going to do it for me-but this is ten times hotter. We can easily fix up the story.”
His face was bright with the autogenous energy of its own enthusiasm. And then, as if a switch had been flipped over, the theatrical lighting was gone. The professional illuнmination which he had picked up somewhere in his career went away from him, and there was only the heavy-boned face that had kicked an independent union together and made it stick.
“Of course,” he said, “there are plenty of people who’d hate to see me make a hit with this idea. One or two of ‘em would go a long ways to wreck it. That’s why I couldn’t try it with anyone but you. I guess you can take care of yourself. But if you’re scared, we can call it off and you won’t get hurt.”
2
SHE WAS EVERYTHING that her voice had promised. Beнyond that, she had golden-brown hair and gray eyes with a sense of humor. She looked as if she could take care of herself without hurting anyone else. She had a slim figure in a navy blue sweater that brought her out in the right places. She was taller than he had expected, incidentally. Long legs and neat ankles.
Simon said: “By the way, what’s your name?”
“Peggy Warden,” she told him. “What now?”
“While the attorneys haggle over my epoch-making conнtract, you’re supposed to introduce me to the writing talent.”
“The third door on the left down the passage,” she said. “Don’t let them get your goat.”
“My goat is in cold storage for the duration,” said the Saint. “See you later.”
He went to the third door down the passage and knocked on it. A voice like that of a hungry wolf bawled “Yeow?” The Saint accepted that as an invitation, and went in.
Two men sat around the single battered desk. Both of them had their feet on it. The desk looked as if it had learned to think nothing of that sort of treatment. The men had an air of proposing that the desk should like it, or else.
One of them was broad and stubby, with a down-turned mouth and hair turning gray. The other was taller and thinнner, with gold-rimmed glasses and a face that looked freshly scrubbed, like the greeting of a Fuller Brush Man. They inнspected the Saint critically while he closed the door behind him, and looked at each other as if their heads pivoted off the same master gear.
“I thought he’d have a machine-gun stuck down his pants leg,” said the gray-haired one.
“They didn’t put the chandelier back in time,” countered the Fuller Brush Man, “or he could swing on it. Or am I thinking of somebody else?”
“Excuse me,” said the Saint gravely. “I’m supposed to be taking an inventory of this circus. Are you the performing seals?”
They looked at each other again, grinned, and stood up to shake hands.
“I’m Vic Lazaroff,” said the gray-haired man. “This is Bob Kendricks. Consider yourself one of us. Sit down and make yourself unhappy.”
“How are you getting on with the epic?” Simon inquired.
“Your life story? Fine. Of course, we’ve had a lot of pracнtice with it. It started off to be a costume piece about Dick Turpin. Then we had to make it fit a soldier of fortune in the International Brigade in Spain. That was when Orlando Flane was getting interested. Then we took it to South America when everyone was on the goodwill rampage. We worked in a lot of stuff that they threw out of one of the Thin Man picнtures, too.”
“Were you ever befriended by a Chinese laundryman when you were a starving orphan in Limehouse?” Kendricks asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Simon confessed. “You see—”
“That’s too bad; because it ties in with a terrific routine where you’re flying for the Chinese Government and the Japs have captured one of the guerrilla chieftains and they’re goнing to have a ceremonial execution, and you find out that this chieftain is the guy who once saved your life with chop suey, and you set out for practically certain death to try and save
His face was bright with the autogenous energy of its own enthusiasm. And then, as if a switch had been flipped over, the theatrical lighting was gone. The professional illuнmination which he had picked up somewhere in his career went away from him, and there was only the heavy-boned face that had kicked an independent union together and made it stick.
“Of course,” he said, “there are plenty of people who’d hate to see me make a hit with this idea. One or two of ‘em would go a long ways to wreck it. That’s why I couldn’t try it with anyone but you. I guess you can take care of yourself. But if you’re scared, we can call it off and you won’t get hurt.”
2
SHE WAS EVERYTHING that her voice had promised. Beнyond that, she had golden-brown hair and gray eyes with a sense of humor. She looked as if she could take care of herself without hurting anyone else. She had a slim figure in a navy blue sweater that brought her out in the right places. She was taller than he had expected, incidentally. Long legs and neat ankles.
Simon said: “By the way, what’s your name?”
“Peggy Warden,” she told him. “What now?”
“While the attorneys haggle over my epoch-making conнtract, you’re supposed to introduce me to the writing talent.”
“The third door on the left down the passage,” she said. “Don’t let them get your goat.”
“My goat is in cold storage for the duration,” said the Saint. “See you later.”
He went to the third door down the passage and knocked on it. A voice like that of a hungry wolf bawled “Yeow?” The Saint accepted that as an invitation, and went in.
Two men sat around the single battered desk. Both of them had their feet on it. The desk looked as if it had learned to think nothing of that sort of treatment. The men had an air of proposing that the desk should like it, or else.
One of them was broad and stubby, with a down-turned mouth and hair turning gray. The other was taller and thinнner, with gold-rimmed glasses and a face that looked freshly scrubbed, like the greeting of a Fuller Brush Man. They inнspected the Saint critically while he closed the door behind him, and looked at each other as if their heads pivoted off the same master gear.
“I thought he’d have a machine-gun stuck down his pants leg,” said the gray-haired one.
“They didn’t put the chandelier back in time,” countered the Fuller Brush Man, “or he could swing on it. Or am I thinking of somebody else?”
“Excuse me,” said the Saint gravely. “I’m supposed to be taking an inventory of this circus. Are you the performing seals?”
They looked at each other again, grinned, and stood up to shake hands.
“I’m Vic Lazaroff,” said the gray-haired man. “This is Bob Kendricks. Consider yourself one of us. Sit down and make yourself unhappy.”
“How are you getting on with the epic?” Simon inquired.
“Your life story? Fine. Of course, we’ve had a lot of pracнtice with it. It started off to be a costume piece about Dick Turpin. Then we had to make it fit a soldier of fortune in the International Brigade in Spain. That was when Orlando Flane was getting interested. Then we took it to South America when everyone was on the goodwill rampage. We worked in a lot of stuff that they threw out of one of the Thin Man picнtures, too.”
“Were you ever befriended by a Chinese laundryman when you were a starving orphan in Limehouse?” Kendricks asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Simon confessed. “You see—”
“That’s too bad; because it ties in with a terrific routine where you’re flying for the Chinese Government and the Japs have captured one of the guerrilla chieftains and they’re goнing to have a ceremonial execution, and you find out that this chieftain is the guy who once saved your life with chop suey, and you set out for practically certain death to try and save
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