Read Online Vendetta for the Saint. by Leslie Charteris - Free Book Online
Authors: Leslie Charteris
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without trying their caponata di melanzane . And
a bottle of Ciclope dell’Etna.”
“I
can taste it already,” Simon said. They shook hands again, and one of the
stoical carabinieri opened the door for him.
After the suffocating atmosphere of the
police station the
fresh air was revivifying, even as redo lent as it was of the rich effluvia of
Palermo. The Caprice, which
Simon found without much dif ficulty,
was a cool cavern of refuge from the cascade of
glare and heat outside, and he entered its
depths gratefully, selecting a strategically lo cated table with a wall behind and an unobstructed vista in front.
“The signore would like an aperitivo?” queried the nonagenarian waiter.
“Campari-soda. With plenty of ice and a
twist of lemon.”
“And
afterwards?”
“I will order presently. I am waiting
for a friend.”
The Saint was as sure of this as he could be
of anything. He could not
imagine for a moment that Investigator
Marco Ponti had taken the trouble to recommend this restaurant for no reason
but pure gastronomic enthusiasm. And as he sipped the astringent coolness of his drink, he hoped
that this private meeting
would throw some light on the knife
attack and the peculiar antipathy of the maresciallo.
Very shortly the street door opened again;
but it was not the
expected form of the detective that stepped in. This, however, proved to be no
disap pointment to
the Saint at all.
It was a girl … if the writer may perpetrate one of the most inadequate statements in contem porary literature.
There seems to be a balance of nature in
Italy which
compensates in advance with extraordinary youthful beauty for the excessive deterioration which awaits most of her women in later years. Long before middle age, most of them have suc cumbed to superabundant flesh expanded in the dropsical mould that follows uncontrolled mother hood,
and for which their tent-like black dresses are
perhaps the only decent covering; and their faces tend to develop hirsute adornments which would be envied by many a junior Guards officer.
But the perfection of face and form which a com passionate fate may grant them before that has been observed by most modern movie-goers. And this
specimen was astounding proof that the nets of pandering producers had by no means scooped all the cream of the crop.
Her hair was stygian midnight, a shining
metallic black that
wreathed a delicate oval face with the texture of magnolias, full-lipped and kohl-eyed. The simple silk confection that she wore offered more emphasis than concealment to the form it covered but could scarcely contain. It was obvious that no trickery of supporting
garments was needed or was used to
exploit the burgeoning figure, rounded almost to excess in the breasts above and the flanks below, yet bisected by a waist of wasp-like delicacy. To complete the entrancing in ventory, Simon allowed his gaze to slide down the
sweet length of leg to the small sandalled feet and drift appreciatively
back up again.
Whereupon he received a glance of withering disdain of the kind that had obviously had
much practice in
shrivelling the presumptuous and freez ing the
extremities of the lecherous, and which made
it depressingly apparent that like many other beautiful Italian girls she was also impregnably re spectable. Only the Saint’s unjustified faith in
the purity of his admiration enabled him to meet the snub with a smile of seraphic impenitence until
it was she who looked away.
The cashier nodded to her in beaming recog nition, and after a brief exchange of words
picked up the
telephone. Simon realized with regret that the girl had not come in to eat, but to ask
for a taxi to be called—a
common enough method in those parts
where the quest for a public phone can be a major project.
After another word of thanks she started out again, and an entering customer stood aside
and held the door
for her. She swept past him, accept ing the service as if it were hers by divine right, and he had to
a bottle of Ciclope dell’Etna.”
“I
can taste it already,” Simon said. They shook hands again, and one of the
stoical carabinieri opened the door for him.
After the suffocating atmosphere of the
police station the
fresh air was revivifying, even as redo lent as it was of the rich effluvia of
Palermo. The Caprice, which
Simon found without much dif ficulty,
was a cool cavern of refuge from the cascade of
glare and heat outside, and he entered its
depths gratefully, selecting a strategically lo cated table with a wall behind and an unobstructed vista in front.
“The signore would like an aperitivo?” queried the nonagenarian waiter.
“Campari-soda. With plenty of ice and a
twist of lemon.”
“And
afterwards?”
“I will order presently. I am waiting
for a friend.”
The Saint was as sure of this as he could be
of anything. He could not
imagine for a moment that Investigator
Marco Ponti had taken the trouble to recommend this restaurant for no reason
but pure gastronomic enthusiasm. And as he sipped the astringent coolness of his drink, he hoped
that this private meeting
would throw some light on the knife
attack and the peculiar antipathy of the maresciallo.
Very shortly the street door opened again;
but it was not the
expected form of the detective that stepped in. This, however, proved to be no
disap pointment to
the Saint at all.
It was a girl … if the writer may perpetrate one of the most inadequate statements in contem porary literature.
There seems to be a balance of nature in
Italy which
compensates in advance with extraordinary youthful beauty for the excessive deterioration which awaits most of her women in later years. Long before middle age, most of them have suc cumbed to superabundant flesh expanded in the dropsical mould that follows uncontrolled mother hood,
and for which their tent-like black dresses are
perhaps the only decent covering; and their faces tend to develop hirsute adornments which would be envied by many a junior Guards officer.
But the perfection of face and form which a com passionate fate may grant them before that has been observed by most modern movie-goers. And this
specimen was astounding proof that the nets of pandering producers had by no means scooped all the cream of the crop.
Her hair was stygian midnight, a shining
metallic black that
wreathed a delicate oval face with the texture of magnolias, full-lipped and kohl-eyed. The simple silk confection that she wore offered more emphasis than concealment to the form it covered but could scarcely contain. It was obvious that no trickery of supporting
garments was needed or was used to
exploit the burgeoning figure, rounded almost to excess in the breasts above and the flanks below, yet bisected by a waist of wasp-like delicacy. To complete the entrancing in ventory, Simon allowed his gaze to slide down the
sweet length of leg to the small sandalled feet and drift appreciatively
back up again.
Whereupon he received a glance of withering disdain of the kind that had obviously had
much practice in
shrivelling the presumptuous and freez ing the
extremities of the lecherous, and which made
it depressingly apparent that like many other beautiful Italian girls she was also impregnably re spectable. Only the Saint’s unjustified faith in
the purity of his admiration enabled him to meet the snub with a smile of seraphic impenitence until
it was she who looked away.
The cashier nodded to her in beaming recog nition, and after a brief exchange of words
picked up the
telephone. Simon realized with regret that the girl had not come in to eat, but to ask
for a taxi to be called—a
common enough method in those parts
where the quest for a public phone can be a major project.
After another word of thanks she started out again, and an entering customer stood aside
and held the door
for her. She swept past him, accept ing the service as if it were hers by divine right, and he had to
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