The Saint Sees It Through by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online

our
acquaintance should have begun like that.”
    “Think nothing of it, dear wart. Any other time you feel instinctive we’ll try it out again.”
    “Mr. Templar, I’m more sorry than I can
tell you. Because I have a confession to make. I happen to be one of your
greatest admirers. I have read a great deal about you, and I’ve
always thought of you as the ideal exponent of those principles you were referring to. The man who
never hesitated to defy con vention when he
knew he was right. I am as detached about my own encounter with you as if I
were a chemist who had been blown up
while he was experimenting with an explosive. Even at my own expense, I have proved myself right. That is the
scientific attitude.”
    “There should be more of it,” said
the Saint gravely.
    “Mr. Templar, if you could take that
attitude yourself, I wish you would give me the privilege of
meeting you in more normal circumstances.”
    The Saint exhaled a long streamer of smoke
towards the ceiling.
    “I’m kind of busy,” he said.
    “Of course, you would be. Let me see.
This is Thursday. You are probably going away for the weekend.”
    “I might be.”
    “Of course, your plans would be
indefinite. Why don’t we leave it like this? My number is in the telephone book. If by chance you are still in town on Saturday, would
you be gener ous enough to call me? If
you are not too busy, we might have lunch
together. How is that?”
    Simon thought for a moment, and knew that
there was only one answer.
    “Okay,” he said. “I’ll call
you.”
    “I shall be at your disposal.”
    “And by the way,” Simon said
gently, “how did you know my phone number?”
    “Miss Dexter was kind enough to tell me
where you were staying,” said the clipped persuasive voice. “I
called her first, of course, to apologise to her… . Mr. Templar, I shall
enjoy resuming our acquaintance.”
    “I hope you will,” said the Saint.
    He put the handpiece back, and lay stretched
out on his back for a while with his hands clasped behind his head and
his cigarette cocked between his lips, staring uncritically at the opposite
cornice.
    He had several things to think about, and it
was a queer way to be reminded of them—or some of them—item by item, while he was waking himself up and trying to focus his mind on something else.
    He remembered everything about Cookie’s
Cellar, and Cookie, and Dr. Ernst Zellermann, and everything else that
he had to remember; but beyond that there was Avalon Dexter, and with
her the memory went into a strange separateness like a remembered dream,
unreal and incredible and yet sharper than reality and belief. A tawny mane and
straight eyes and soft lips. A voice singing. And a voice saying: “I
was singing for you … the things I fell in love with you for…”
    And saying: “Don’t go… .”
    No, that was the dream, and that hadn’t
happened.
    He dragged the telephone book out from under
the bedside table, and thumbed through it for a number.
    The hotel operator said: “Thank you,
sir.”
    He listened to the burr of dialling.
    Avalon Dexter said: “Hullo.”
    “This is me,” he said.
    “How nice for you.” Her voice was
sleepy, but the warm laughter was still there. “This is me, too,”
    “I dreamed about you,” he said.
    “What happened?”
    “I woke up.”
    “Why don’t you go back to sleep?”
    “I wish I could.”
    “So do I. I dreamed about you, too.”
    “No,” he said. “We were both
dreaming.”
    “I’d still like to go back to sleep.
But creeps keep calling me up.”
    “Like Zellermann, for instance?”
    “Yes. Did he call you?”
    “Sure. Very apologetic. He wants me to
have lunch with him.”
    “He wants us to have lunch with
him.”
    “On those terms, I’ll play.”
    “So will I. But then, why do we have to
have him along?”
    “Because he might pick up the
check.”
    “You’re ridiculous,” she said.
    He heard her yawn. She sounded very snug. He
could almost see her long hair spread