Аннотация
HAD it not been for the fire, Simon Templar, much better known to both the police and the underworld as "The Saint," might really have enjoyed a long vacation and the exquisite pleasure which he always found in the company of Patricia Holm. But there was the fire.
The whole lawn was lit up by it like a stage set. The massive old mansion was one huge gust of flames, climbing like wind ripped banners toward the roof. Figures in a grotesque assortment of undress were running about with the erratic wildness of flushed rabbits. When The Saint arrived, he took in the whole affair with a glance, including the luscious, transparently-clad figure of Lady Valerie Woodchester. She was shouting shrilly: "No! They aren't all here! John isn't here! Where's Johnny?" The Saint raced across the lawn and into the hall. Fighting his way through that scorching hell, The Saint reached the landing and the door to Johnny Kennet's room. It was locked, on the outside.
The fire left no evidence, but The Saint knew there had been a murder, committed deliberately. He set out to find out about that murder. Before he was through he had come closer to death than ever before in his adventurous career and, for once, he risked his life for charity and the cause of democracy while someone else got the boodle.
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