The Saint Sees It Through by Leslie Charteris Page A

like. You have a good quality of voice.
Though I don’t see why you should spend any time with me.”
    “Remember?” Simon asked. “I’m still doing research on Dr. Zellermann.”
    Prather
laughed. “I’d forgotten. Ah, here come our drinks.”
    The waiter, an individual, like the village
blacksmith, with brawny arms, came across the empty dance floor with a tray flattened
on one upturned palm. It was obvious to the Saint’s practiced eye that the
man’s whole mental attitude had changed. He had gone away trailing a fretful desire
to please; he ap proached with new-found
independence.
    He was a stocky individual, broad of shoulder, lean of hip, heavy in the legs. His face was an eccentric oval,
bejewelled with small turquoise
eyes, crowned with an imposing nose that overhung a mouth of rather
magnificent proportions. His chin was a
thing of angles, on which you could hang a lantern.
    But the principal factor in his changed
aspect was his inde pendence.
He carried the tray of drinks as though the nearest thing to his heart was the
opportunity and reason to toss them into the
face of a customer. Not only that, but each of the three glasses was that type known as “old
fashioned.”
    Each glass was short, wide of mouth, broad
of base. And in each drink was a slice of orange and a cherry impaled on
a tooth pick.
    “Sorry,” said the Saint as the waiter distributed the
glasses, “but I ordered highballs, not
Old Fashioneds.”
    “Yeah?”
said the waiter. “You trying to make trouble?”
    “No.
I’m merely trying to get a drink.”
    “Well,
ya act like to me you’re tryin’ to make trouble. Ya order Old Fashioneds,
‘n then ya yell about highballs. What’s comin’ off
here?”
    “Nothing,” Simon said patiently,
“is coming off here. I’m simply trying to get what I ordered.”
    “Ya realize I’ll hafta pay for this,
don’t ya?” the waiter de manded.
    “I’ll pay for them,” Simon said in the same gentle
voice. “If you made a mistake, it won’t cost you anything. Just bring us
three Old Foresters—highballs.”
    “And
what’s gonna happen to these drinks?”
    “That,” the Saint said, “I
don’t know. You may rub them into the bartender’s hair, for all of me.”
    The waiter
lifted his lip.
    “Lissen,
the bartender’s my brother-in-law.”
    The
Saint’s lips tightened.
    “Then
rub them into his back. Will you get our drinks?”
    The waiter
stared sullenly for a moment.
    “Well, all right. But no more cracks
about my brother-in-law, see?”
    He went away. The Saint watched him for a
moment, de cided against any action. His attention drifted from the
waiter to the Pairfield murals.
    “It’s an odd mind,” he remarked,
“that can contrive such unattractive innovations in the female form divine.” He indi cated a large sprawling figure on the far wall.
“Take Gertie over there. Even
if her hips did have Alemite lubrication points all over them, is it quite fair
to let the whole world in on her secret?”
    “What I like,” Avalon said, “is the hedge for hair.
That penthouse effect throws me.”
    “I’m sorry,” James Prather said,
“but I feel a little uncom fortable
looking at those designs. This one over here, with each lock of hair ending in a hangman’s knot. I—— ”
    He broke
off, with an ineffectual gesture with his pale hands.
    “The poor man’s Dali,” murmured
the Saint. “Here come our —what are those drinks?”
    They were pale green, in tall flared
glasses, each with a twist of lime peel floating near the top.
    The Saint
repeated his question to the sullen waiter.
    “Lissen,” that character said.
“I got no time to be runnin’ back and forth for you. These here
are Queen Georgianas, ‘n if you don’t want ‘em, run ‘em in your—” He
glanced at Avalon, colored. “—well, rub ‘em.”
    “But I ordered,” the Saint said very
patiently, “Old Forest ers. Highballs.”
    ” ‘N if you’re gonna be fussy,” the waiter Said,
“you’re