Leslie Charteris - The Saint Sees it Through

"What are you talking about?" Avalon demanded.

"Mr. Prather, I think," said the Saint.

Prather blinked his overblue eyes at Simon.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know what you mean."

"It really doesn't matter," the Saint said. "Let's talk about something else."

He noted that Kay Natello, who had been hovering in the middle distance, took her departure at this point and vanished through the archway at the back. Had there been a signal? If so, he hadn't caught it.

"Mr. Prather," he said, "you must find life quite exhilarating. Contact with the major ports of the world, and all that."

Prather stared, his eyes more lobster-like than usual.

"What are you talking about?"

There was no mistaking the honest bewilderment in the prominent blue eyes, and this gave the Saint pause. According to his ideas on the organization he was bucking, Prather would be one of the key men. Sam Jeffries had substantiated this notion, in his interrupted story to Avalon: "... and there was this guy we had to see in Shanghai."

That fitted in with the whole theory of "Benny sent me." A contact was made here, instructions given, perhaps an advance made. Then the delivery of a package in the Orient or the Near East, which was returned to New York and duly turned over to James Prather or a prototype. All this made sense, made a pattern.

But here was James Prather, obviously bewildered by the plainest kind of a lead. Was the man cleverer than he seemed? Was he putting on an act that could mislead that expert act-detector, the Saint? Or was he honestly in the dark about the Saint's meaning? And if he was, why was he here immediately after a visit from two sailors freshly back from the Orient?

Mr. James Prather, it seemed, was in this picture somewhere, and it behooved the Saint to find out where.

"Well," Simon said, "no matter. We have more important things to do, such as demolishing our— But we have no drinks." He motioned to an aproned individual, who came to the table and assumed an attitude of servility. "Three more of the same. Old Forester."

The waiter took the empty glasses and went away. The Saint turned his most winning smile on Prather.

"I wasn't really shooting in the dark," he said. "But I guess my remarks weren't down the right alley."

"Whatever you say," Prather replied, "I like. You have a good quality of voice. Though I don't see why you should spend any time with me."

"Remember?" Simon asked. "I'm still doing research on Dr. Zellermann."

Prather laughed. "I'd forgotten. Ah, here come our drinks."

The waiter, an individual, like the village blacksmith, with brawny arms, came across the empty dance floor with a tray flattened on one upturned palm. It was obvious to the Saint's practiced eye that the man's whole mental attitude had changed. He had gone away trailing a fretful desire to please; he approached with new-found independence.

He was a stocky individual, broad of shoulder, lean of hip, heavy in the legs. His face was an eccentric oval, bejewelled with small turquoise eyes, crowned with an imposing nose that overhung a mouth of rather magnificent proportions. His chin was a thing of angles, on which you could hang a lantern.

But the principal factor in his changed aspect was his independence. He carried the tray of drinks as though the nearest thing to his heart was the opportunity and reason to toss them into the face of a customer. Not only that, but each of the three glasses was that type known as "old fashioned."

Each glass was short, wide of mouth, broad of base. And in each drink was a slice of orange and a cherry impaled on a toothpick.

"Sorry," said the Saint as the waiter distributed the glasses, "but I ordered highballs, not Old Fashioneds."

"Yeah?" said the waiter. "You trying to make trouble?"

"No. I'm merely trying to get a drink."

"Well, ya act like to me you're tryin' to make trouble. Ya order Old Fashioneds, 'n then ya yell about highballs. What's comin' off here?"

"Nothing," Simon said patiently, "is coming off here. I'm simply trying to get what I ordered."

"Ya realize I'll hafta pay for this, don't ya?" the waiter demanded.

"I'll pay for them," Simon said in the same gentle voice. "If you made a mistake, it won't cost you anything. Just bring us three Old Foresters — highballs."

"And what's gonna happen to these drinks?"

"That," the Saint said, "I don't know. You may rub them into the bartender's hair, for all of me."

The waiter lifted his lip.

"Lissen, the bartender's my brother-in-law."

The Saint's lips tightened.

"Then rub them into his back. Will you get our drinks?"

The waiter stared sullenly for a moment.

"Well, all right. But no more cracks about my brother-in-law, see?"

He went away. The Saint watched him for a moment, decided against any action. His attention drifted from the waiter to the Pairfield murals.

"It's an odd mind," he remarked, "that can contrive such unattractive innovations in the female form divine." He indicated a large sprawling figure on the far wall. "Take Gertie over there. Even if her hips did have Alemite lubrication points all over them, is it quite fair to let the whole world in on her secret?"

"What I like," Avalon said, "is the hedge for hair. That penthouse effect throws me."

"I'm sorry," James Prather said, "but I feel a little uncomfortable looking at those designs. This one over here, with each lock of hair ending in a hangman's knot. I—"

He broke off, with an ineffectual gesture with his pale hands.

"The poor man's Dali," murmured the Saint. "Here come our — what are those drinks?"

They were pale green, in tall flared glasses, each with a twist of lime peel floating near the top.

The Saint repeated his question to the sullen waiter.

"Lissen," that character said. "I got no time to be runnin' back and forth for you. These here are Queen Georgianas, 'n if you don't want 'em, run 'em in your — " He glanced at Avalon, colored. " — well, rub 'em."

"But I ordered," the Saint said very patiently, "Old Foresters. Highballs."

" 'N if you're gonna be fussy," the waiter said, "you're lucky to get anything. Wait a minute. Here comes the manager."

The manager was thin, dapper, and dark, like George Raft in his halcyon days. He strode up to the table, took in the situation with an expressionless look of his dark eyes, and turned them on the Saint.

"Yes?" he said.

"Whom do you have to know here?" Simon inquired. "I've been trying to get some bourbon for about thirty minutes."

"Why don't you ask for it then?" suggested the manager.

"Look," Simon said. "I don't mind buying your watered drinks at about three times the normal prices. All I want is the right flavor in the water. I do not want Queen Georgian as, or Old Fashioneds. I want Old Forester. It's a simple thing. All the waiter does is remember the order until he gets back to the bar. I'll write it out for him if he has a defective memory."

"Nothin's wrong with my memory," the waiter growled. "Maybe you'd like these drinks in your puss, smart guy. You asked for Queen Georgianas, and you're gonna take 'em."

Simon clenched his hands under the rim of the table.

"Believe me," he said earnestly, "the last desire I have is to cause difficulty. If I must take these obscenities, I'll take them. But will you please, please get us a round of bourbon highballs?"

"Why don't you go away, if the service doesn't please you?" asked the George Raft manager.

"The service," the Saint said, "leaves nothing to be desired, except everything."

"Then why don't you just go away?" asked the manager.

The Saint decided to be stubborn.

"Why?"

"No reason," the manager said. "We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone. Our sign says so."