The Saint in the Sun by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online

yellow horizontal stripes, which with the help of his oversized sunglasses’ made him look something like a large bumblebee in a field of butterflies-if you could imagine a bumblebee wearing a red and white checkered tam-o’-shanter.
    Besides the ginger-haired young man who had served as mate on the speedboat in the morning, and two of the shapely playthings they had picked up (or two almost indistinguishable chippies off the same block), Sir Jasper’s entourage had been augmented not only by Maureen Herald, who had been privileged to sit on one side of him, but also by a reddish-blonde young woman with a voluptuous authority that made the starlet types look adolescent. As he came closer, Simon recognized the sulky sensual face as that of Dominique Rousse, a French actress whose eminence, some competitors asserted, was based mainly on certain prominences, which contrived to get uncovered in all her pictures on one pretext or another. On her other side was a black-browed heavy-set individual who seemed to be watching and absorbing everything with brooding intensity but to be deliberately withholding any contribution of his own.
    As Simon came within earshot, Undine was saying: “… and rub his nose in it. The banks don’t make any loans on artistic integrity, and a producer who isn’t as tough as a bank better learn to print his own money. I know what I can do for anyone and I figure what they’ve got to do for me to pull their weight in the package, or I’m not interested-“
    He broke off, cigar and goatee cocked challengingly, as the Saint stopped at the table.
    Maureen Herald’s face lighted up momentarily, and then masked itself with a kind of cordial restraint.
    “Oh, hullo, Simon,” she said, and turned smoothly to the others. “This is Mr - Thomas.” The hesitation was barely perceptible. “Sir Jasper Undine. Mr & Mrs Carozza-that is, Dominique Rousse.” The dark withdrawn man, then, was the lush actress’s husband. “I’m afraid I didn’t get all the other names-“
    Undine did not bother to supply them. He stared at the Saint steadily. The impenetrable sunglasses hid his eyes, but at this range it could be seen that his nose was fleshy and his mouth large-lipped and moist.
    He asked brusquely: “Any relation of the Thomas brothers—Ralph and Gerald-the directors?”
    “No,” said the Saint pleasantly.
    “Not an actor?”
    “No.”
    “You can sit down, then. Get him a chair, Wilbert.”
    The carroty young man gave up his own seat and went looking for another. He was the only customer in the place who was wearing a tie, and even a shiny serge jacket as well. They were like symbols of servitude amid the surrounding riot of casual garb, and obviously defined his part in Undine’s retinue.
    “There’s nothing wrong with actors except when they’re trying to get a job, and then there’s a limit to how many you can ‘ave around at the same time,” said Sir Jasper. His origins revealed themselves in his speech more consistently through its intonation and subject matter than by the dropping of H’s, which he did only occasionally. “One day somebody ‘ll make a robot that you just wind up and it says what you put on a tape, and then they can all butter themselves. Get him a drink, Wilbert.”
    “And who would make the tape recording?” Simon inquired mildly.
    “The writers would be glad to do that themselves. They always know ‘ow their precious lines ought to be spoken better than anybody else-don’t they, Lee?”
    The taciturn Carozza, whose profession was thus revealed, gave a tight-lipped smile without answering. Now the Saint remembered having seen his name in print as one of Europe’s avant-garde new dramatists, but was vague about his actual achievements. It was not a sphere in which Simon Templar had more than a superficial interest.
    “These brainy chaps can do anything,” Undine pursued. “Look at him. There’s Dominique, who gets made love to by all the matinée