The Saint in London (The Saint Series) by Charteris Leslie

Author:Charteris, Leslie [Charteris, Leslie]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2014-03-17T16:00:00+00:00

8

“Say,” pleaded Mr Uniatz bashfully, plucking up the courage to seek illumination on a point which had been worrying him for some hours, “is a nightjar de t’ing—”

“No, it isn’t,” said Patricia Holm hurriedly. “It’s a kind of bird.”

“Oh, a boid I.” Hoppy’s mouth stretched horizontally in a broad grin of overwhelming relief. “I t’ought it couldn’t of been what I t’ought it was.”

Patricia sighed.

“Why on earth did you have to think about nightjars at all, anyway?”

“Well, it was dis way. Before de Saint scrammed, after he made me a pansy bootlegger, he said my accent reminded him of a nightjar callin’ to its mate…”

“He must have been thinking of a nightingale, Hoppy,” said the girl kindly.

She lighted a cigarette and strolled over to the window, watching the dusk deepening down the glade of bracken and trees. Annette Vickery gazed after her with a feeling that was oddly akin to awe. Annette herself couldn’t help knowing, frankly, that she was pretty, but this slim fair girl who seemed to be the Saint’s partner in outlawry had an enchanting beauty like nothing that she had ever seen before. That alone might have made her jealous after the fashion even of the nicest women, but in Patricia Holm it was only an incidental feature. She had a repose, a quiet understanding confidence, which was the only thing that made hours of waiting tolerable.

She had come in towards midday.

“I’m Patricia,” she said, and with that she was introduced.

She heard the story of the night before and the morning after, and laughed.

“I expect it seems like the end of the world to you,” she said, “but it isn’t very new to me. I wondered what had happened to Simon when I blew into the apartment this morning and found he hadn’t been in all night. But he always has been daft—I suppose you’ve had plenty of time to find that out. How about a spot of sherry, kid—d’you think that would do you good?”

“You talk like a man,” said Annette.

It was clearly meant for a compliment, and Patricia smiled.

“If I talk like a Saint,” she said softly, “it’s only natural.”

She had a serene faith in the Saint which removed the last excuse for anxiety. If she had doubts, she kept them to herself. Orace served an excellent cold lunch. They bathed in the swimming-pool, sunned themselves afterwards in deck-chairs, had tea brought out on the terrace. The time passed; until Patricia stood at the window and watched night creeping down over the garden.

“I’ll make some Old Fashioneds,” she said.

In the glow of that most insidiously potent of all aperitifs, it was not so difficult to keep anxiety at bay for another hour and more. Presently Orace announced dinner. It was quite dark when they left the table and went into the study.

“I suppose we might telephone now,” said Patricia at length.

She took up the telephone and gave the number calmly. It was then nearly nine o’clock. In a short while a man’s voice answered.

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