Charteris, Leslie by The Saint In Miami

Author:The Saint In Miami
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2012-09-30T22:28:02.998000+00:00

Epilogue

Simon Templar was watching an errant fly that was trying to gorge itself into a drunken stupor on a

drop of Ron Rey that had been spilled on the polished bar of the Dempsey-Vanderbilt. He seemed to have

been watching it for a long time, and he was a little tired of making bets with himself on how much longer it

would be before it keeled over —or, alternatively, whether it could keep up its ingurgitation until Karen

Leith came. With a final movement of impatience he pushed his glass across to the bartender and

pantomimed to refill; while the fly, which by virture of either heredity or environment must have been a kind

of insect Uniatz, took off across wind and zoomed away with only the slightest detectable wobble in its

course.

Some silent-footed newcomer pulled out the adjoining stool; and the Saint turned, prepared either to

bluff the seventh would-be intruder out of his right to the place, or to put on an expression of long-suffering reproach if it should actually be Karen herself. But he had no chance to do either.

At his side, the lengthy funebrial form of Sheriff Newton Haskins dripped black coat-tails down the

back of his perch. He looked at Simon with a fair rendition of surprise, "Well, dang my eyes! Wheah did you come from, son?"

"I was here first," said the Saint. "If you remember."

The Sheriff's lean jaws champed once on nothing. As though the motion reminded him of an

omission, Haskins drew one hand slowly out of a pocket and bit off a chew from a fresh length of plug.

"Waitin' for someone?" he queried conversationally.

"For youth, beauty, glamour, and red hair." Simon's gaze was cool and impudent. "Maybe you think you fill some of those qualifications, but to tell you the truth I hadn't noticed it."

"Nope," Haskins said. "I guess that wouldn't be me. But they let all sorts o' people in heah. I happened to be out this way huntin' for a dangerous killer. I sorter worked up a thirst, like. 'Newt,' I says, 'what

better place to kill a thirst than in the nearest bar?' So in I comes. I see you heah all alone, so I jest thought you might like some company."

"What a mind-reader you must be," murmured the Saint.

He directed the bartender's attention with his thumb as the fresh drink he had ordered was delivered.

"Bring me a water glass," said Haskins, "an' a bottle o' rye."

He pulled a bowl of pretzels closer, and munched one absently on the port side of his mouth where the

traffic didn't interfere with his other chewing.

"Who was this dangerous killer?" Simon asked. "It sounds quite exciting. Did you catch him?"

"Son—" The Sheriff's mouth was slightly overloaded. He poured half a tumbler of rye into the water glass and tossed it down. "This warn't exackly a killin'. Mo' like wholesale slaughter, you might call it. Then, it warn't exackly in my county, neither."

"Really?" said the Saint politely. "Then where was it?"

"Way down in the Everglades, in a place not even half the conchs down theah could find.

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