The Saint in Miami by Leslie Charteris Page A

the whole business out yet, Randy, but it certainly does look as if he didn’t really trust you.”
    “For what reason?” March inquired coldly.
    “Well,” said the Saint, “he left this letter I was telling you about. In a sealed envelope. And there was a note with it which gave instructions that if anything happened to him it was to be sent to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
    March sat quite still.
    The girl lighted a cigarette for herself, watching the Saint with intent and luminous eyes.
    March said, in an uneven voice: “Better put your gun away, Captain. It’s nice of Mr Templar to come and tell us this. We ought to know more about it. Perhaps we can clear up some misunderstandings.”
    “Pardon me, sir.” The captain was perfectly deferrential, but he kept his gun exactly where it was. “We should be more certain of Mr Templar first.” He turned his dry stony eyes on the Saint. “Mr Templar, since you seem to be so sure that something has happened to Mr Gilbeck, did you carry out his instructions and mail that letter?”
    Simon allowed his glance to shift with a subtle hint of nervousness.
    “Not yet. But-“
    “Ah, then where is the letter?”
    “I’ve still got it”
    “Where?”
    “At the house.”
    “It would be so much better if you could produce it to Mr March and prove that you’re telling the truth.” The captain’s eyes were as hard and flickerless as agates. “Perhaps you didn’t really leave it at home. Perhaps you still have it with you.”
    He took one step closer.
    The Saint’s left hand stirred involuntarily towards his breast pocket. At least, the movement looked involuntary-a defensive gesture that was checked almost as soon as it began. But the captain saw it, and interpreted it as he was meant to interpret it. He took two more steps, and reached towards the pocket. Which was exactly what Simon had been arranging for him to do.
    A lot of things happened all at once, with the speed and efficiency of a highly specialised juggling routine. They can only be catalogued laboriously here, but their actual sequence was so swift that it defeated the eye.
    The Saint made a half turn and a neat flick of his right wrist which jarred the bubbling contents of his champagne glass squarely into the captain’s eyes. Simultaneously the fingers of the Saint’s left hand closed like spring-steel clamps on the wrist behind the captain’s Luger. Meanwhile, all the unexpected physical agility which justified Hoppy Uniatz’s professional name, and compensated with such liberality for the primeval sluggishness of his intellect, surged into volcanic activity. One of his massive feet swung up from the rear in a dropkick arc which terminated explosively on the base of the captain’s spine; and almost immediately, as if the kick had only been timed to elevate the captain to meet it, the top of the captain’s skull served as a landing field for the whisky bottle for which by this time Mr Uniatz had no further practical use. The captain lay down on the deck in a disinterested manner, and Simon Templar turned his Luger in the direction of Randolph March’s slackly drooping jaw.
    “I’m sorry we can’t stay now,” he murmured. “But I’m afraid your skipper had some unsociable ideas. Also it’s getting to be time for Hoppy’s beauty sleep. But we’ll be seeing you again-especially if Lawrence Gilbeck and Justine don’t show up very soon. Try not to forget that, Randy …”
    His voice was very gentle, but his eyes were no softer than frozen sapphires. And then, as quickly and elusively as it had come, the chill fell away from him as he turned to smile at the girl, who had not moved at all in those last hectic seconds.
    “You’ll remember, won’t you?” he said. “Any time you feel like some more fun, you know where to find me.”
    She didn’t answer, any more than March, but the recollection of her raptly contemplative gaze stayed in his mind all the way home and until he fell