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Authors: Leslie Charteris
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less exacting job with more regнular hours; that they had already packed their bags; and that they would like to catch the evening bus back to Los Angeles, if Mr. Pellman would kindly pay them up to date.
Freddie had obliged them with a good deal of nonchalance, being apparently not unaccustomed to the transience of doнmestic help.
After which the Saint went to his room, stripped off his riding clothes, took a shower, wrapped himself in bath robe, and lay down on the bed with a cigarette to contemplate the extreme sterility of the whole problem.
“This ought to learn you,” he told himself, “to just say NO when you don’t want to do anything, instead of making smart cracks about a thousand dollars a day.”
The servants weren’t ruled out, of course. There could be more than one person involved, taking turns to do things so that each would have an alibi in turn.
But one of the girls had to be involved. Only one of them could have poisoned Freddie’s drink at the Tennis Club. And any one of them could have done it. The table had been small enough, and everybody’s attention had been very potently concentrated on the sarong siren. A bottle small enough to be completely hidden in the hand, tipped over his glass in a casual gesture-and the trick was done.
But why do it then, when the range of possible suspects was so sharply limited?
Why do any of the other things that had happened?
He was still mired in the exasperating paradoxes of partial sense, which was so many times worse than utter nonsense. Utter nonsense was like a code: there was a key to be found somewhere which would make it clear and coherent in an inнstant, and there was only one exact key that would do it. You knew that you had it or you hadn’t. The trouble with partial sense was that while you were straightening out the twisted parts you never knew whether you were distorting the straight ones…
And somewhere beyond that point he heard the handle of his door turning, very softly.
His hand slid into the pocket of his robe where his gun was, but that was the only move he made. He lay perfectly still and relaxed, breathing at the shallow even rate of a sleeper, his eyes closed to all but a slit through which he could watch the door as it opened.
Esther came in.
She stood in the doorway hesitantly for a few seconds, looking at him, and the light behind her showed every line of her breath-taking body through the white crepe negligee she was wearing. Then she closed the door softly behind her and came a little closer. He could see both her hands, and they were empty.
He opened his eyes.
“Hullo,” she said.
“Hullo.” He stretched himself a little.
“I hope I didn’t wake you up.”
“I was just dozing.”
“I ran out of cigarettes,” she said, “and I wondered if you had one.”
“I think so.”
It was terrific dialogue.
He reached over to the bedside table, and offered her the package that lay there. She came up beside him to take it. Without rising, he struck a match. She sat down beside him to get the light. The negligee was cut down to her waist in front, and it opened more when she leaned forward to the flame.
“Thanks.” She blew out a deep inhalation of smoke. She could have made an exit with that, but she didn’t. She studied him with her dark dreamy eyes and said: “I suppose you were thinking.”
“A bit.”
“Have you any ideas yet?”
“Lots of them. Too many.”
“Why too many?”
“They contradict each other. Which means I’m not getting anywhere.”
“So you still don’t know who’s doing all these things?”
“No.”
“But you know it isn’t any of us.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why do you keep saying that? Ginny was with you all the time this afternoon, and I couldn’t have had a gun on me, and Lissa couldn’t have followed us and been at the Tennis Club too.”
“Therefore there must be a catch in it somewhere, and that’s what I’m trying to find.”
“I’m afraid I’m
Freddie had obliged them with a good deal of nonchalance, being apparently not unaccustomed to the transience of doнmestic help.
After which the Saint went to his room, stripped off his riding clothes, took a shower, wrapped himself in bath robe, and lay down on the bed with a cigarette to contemplate the extreme sterility of the whole problem.
“This ought to learn you,” he told himself, “to just say NO when you don’t want to do anything, instead of making smart cracks about a thousand dollars a day.”
The servants weren’t ruled out, of course. There could be more than one person involved, taking turns to do things so that each would have an alibi in turn.
But one of the girls had to be involved. Only one of them could have poisoned Freddie’s drink at the Tennis Club. And any one of them could have done it. The table had been small enough, and everybody’s attention had been very potently concentrated on the sarong siren. A bottle small enough to be completely hidden in the hand, tipped over his glass in a casual gesture-and the trick was done.
But why do it then, when the range of possible suspects was so sharply limited?
Why do any of the other things that had happened?
He was still mired in the exasperating paradoxes of partial sense, which was so many times worse than utter nonsense. Utter nonsense was like a code: there was a key to be found somewhere which would make it clear and coherent in an inнstant, and there was only one exact key that would do it. You knew that you had it or you hadn’t. The trouble with partial sense was that while you were straightening out the twisted parts you never knew whether you were distorting the straight ones…
And somewhere beyond that point he heard the handle of his door turning, very softly.
His hand slid into the pocket of his robe where his gun was, but that was the only move he made. He lay perfectly still and relaxed, breathing at the shallow even rate of a sleeper, his eyes closed to all but a slit through which he could watch the door as it opened.
Esther came in.
She stood in the doorway hesitantly for a few seconds, looking at him, and the light behind her showed every line of her breath-taking body through the white crepe negligee she was wearing. Then she closed the door softly behind her and came a little closer. He could see both her hands, and they were empty.
He opened his eyes.
“Hullo,” she said.
“Hullo.” He stretched himself a little.
“I hope I didn’t wake you up.”
“I was just dozing.”
“I ran out of cigarettes,” she said, “and I wondered if you had one.”
“I think so.”
It was terrific dialogue.
He reached over to the bedside table, and offered her the package that lay there. She came up beside him to take it. Without rising, he struck a match. She sat down beside him to get the light. The negligee was cut down to her waist in front, and it opened more when she leaned forward to the flame.
“Thanks.” She blew out a deep inhalation of smoke. She could have made an exit with that, but she didn’t. She studied him with her dark dreamy eyes and said: “I suppose you were thinking.”
“A bit.”
“Have you any ideas yet?”
“Lots of them. Too many.”
“Why too many?”
“They contradict each other. Which means I’m not getting anywhere.”
“So you still don’t know who’s doing all these things?”
“No.”
“But you know it isn’t any of us.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why do you keep saying that? Ginny was with you all the time this afternoon, and I couldn’t have had a gun on me, and Lissa couldn’t have followed us and been at the Tennis Club too.”
“Therefore there must be a catch in it somewhere, and that’s what I’m trying to find.”
“I’m afraid I’m
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