The Saint on the Spanish Main by Leslie Charteris Page B

evokes in virgin epidermis.
    “Glad to meet you, Mr. Templar.”
His hand was soft and earnestly adhesive.
    “I expect you’d like a drink,” Lucy
Wexall said. “Let’s keep Floyd working.”
    They joined Vosper at the bar wagon, and
after he had started to work on the orders she turned back to the Saint and said: “After this formal service, just make yourself
at home. I’m so glad you could come.”
    “I’m sure Mr. Templar will be
happy,” Vosper said. “He’s a man of the world like I am. We
enjoy Lucy’s food and liquor, and in return we give her the pleasure of
hitting the society columns with our names. A per fectly businesslike
exchange.”
    “That’s progress for you,” Lucy
Wexall said breezily. “In the old days I’d have had a court jester. Now all I get is a professional stinker.”
    “That’s no way to refer to Arthur,”
Vosper said, handing Simon a long cold glass. “For your information,
Templar, Mr. Gresson—Mr. Arthur Granville Gresson—is a
promoter. He has a long history of selling phony oil stock
behind him. He is just about to take Herb Wexall for another sucker; but
since Herb married Lucy he can afford it. Unless you’re sure you can take Janet away
from Reggie, I advise you not to listen to him.”
    Arthur Gresson’s elbow nudged Simon’s ribs.
    “What a character!” he said, almost
proudly.
    “I only give out with facts,”
Vosper said. “My advice to you, Templar, is never be an elephant.
Resist all in ducements. Because when you reach back into that memory,
you will only be laughed at, and the people who should thank you will call you a
stinker.”
    Gresson giggled, deep from his round pink
stomach.
    “Would you like to get in a swim before
lunch?” Lucy Wexall said. “Floyd, show him where he can
change.”
    “A pleasure,” Vosper said,
“And probably a legit imate part of the bargain.”
    He thoughtfully refilled his glass before he
steered Si mon by way of the verandah into the beachward side of
the house, and into a bedroom. He sat on the bed and watched unblinkingly while
Simon stripped down and pulled on the trunks he had brought with him.
    “It must be nice to have the Body
Beautiful,” he ob served. “Of course, in your business it
almost ranks with plant and machinery, doesn’t it?”
    The Saint’s blue eyes twinkled.
    “The main difference,” he agreed goodhumoredly,
“is that if I get a screw loose it may not be so
noticeable.”
    As they were starting back through the living
room, a small birdlike man in a dark and (for the setting outside the broad
picture window) incongruous business suit bustled in by another
door. He had the bright baggy eyes behind rimless glasses, the slack but
fleshless jowls, and the wide tight mouth which may not be common to all
lawyers, bankers, and business executives, but which is certainly found
in very few other vocations; and he was followed by a statuesque brunette
whose severe tailoring failed to disguise an outstanding combination
of curves, who carried a notebook and a sheaf of papers.
    “Herb!” Vosper said. “I want
you to meet Lucy’s latest addition to the menagerie which already contains Astron and me—Mr. Simon
Templar, known as the Saint. Templar—your host, Mr. Wexall.”
    “Pleased to meet you,” said Herbert
Wexall, shaking hands briskly.
    “And this is Pauline Stone,”
Vosper went on, indicat ing the nubile brunette. “The tired business man’s consolation.
Whatever Lucy can’t supply, she can.”
    “How do you do,” said the girl
stoically.
    Her dark eyes lingered momentarily on the
Saint’s torso, and he noticed that her mouth was very full and soft.
    “Going for a swim?” Wexall said, as
if he had heard nothing. “Good. Then I’ll see you at lunch, in a few
minutes.”
    He trotted busily on his way, and Vosper
ushered the Saint to the beach by another flight of steps that led directly
down from the verandah. The house com manded a small half-moon bay, and
both ends of the