether it should have meant more.
    Simon wasn’t sure about the girl Karen. Her glamorous wide-eyed attitude towards March, he felt certain, was nothing but a very polished pose; but whether the pose sprang from stupidity or cunning he had yet to learn. Since events had begun to occur, she had exhibited an unusual degree of detachment and self-control. She had only moved once, in the last few minutes, and that was to refill her champagne glass. Now she sipped it tranquilly, watching the proceedings like a spectator at a play …
    Oddly enough, the captain was the only one who gave a satisfactory response. In pure dimension, it was very slight: it only meant that his Luger moved to definitely favour the arc of fire in which the Saint stood. But to Simon Templar, that in itself was almost enough, even without the stony hardening of the pebbly eyes under the shading peak of the cap. It gave Simon a strange creeping sensation in his spine, as if he had come close to the threshold of discovery that was not yet definite enough to seize …
    “What about it?” said March. “I don’t care what your name is.”
    The captain said: “But I know him, Mr March.