Leslie Charteris - The Saint in Miami

"I don't get much pleasure out of life, son," he explained, "and while I'm right respectably married, redheads have always been a weakness of mine. When I get a chance like this, I sorta hesitate to hurry off."

"Then by all means don't hurry," said the Saint hospitably; but his brain tightened into preparedness, tinged with a certain malevolence of which Haskins was the sole beneficiary.

It might well have suited the devious purposes of March and his captain to say nothing about his unconventional visit to the March Hare, but the girl's attitude was much less predictable. By trying to get rid of her during their exchange of backchat the night before, March had suggested that she wasn't entirely in his confidence; but Simon was not yet ready to attribute her prompt response to his invitation to nothing but the fascination which his beauty and charm had been able to exert on her during an interview in which his attention had been mostly elsewhere. She was a very uncertain quantity still, and the Saint wasn't anxious for Haskins to find out about that visit to the March Hare too soon. It was a situation that demanded active management…

Stimulated by the arrival of a lady, Haskins sought a nearby flowerbed and in more or less gentlemanly fashion disposed of his chew. Simon took advantage of the disgorgement to cross the patio alone and greet the girl as she came out.

By night she had been beautiful; but so were many girls whose glamour vanished with the dawn. She was not one of them. Under the sunlight she took on a flaming vividness that matched the heady colours in the courtyard. The setting took her into its composition and framed her with perfect lightness, as if its exotic blooms took life from her and she from them… What the Saint had to do was an attractive task.

"Karen darling!"

His voice was warm and eager. And before she could speak, he had wrapped her in his arms, holding her tightly against him and covering her lips with his own.

"The scarecrow in black's the Sheriff," he said in an urgent sotto-voce, and went on aloud: "This is wonderful! Why haven't I seen you for so many years?"

The first rigidity of her supple body gave him a bad moment. But he had to give her a clue, and this seemed to be the only way. If she still didn't want to play, it was the will of Allah… He kept her in an embrace of iron, and kissed her again for luck.

Her strength was pent up against him; and then suddenly it wasn't. He loosed her, and she smiled, and he felt a breathlessness which could not be wholly put down to the suspense.

"It's lovely to see you, dear." Her voice was cool and self-possessed. "I heard this morning that you were here, and I rushed right over." She turned towards Haskins as he shuffled up. "Why, hullo, Sheriff. I didn't expect to see you again today."

"It's an unexpected pleasure for me, Miss Leith."

"The Sheriff was out on Randy's yacht last night, Simon," she explained quickly. "Oh, I forgot — you don't know Randy, do you? You must meet him. Randolph March. Anyway, he has this yacht, and we were out last night, and a poor boy fell overboard and got drowned, and the Sheriff had to come out and see about it."

Haskins' eyes had a birdlike brightness. "Why, miss," he said, with an air of persuasive surprise, "wasn't it Mr March who told you Mr Templar was heah?"

"Oh, no! Mr March would be frightfully jealous if he knew I'd come here. You will be an old dear and not say a word about it, won't you?" She took his enslavement for granted with a glance of saccharine seduction, and turned away again to twine fingers with the Saint "Sally wrote me from New York."

"I hoped she would," said the Saint happily. The shadow of great gloom fell back over Haskins' face. The brightness went out of his eyes, to be replaced by a look of dour resignation. He said: "Well, folks, I don't like to interrupt the meetin' of old friends. I guess I'll be moseyin' along."

"Won't you even stay for a drink?" Simon invited halfheartedly.

"No, son." Haskins raised his hat to the girl. "You'll have lots of private things to talk about, I'm sure. I'll be seein' you both again 'fore long."

"Bring your bloodhounds," said the Saint, as he escorted the funereal figure towards the house. "Maybe we can put something up a tree."

He watched the Sheriff's departure with mixed feelings. It was a remarkably difficult thing to divine exactly what Mr Haskins was thinking or believing at any given time. He had a disturbing faculty for shaping phrases that could hold as much or as little as the hearer's conscience wanted to read into them.

But there was a much more pleasant, if no less problematical, factor to be dealt with immediately; and Simon Templar temporarily dismissed the less alluring enigma with a shrug as he went back to the patio.

She had sat down on the footrest of a deck chair, and she was using a mirror and lipstick to repair the damage he had done to her mouth. He wondered if she also had felt any of the unaccountable breathlessness which had caught him during the infliction of the damage; but if she had, she was a good dissembler. She made him wait until her full lips were again flawless enough for her satisfaction.

Then she said calmly: "You like very direct methods, don't you?"

"It was the only thing I could think of," he said, matching her for calm. "I didn't know you'd met him, and I had to make sure you wouldn't drop any bricks."

"What made you think I'd respond to your kind of hint?"

"I just hoped."

"You don't hate yourself very much."

"Anyone can hope. But I'm not asking you to excuse me. I'd do the same thing again, even if I knew it was hopeless. I found out it was worth it."

"I'm glad you were satisfied."

She was packing lipstick and mirror carefully back in her bag.

He regarded her thoughtfully, digging a package of cigarettes out of the pocket of his robe.

"Now," he said, "let's ask why you came here."

"You told me to look you up if I wanted some fun," she said innocently. "Well, I've always liked fun. But perhaps our ideas of fun aren't quite the same."

"Did March send you?"

"Did you think I was lying to that Sheriff? March would be mad as hell if he knew I'd been here."

"You lied about that drowned boy." Her eyes were big with ingenuous astonishment. "I only repeated what Randy told me. I suppose the boy just fell overboard and I didn't notice it. Perhaps they didn't want to tell me about it at the time because it would have spoiled the trip. And if it wasn't true, how else could the body have got there?"

Simon tightened his lips on an unlighted cigarette. "You lied about me."

Colour touched her cheeks.

"Wasn't that what you wanted me to do?"

"Of course. But why did you do it?"

"Because I like you."

"How much?"

"Enough."

"So you liked Randy enough, too, before I arrived. And when somebody better than me comes along, I can move back into the same museum. It must be a life full of variety."

"I'm sorry." Her slim fingers drummed on her knee. "If you'd be more at home with a Bible Class, I can always go."

The Saint struck a match.

"I have a sort of weakness," he explained apologetically, "for knowing what's going on. A lot of weird things have been happening lately, and a guy can't be too careful. My dear old grannie always told me that If you really want me to believe that you just came following me in search of fun, I'll be a little gentleman and stop arguing — out loud. But you seemed to be pretty well in with Randy last night, and you may have gathered that there is some unfinished business between him and me. So I'm going to ask a lot of questions about your change of heart, whether you like it or not. On the other hand, if you've got something else on your mind, let's quit stalling and have it out."