said: “Hello. This is
Mrs. Wexall’s house, is it?”
The girl said “Yes,” and he said:
“My name’s Templar, and I was invited here.”
The girl jumped up and said: “Oh, yes.
Lucy told me. I’m her sister, Janet Blaise. This is my fianc é , Reg Herrick . And Mr. Vosper.”
Simon shook hands with the two men, and Janet
said: “I think Lucy’s on the beach. I’ll take you around.”
Vosper unwound his bony length from the long
chair, looking like a slightly dissolute and acidulated mahatma in his
white shorts and burnt chocolate tan.
“Let me do it,” he said. “I’m
sure you two ingenues would rather be alone together. And I need another drink.”
He led the way, not into the house but around it, by a flagged path which struck off to the side and
mean dered through a bower of scarlet
poinciana. A breeze rustled in the
leaves and mixed flower scents with the sweetness of the sea. Vosper smoothed
down his sparse gray hair; and Simon
was aware that the man’s beady eyes
and sharp thin nose were cocked towards him with brash speculation, as if he
were already measuring an other
target for his tongue.
“Templar,” he said. “Of
course, you must be the Saint—the fellow they call the Robin Hood of
modern crime.”
“I see you read the right papers,”
said the Saint pleasantly.
“I read all the papers,” Vosper
said, “in order to keep in touch with the vagaries of vulgar taste. I’ve
often wondered why the Robin Hood legend should have so much
romantic appeal. Robin Hood, as I understand it, was a bandit who
indulged in some well-publicized char ity—but not, as I recall, at the
expense of his own stom ach. A good many unscrupulous promoters have
also become generous—and with as much shrewd publicity —when their
ill-gotten gains exceeded their personal spending capacity,
but I don’t remember that they suc ceeded in being glamorized for
it.”
“There may be some difference,”
Simon suggested, “in who was robbed to provide the surplus spoils.”
“Then,” Volper said challengingly,
“you consider yourself an infallible judge of who should be penalized and who should be
rewarded.”
“Oh, no,” said the Saint modestly. “Not at all. No more, I’m sure, than you would call yourself the
in fallible judge of all the people
that you dissect so de finitively in
print.”
He felt the other’s probing glance stab at
him suspi ciously and almost with puzzled incredulity, as if
Vosper couldn’t quite accept the idea that anyone had actually dared to cross
swords with him, and moreover might have scored at least even on the
riposte—or if it had happened at all, that it had been anything
but a semantic accident.
But the Saint’s easily inscrutable poise gave no
clue to the answer at all; and before anything further could develop
there was a paragraphic dis traction.
This took the form of a man seated on top of
a trun cated
column which for reasons best known to the architect
had been incorporated into the design of a wall which curved out from the house
to encircle a portion of the shore like a possessive arm. The man had long
curly hair that fell to his
shoulders, which with his delicate ascetic
features would have made him look more like a woman if it had not been complemented with an equally curly and silken beard. He sat crosslegged and
upright, his hands folded
symmetrically in his lap, staring straight
out into the blue sky a little above the horizon, so motionless and almost rigid that he might
easily have been taken for a tinted
statue except for the fluttering of the
long flowing white robe he wore.
After rolling with the first reasonable shock
of the apparition, Simon would have passed on politely without comment,
but the opportunity was irresistible for Vosper to display
his virtuosity again, and perhaps also to recover from his
momentary confusion.
“That fugitive from a Turkish
bath,” Vosper said, in the manner of a tired guide to a geek show,
“calls him self
Mrs. Wexall’s house, is it?”
The girl said “Yes,” and he said:
“My name’s Templar, and I was invited here.”
The girl jumped up and said: “Oh, yes.
Lucy told me. I’m her sister, Janet Blaise. This is my fianc é , Reg Herrick . And Mr. Vosper.”
Simon shook hands with the two men, and Janet
said: “I think Lucy’s on the beach. I’ll take you around.”
Vosper unwound his bony length from the long
chair, looking like a slightly dissolute and acidulated mahatma in his
white shorts and burnt chocolate tan.
“Let me do it,” he said. “I’m
sure you two ingenues would rather be alone together. And I need another drink.”
He led the way, not into the house but around it, by a flagged path which struck off to the side and
mean dered through a bower of scarlet
poinciana. A breeze rustled in the
leaves and mixed flower scents with the sweetness of the sea. Vosper smoothed
down his sparse gray hair; and Simon
was aware that the man’s beady eyes
and sharp thin nose were cocked towards him with brash speculation, as if he
were already measuring an other
target for his tongue.
“Templar,” he said. “Of
course, you must be the Saint—the fellow they call the Robin Hood of
modern crime.”
“I see you read the right papers,”
said the Saint pleasantly.
“I read all the papers,” Vosper
said, “in order to keep in touch with the vagaries of vulgar taste. I’ve
often wondered why the Robin Hood legend should have so much
romantic appeal. Robin Hood, as I understand it, was a bandit who
indulged in some well-publicized char ity—but not, as I recall, at the
expense of his own stom ach. A good many unscrupulous promoters have
also become generous—and with as much shrewd publicity —when their
ill-gotten gains exceeded their personal spending capacity,
but I don’t remember that they suc ceeded in being glamorized for
it.”
“There may be some difference,”
Simon suggested, “in who was robbed to provide the surplus spoils.”
“Then,” Volper said challengingly,
“you consider yourself an infallible judge of who should be penalized and who should be
rewarded.”
“Oh, no,” said the Saint modestly. “Not at all. No more, I’m sure, than you would call yourself the
in fallible judge of all the people
that you dissect so de finitively in
print.”
He felt the other’s probing glance stab at
him suspi ciously and almost with puzzled incredulity, as if
Vosper couldn’t quite accept the idea that anyone had actually dared to cross
swords with him, and moreover might have scored at least even on the
riposte—or if it had happened at all, that it had been anything
but a semantic accident.
But the Saint’s easily inscrutable poise gave no
clue to the answer at all; and before anything further could develop
there was a paragraphic dis traction.
This took the form of a man seated on top of
a trun cated
column which for reasons best known to the architect
had been incorporated into the design of a wall which curved out from the house
to encircle a portion of the shore like a possessive arm. The man had long
curly hair that fell to his
shoulders, which with his delicate ascetic
features would have made him look more like a woman if it had not been complemented with an equally curly and silken beard. He sat crosslegged and
upright, his hands folded
symmetrically in his lap, staring straight
out into the blue sky a little above the horizon, so motionless and almost rigid that he might
easily have been taken for a tinted
statue except for the fluttering of the
long flowing white robe he wore.
After rolling with the first reasonable shock
of the apparition, Simon would have passed on politely without comment,
but the opportunity was irresistible for Vosper to display
his virtuosity again, and perhaps also to recover from his
momentary confusion.
“That fugitive from a Turkish
bath,” Vosper said, in the manner of a tired guide to a geek show,
“calls him self