Leslie Charteris - The Saint in Miami

His voice trailed off, and his gaze settled across the room with an intentness that temporarily wiped every other thought out of his mind.

The head waiter was obsequiously ushering Randolph March and his captain to a table on the other side of the floor.

The orchestra uncorked a fanfare, and the room lighting seemed to become even dingier by contrast as a spotlight splashed across to illuminate a slim-waisted creature who had taken possession of the microphone on the dais. His blond hair was beautifully waved, and he had a smudge under one eye that looked like mascara.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, with an ingratiating lisp, "we are now going to begin our continuous entertainment, which will go on between dances to give you a breathing spell — if you can still breathe. And to start the ball rolling, here is that beautiful baby, Toots Travis."

He stepped back, leading the applause with frightful enthusiasm, and Toots minced forward from a curtained arch on the right of the orchestra. She really was pretty, with a dutch-doll bob and a face to go with it and a figure with rather noticeable curves. She looked about sixteen, and might not have been much more. The orchestra blared into a popular number, and she began to saunter around the floor, waving a palmleaf fan and singing the refrain in a voice which could have been more musical. Much more.

March semaphored boldly across the floor to Karen, and she responded more restrainedly with one hand. He gave no sign of having noticed the Saint's existence. The captain nodded perfunctorily in their direction, and paid no further attention. Simon could hardly see any other course for him. When in a public place one encounters two persons who twentyfour hours ago were kicking one four feet into the air and beating one over the head with an empty bottle as one came down, one can hardly be expected to greet them with effusive geniality. One could, of course, call for the police and make charges; but there had been plenty of time already to do that, and the idea had obviously been discarded. Or one could come over and offer to start again where one left off, but there were social problems to conflict with that, not to mention the discouraging record of past experience.

Toots continued to stroll about after the refrain ended. It began to appear that the needlework in her dress was not of the most enduring kind. Subtly, and it seemed of their own volition, the seams were coming undone. Either because she was unaware of this, or because as a good trouper she bravely refused to interrupt the show, Toots went on circulating over the floor, revealing larger and larger expanses of white skin through the spreading gaps with every pirouette. Mr Uniatz goggled at the performance with breathless admiration.

Simon leaned a little towards Karen.

"Incidentally," he said, without moving his lips, "what is that captain's name?"

"Friede," she told him.

"One of those inappropriate names, I think," murmured the Saint.

He was recalling his first curious impressions about the captain. It had seemed on the March Hare that Friede was far more in command of the situation than March. There had been an aura of cold deadliness about him that the average observer might have overlooked, but that stood out in garish colours to anyone as familiar with dangerous men as the Saint Throughout the episode of the previous night, Friede had never stepped out of line, had never attempted to dominate, had given March every respect and deference. And yet, when Simon looked back on it analytically, Friede had done everything that mattered. All the constructive and dangerous suggestions had come from him, although he had never obtruded himself for a moment. He had simply put words and ideas into March's mouth, but so cleverly that March's echo had taken the authority of an original command. It had been so brilliantly done that Simon had to think back again over the actual literal phrasing of the dialogue, wondering if he was trying to put bones into a wild hallucination. Yet if that irking recollection was right, what other strange factors might there be inside that rather square-shaped cranium, which now that the captain appeared without his cap was revealed as bald as an ostrich egg?

By this time, Toots's disintegrating seams had left nothing but four wide streamers of black lace hanging from her shoulder-straps. With a last revolution of her curvilinear body which spread them like the blades of a propeller, she reached the curtained doorway. The lights dimmed. There was a round of applause, to which Hoppy Uniatz lent his cooperation by thumping his flat hand on the table until it shuddered under the punishment

The music and the spotlight struck up again together. Apparently intoxicated by her success, but at the same time handicapped by the shredding of her gown, Toots compromised by coming back without it. She had nothing now but the palmleaf fan, which being only about twelve inches in diameter was not nearly large enough to cover all the vital scenery. Her valiant attempts to alternate concealments and exposures held the audience properly spellbound.

"Stay where you are," Simon ordered sternly, as Hoppy's chair began to slide away from the table. "Haven't you ever been out before?"

"Chees, boss," said Mr Uniatz bashfully, "I never see nut'n like dis. In New York dey always got sump'n on."

Simon had to acknowledge that the comparison was justified, but he still kept Mr Uniatz in his seat. He was trying to anticipate what the arrival of March and Friede portended. By saying nothing to Haskins about the Saint's felonious activities of the night before they had positively established themselves as asking no favours from the Law, but it was impossible to believe that they had decided to forget the whole thing. Their arrival at the Palmleaf Fan, after Simon had been led there by such a devious trail, had to be more than mere coincidence. And a kind of contented relaxation slid through the Saint's muscles as he realised that by the same portents their personal presence guaranteed that whatever was in the wind was not going to be a waste of anybody's time…

The peregrinations of Toots returned to the curtained doorway as the music drew to a conclusion. She stood weaving the fan with slower provocation through the last bars, scanning the audience as though making a choice. The applause grew wild. Mr Uniatz put two fingers in his mouth and emitted a whistle that pierced the room like a stiletto. The strident sound seemed to settle her selection. With a smile she tossed the fan away in his direction, blew him a kiss, stood posed for an instant in nothing whatsoever, and vanished through the curtain as the spotlight blacked out

The nimble MC tripped back to the microphone.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, just one more sample of what we are offering you tonight. That lovely personality — Vivian Dare!"

Vivian wore a beautifully cut dress of blue tulle, and had a considerably better soprano than Toots.

"You're very quiet," said Karen. "Is the show so absorbing, or are you shocked?"

Simon grinned.

"You may not believe it, but I've been watching Randy most of the time. He seems to like the place."

"It's the sort of place he does like. He could have bought it for the money he spends here."

The Saint nodded. He had already observed the extra attentiveness of waiters around March's table, and deduced that this was by no means a first visit. The attraction seemed to radiate to other quarters as well, for two blondes and a brunette were at that moment happily attaching themselves to the party.

"Did he bring you here much?" Simon asked.

"Often."