“Kearney was pretty nice about you, wasn’t he?” said Patricia at last.
“He’s not a bad guy,” Simon agreed. “And he’s got something to thank me for. Getting the real blackmailers ought to be worth more to him than trying to hang a shaky rap on me... Of course, it started to be obvious as soon as Iris showed up as a connecting link. It would have been too much for her to imitate my voice, but the only thing left was to identify her stooge. It occurred to me at once that we couldn’t rely on Stratford Keane’s definition of Belden. A ham like Keane wouldn’t know the difference between one vaudeville performer and another, but I’ll bet Belden wasn’t a hoofer. I’ll bet he was one of those dreadful acts which start, ‘I would like to give you my impression of...’ I always wanted to see something unpleasant happen to that kind of artist, but I never hoped I should have the chance to arrange it.”
There was a further silence.
“Now,” said Patricia with difficulty, “I suppose you’re only waiting to tell me that you knew all along I wouldn’t shake Kearney off.”
“I was betting on it,” said the Saint blandly. “And I owe you a lot for your co-operation.” He turned and hailed a passing taxi. “However, I shall let Rick the Barber contribute to your reward. Things may not be too happy for him when Iris blows her top, as she probably will, and I think Rick ought to pay us quite well for a tip-off.”
Lida
The moon was a paste-up job. True, it had come up dripping out of the sea two hours before, but now it hung in the Florida sky like a cut-out from golden paper, and looked down with a bland open countenance on the denizens of Miami Beach and all the visiting firemen therein.
Including wives whose husbands were busy in their offices from Chicago to Boston providing the wherewithal for their help-meets to fritter around; certain characters who went around with thousand-dollar bills in their pockets but never paid any income tax; touts, pimps, and prostitutes; hopeful gents and girls who felt that one more throw of the dice would get them even with the board again, and Simon Templar and Patricia Holm.
Simon, known as the Saint in varying degrees of love, hate, and envy, lounged behind the wheel of a long low convertible, and pushed that rented job up Collins Avenue at ten miles more than the law allowed. Patricia, her golden head making the moon look like a polished penny, sat easily beside him.
“Simon,” she said, “look at that moon. It can’t be real.”
“Strictly a prop, Pat,” the Saint said. “The president of the Chamber of Commerce hangs it up each night.”
“If you had any romance in what you call your soul,” Patricia complained, “you’d admit it was pretty lush.”
“And when we get to the Quarterdeck Club, the atmosphere will be even lusher.”
After a contemplative silence, the girl said, “There must be something beyond that, Simon — something that scared Lida Verity half out of her mind. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been so desperate on the phone.”
“You know her better than I do. Is she the hysterical type?”
“Not even in the Greek meaning of the word,” Pat said. “She’s a swell gal. Nice family, nice husband in the Navy, plenty of money, and she has her head screwed on tight. She’s in trouble, all right.”
“Then why didn’t she call Sheriff Haskins?... Ah, I see things.”
“Things” were a neon sign which read “The Quarterdeck” and a driveway which led through an avenue of royal palms, past a doorway labeled “Gangplank,” to a vista of macadam which could have served as the flight deck of an aircraft carrier, but appeared to be used as a parking lot. On this bit of real-estate development were parked Cadillacs, Chryslers, Chevrolets, and cars further along in the alphabet, all with gleaming paint jobs and, as far as could be seen in the advertisable moonlight, good tires.
In case any patron might be arriving without a perfectly clean conception of the atmospheric motif of the joint, the requisite keynote was struck immediately by the resplendent personage who advanced to greet them as they pulled up alongside the “gangplank.”
“Get a load of the Admiral,” Simon observed, as he set the hand brake.
The “Admiral” was one to arouse exclamations. He had more gold braid than an Arabian-nights tapestry, his epaulets raised his shoulder height three inches, his cocked hat probably had John Paul Jones spinning in his grave, and the boots were masterpieces of dully gleaming leather. His face was square, and hearty and red as fresh beefsteak.
He eyed the Saint and Patricia, resplendent in evening dress, with limited approbation.
“Ahoy there!” he hailed them, in a restrained bellow. “Have you arranged for your moorings?”
“If by that corny seagoing salutation you mean do we have reservations,” the Saint replied, “no. We do not.”
“Then I’m sorry, skipper,” the admiral boomed. “You can’t drop anchor.”
“But, Admiral,” Pat said, “we drove all the way from—”
“Very sorry, miss. But the harbor’s overcrowded already.”
“This is Patricia Holm,” the Saint said, “and I am Simon Templar.”
“Sorry, sir, but it doesn’t matter if—” The man gulped, and peered at them more closely. “Templar, did you say?”
“Yes, Simon Templar.”
The Admiral removed his hat, mopped at his pink forehead.
“Whew! That was a shot across the bow. I’ve heard about you, Mr... er... Sss...”
“Call him Saint,” said Patricia. “He likes it.”
“But I still can’t let you in the Quarterdeck, sir.”
“You aren’t letting us,” the Saint said gently. “But you aren’t stopping us, either.”
“I wouldn’t want to cause any unpleasantness, sir, but—”
“No,” the Saint agreed, not so gently. “I wouldn’t, if I were you. It might be more unpleasant for you than you’d bargained for. Now if you’ll just slip anchor and drift to the northwest a trifle—”
“For another thing,” Pat put in, “we were invited here.”
The Admiral removed his uneasy eyes from the Saint’s blue stare. His face broke into a mass of uplifting wrinkles.
“Invited?” he said genially. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“You didn’t ask,” the Saint said. “Mrs Verity asked us to join her.”
This name impressed the Admiral. His eyes widened.
“Mrs Verity? Then come aboard!”
“We intended to,” the Saint said. “Ready, Pat?”
“Aye, aye, sir. Boarding party, forward.”
The Admiral fawned on the Saint more than befitted his dignified dress.
“I hope you’ll pardon me, sir, for — Oh!” Somehow, his hand was convenient for the Saint to reach. His white glove closed around what the Saint put there. “Thank you, sir!”
Simon took the girl’s arm and steered her along a short companionway, brass-railed on either side, to a doorway which bore a small brass plate: “Lounge.”
The big room fanned out to impressive dimensions in three directions, but it was stocked with enough tables and patrons to avert any impression of bleakness.
On the tables were numbers in patterns, pertaining to dice, roulette, and faro. On the feminine patrons were the fewest glittering scraps permitted by current conventions. Bare backs and white ties made a milling chiaroscuro backgrounded by hushed murmurs and the plastic chink of chips.
The cash customers, in fact, were the only discrepancy in an otherwise desperately consistent decor. The roulette wheels were set in a frame intended to be a ship’s wheel. The crap table was a lifeboat, its deck the playing surface. Everywhere was the motif of the sea, polished and brazen. Waiters were dressed as stewards, with “Quarterdeck” embroidered on their gleaming jackets. The cigarette girl was dressed in white shorts, a sailor’s cap, and two narrow straps that crossed over her pneumatic bosom. The croupiers wore three-cornered hats emblazoned, aptly, with the Jolly Roger.