Free The Saint Around the World by Leslie Charteris

me.”
    “Yes,” said the Saint gratefully. “From New York.”
    “And your name, sorr, in case you should be callin’?”
    “This is Mr. Templar, Mrs. Jafferty,” Trapani said.
    Simon gazed at him gloomily.
    “I’ll tell him you were askin’,” Mrs. Jafferty said, good day to ye, gentleman.”
    She hitched up her bag of groceries and bustled busily out.
    “I’m sorry,” Trapani said. “Did I do wrong? You hadn’t told me you wanted to be incognito.”
    “Forget it,” said the Saint. “I hadn’t had a chance to. It’s not your fault.”
    He emptied his mug and put it down, and Trapani picked 1 it up.
    “Another? Or do you feel like some lunch?”
    “Mr. Templar is having lunch with me,” said the girl with the legs.
    Simon Templar blinked. He turned, with a cigarette between his lips and his lighter halted in mid-air. Finally, he managed to light it.
    “If you say so,” he murmured. “And if Giulio will excuse me.”
    “I excuse you and congratulate you,” Trapani beamed.
    The girl drained her cocktail and came over, putting out her hand as the Saint stood up.
    “I’m Adrienne Halberd, she said.
    “I’d never have recognized you.”
    She laughed.
    “That may take some explaining. But do you mind if I rush you off? I’m expecting a phone call at home, and I’ve got to get back for it.”
    “I’ll see you later,” Simon told Trapani.
    She was on her way to the other door, and he followed her.
    “I walked over,” she said as they came out in front of the hotel. “But I expect you’ve got a car.”
    “That rented job over there.”
    They got in; and she said, pointing: “That way, to the right, and I’ll tell you where to turn.”.
    Simon spun the wheel and relaxed, letting cigarette smoke float from mildly amused lips.
    “And now that we’re alone,” he said calmly, “may I ask any questions? Or do we go on playing blindfold chess?”
    “All of a sudden? You didn’t argue when I practically kidnapped you.”
    “I never argue with legs like yours, darling. But sometimes I ask questions.”
    “You are the Saint, aren’t you?”
    “True. But my mind-reading gifts have been slightly exaggerated.”
    “You were asking about Reggie Clarron.”
    “Which should prove that I didn’t know much about him.”
    “You knew he’d been married before.”
    “An inspired guess. A fat friend of mine happened to tag the name ‘Bluebeard’ on him, rather carelessly, just a few hours ago. Bluebeards, if you remember, don’t get much of a rating with only one wife. It was worth taking a chance on.”
    “All right,” she said. “I took a chance on you. He’s only had two so far, I think; but you might help to nail him before he finally manages to kill the third. Not to mention saving the prospective fourth.”
    The Saint raised his eyebrows.
    “He has one picked out already?”
    “Me,” said the girl.
    iii
    The dining alcove was one corner of the living room of her cottage, sharing the row of gaily curtained windows that looked out over the green lawn that sloped down to the river bank. They sat there over some excellent cold roast beef and salad and mustard pickles, and the Saint sipped a tall glass of Guinness.
    “He isn’t a mystery man at all,” Adrienne Halberd said. “That’s what makes it so difficult.”
    “One of those open-book boys?” said the Saint.
    “Absolutely. He went to a good school, where he didn’t get into any particular trouble. Then he became an actor. He never made any hit, but he managed to make a living. He didn’t care much what he did, as long as it was something theatrical. He got married the first time when he was twenty-five. He and his wife were both in the chorus of some revue. Later on they joined up with one of those troupes that used to play on the piers at the seaside in the summer. He was about thirty when she got drowned in a boating accident.”
    “Why did he wait that long?”
    “It wasn’t so Jong after she’d inherited some