Saint Errant by Leslie Charteris Page A

rail.
    “Could a motorboat do that?” Pat asked.
    “No, darling. Come on.”
    “About your drinks, sir-“
    “Don’t put any cherries in them,” said the Saint.
    He sped down a winding path to the deeply shadowed little grove of trees, white with blossoms that were like wax in the moonlight; and Patricia was only a stride behind him.
    It took no searching at all to find the body. It lay sprawled under a tree, half in shadow, staring upward with glazed eyes that would never see again. It was-had been-Lida Verity. She hold an automatic pistol in one hand, and under the swell of her left breast was a small dark hole and a spreading stain.
    The Saint made a brief examination, and knew while he did it that he was only deferring to a conventional routine. There was no doubt now that Linda Verity had had reason to call him, and the line of his mouth was soured by the recollection of his earlier flippancy.
    He knew that Patricia was only obeying the same inescapable conventions when she said: “Simon-is she-“
    He nodded.
    “Now she isn’t scared any more.”
    Lida Verity had lived-gaily, indifferently, passionately, thoughtfully, frantically. Her life had echoed with the tinkle of champagne glasses, Mendelssohn’s solemnity, the purr of sleek motors, the chatter of roulette frets, before the final sound of a gun in the night had changed the tense of the declarative sentence “I am.”
    The Saint stood quietly summarizing the available data: the body, the wound, the gun, the time, the place. And as he stood, with Patricia wordless beside him, a whisper of footsteps announced the coming of Esteban.
    Simon’s eyes hardened as they moved up the proprietor of that palace of chance in which only the guests took the chance.
    “Welcome to the wake, comrade,” he said coldly.
    Esteban looked over the situation. His expression was impassive, yet his dark eyes were sharp as he added the factors and came up with an answer.
    “The waiter told me there was some trouble,” he said, exactly like one of his headwaiters dealing with some trivial com plaint. “You found her-like this?”
    “We did.”
    “Is she-“
    “You’ve lost your place in the script,” Simon said patiently. “We’ve already read that line.”
    “I am sorry,” Esteban said bloodlessly. “She was a lovely lady.”
    “Somebody didn’t share your opinion,” the Saint said.
    The words hung in the quiet night, as if they were three-dimensional, to be touched, and turned, and examined. The pause lengthened while the Saint lighted a cigarette without taking his eyes off Esteban. His meaning seemed to materialize slowly during the silence.
    “But-” Esteban gestured at the body, face upward, black hair glinting in the wash of moonlight. “The gun is in her hand. Surely you cannot mean-“
    “She was murdered.”
    “But that is impossible!” Esteban protested. “It is so obvious, Mr Templar. It is suicide.”
    “Lida wouldn’t have killed herself!” Patricia said hotly. “She was so-so alive. She wouldn’t, I tell you!”
    “Madame,” Esteban said sadly, “you do not know. She lose much money tonight at the gaming table. Perhaps more than she should.”
    “How much?” Simon asked bluntly.
    Esteban shrugged.
    “We do not keep accounts. She buy many chips for the roulette table.”
    “A few minutes ago you thought ‘perhaps’ she had been losing at blackjack. Now you seem to know different.”
    Esteban’s shoulders rose another inch.
    “You ask me to find out. I accommodate you. And now I go call the sheriff. I must ask you not to disturb anything.”
    “I think,” the Saint said softly, “that before the evening is out we shall disturb many things, my friend.”
    Esteban went back up the path, and the Saint took Patricia’s arm and led her off at a tangent to pass around the out side of the building. He had several more questions to ask, and he thought he knew where to start asking them.
    In front of the club, the Admiral was