Read Online The Saint Sees It Through by Leslie Charteris - Free Book Online Page B

have suddenly gone back on me.”
    She put a hand on his. Her dark eyes clouded.
    “What is it, darling?”
    “I’m seeing things. It must have been
the beer.”
    She followed his gaze.
    “I’m seeing things, too.”
    “Surely not what I’m seeing. Describe to me carefully what you think you see.”
    “Well, there’s a kind of liveried slave
on the end of a dog leash. Then, on the other end of the leash is a mink
coat, and inside the coat is a dachshund. The man is leading the dog—or vice versa—from, er, pillar to
post.”
    The Saint sighed explosively.
    “If you see it, too, there’s nothing
wrong with me, I guess.”
    The sad-faced little dog led the liveried
attendant nearer. The dog wagged its tail at them, the attendant elevated his nose a trifle.
    “Doesn’t the little beast find that a
trifle warm, this time of year?” he asked the attendant.
    “It isn’t a question of warmth, sir,
it’s—ah, shall we say face? He’s a Meldon property, you know.”
    Simon could detect no trace of irony in tone or attitude.
    “But—mink? A trifle on the ostentatious
side?”
    “What else, sir?” asked the gentleman’s
gentleman.
    The Saint rang the doorbell. He and Avalon
were presently shown into the drawing room, furnished in chrome and leather, lightened
by three excellent Monets, hooded in red velvet drapes. Mrs. Meldon
came to them there.
    She was most unexpected. She did not
conform. She was beautiful, but not in the fashion affected by the house.
Hers was an ancient beauty, recorded by Milton, sung by Sappho. She was tall and dark. Her hair reminded you of Egyptian prin cesses—black
and straight, outlining a dark face that kings might have fought
for. She walked with an easy flowing motion in high heels that
accentuated a most amazing pair of slim ankles and exciting
legs. These latter were bare and brown.
    Her dress was of some simple stuff, a
throwaway factor until you saw how it highlighted such items as should be
highlighted. It
clung with loving care to her hips, it strutted where it should strut. She had a placid smile, dark eyes
brightened with amuse ment, and a firm
handshake.
    Her voice held overtones of curiosity.
“You wanted to see me?”
    The Saint introduced himself.
    “I am Arch Williams, a researcher for Time magazine. This is
my wife.”
    “Quite a dish,” Mrs. Meldon said.
“I’ll bet you play hell with visiting firemen. I’m very happy to meet
you. Drink? Of course. You look the types.”
    Her teeth, the Saint noted, were very white. She rang a bell with a brown hand. A servant appeared.
    “Move the big bar in here, Walker.” To the Saint:
“Those monkey suits kill me. Gerry
thinks they’re necessary. Prestige, you
know.” She made the phrase sound like unacceptable lan guage from a
lady. “Time, hmm? What do you want from me? Never mind, yet. Wait’ll we get a drink. You have lovely legs, Mrs.
Williams.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Oh, don’t thank me. I had nothing to do
with it. But they are pretty. I hope your husband appreciates them. So many don’t.”
    The Saint said nothing. He wanted to watch.
    “I think he appreciates them,”
Avalon murmured. “Don’t you, dear?”
    Simon smiled.
    “So many don’t,” Mrs. Meldon said.
“You can pour yourself into a sheer tube of a dress, like mine, and a husband will look at you, glance at his watch, and give you hell for
being thirty minutes late. My God,
how do men expect us to make our selves—— Oh, here are the drinks. Name your poison.”
    When they had drinks, Mrs. Meldon gave the
Saint a slow smile.
    “Well, Mr. Researcher, what now?”
    “I have been assigned to find out what I
can about Dr. Ernst Zellermann. We’re going to pick a Doc of the Year. No slowpoke,
medicine, you know.”
    Mrs. Meldon stared at him.
    “My God, you talk in that style! Don’t
you find it nauseating ?”
    “I quit,” Simon said. “But
could I ask you a few questions, Mrs. Meldon? We’ve picked some possible
subjects from the