Salvage for the Saint by Leslie Charteris Page A

beseeching black button eyes. A little bell fixed to its collar tinkled annoyingly with its every movement, and next to this dangled a solid silver plate that confirmed the spelling of its name— pronounced, of course, exactly like “Fido.” It was her not-so-dear departed husband who had thought up this piece of linguistic tomfoolery and tongue-in-cheek snobbery, and Arabella had once found it amusing enough.
    But at this moment her thoughts were elsewhere than on the dog; and neither were they directly concerned with the departed.
    More with what the departed had left behind.
    Opposite Arabella sat a very large man who had somehow shoe-horned himself into a very small wrought-iron chair. He was large in as many dimensions as the chair was small, with florid features and an unruly mop of greying hair. He was wearing a rather crumpled blue suit and had an attache case balanced precariously on his knees, with a stack of papers balanced still more precariously on top of the case.
    This was Richard Brightly—Brightly Senior of Brightly, Brightly and Smallbody, Solicitors, and he had just told Arabella, twice, slowly, that Charles Tatenor had died broke.
    “I’m sorry.” She blinked groggily. “Charles was what?”
    “Broke.” Brightly riffled through the stack of papers. “Your husband was broke. You are broke. I’m sorry.”
    “Broke? Don’t be ridiculous.” She reached impatiently for the papers. “What are those?”
    Brightly held them out to her.
    “Unpaid bills.”
    Arabella jerked back her hand as if the papers were red hot. Her face had taken on an expression of mingled amazement and indignation which suggested that she was beginning to take the idea seriously. She opened her mouth a couple of times to say something, then gave up the struggle. Sensing its opportunity, the dog scampered up into her lap.
    “Quite,” Brightly said. “But you see, my dear, there really is a butcher, a baker, a—”
    “Wait a minute, now,” Arabella said in a bloodless voice. She put the dog down, less gently than before, and stared hard at the solicitor. “Are you saying just … broke? I mean, you don’t really mean broke-type broke?”
    Brightly inclined his head apologetically.
    “But … !” Arabella spluttered. She gestured around her. “Does this look broke to you?”
    “It looks rented.”
    “Rented? Rented?” she repeated unbelievingly; and then dully: “Rented.”
    “I’m afraid so, my dear. Did Charles really never tell you? But this house, the cars, practically everyth—”
    “Of course he told me,” she interrupted mechanically. “Charles told me everything … What the hell do you mean, rented?”
    The dog risked another assault on her lap. She put it down with a brisk “Get lost, Phaideaux,” and addressed the solicitor again.
    “Charles had income, though. I know he did.”
    Brightly nodded.
    “He paid his debts twice a year, because twice a year he managed to come up with a large sum of cash. From somewhere.”
    “Somewhere?” She shook a murderous finger at the dog, which was preparing to launch itself at her again. “Where?”
    “He’d never say, and I could never learn.”
    “But … this is absolutely ridiculous—”
    Perhaps fortunately, her frustration, bewilderment and anger were interrupted at that moment by the arrival of a filled tea-tray, closely followed by Mrs Cloonan.
    “Do excuse me, Mr Brightly, won’t you, Sir,” she said as she moved in front of him to put the tea things down on a small wrought-iron table that matched the small chair. And then, sympathetically, “I do hope you’re having a nice visit.”
    Brightly could see Arabella gritting her teeth as the housekeeper pottered about and prepared to pour the tea.
    “That’s all right, Mrs Cloonan, I’ll see to that. Thank you.”
    “Thank you, Ma’am.”
    As she turned to go, Arabella called her back in a tight voice.
    “Oh, Mrs Cloonan.”
    The housekeeper turned back by this time aware of the