Saint Errant Read Online Free PDF Page B

wraps.
    “Wait till I powder my nose,” she said.
    “Oh no,” said the Saint. “From the type of escort Rick sent with the invitation, I’m afraid he may not be on his strictly Emily Post behavior, and even if he has hitched his wagon to a Broadway star he doesn’t seem to have sworn off his old business methods. You stay here with the Old Curio and don’t open the door to any strange men,”
    He kissed her lightly and closed the door on her argument.
    The Blue Paradise was one of the gaudier cabarets in the Loop. It was not a rendezvous for the social-register set, but it did a roaring and frequently even howling trade in tourists and tired businessmen, both local and traveling. The specialty dancers specialized mainly in undressing to slow music, and the drinks were thoughtfully diluted just enough to allow the patrons to get an adequate lift without becoming unconscious be fore they had spent a great deal of money. Simon knew that it was one of Rick Lansing’s operations, and also that there was an office in the back which was the headquarters for Lansing’s other business interests, which were many and various. Rick the Barber might have left his original vocation far be hind, but he was still one of its best customers. He had dark wavy hair that glistened with oil and brushing. The skin over his tough square features was smooth and glowing from many facials. His hands were shinily manicured. He looked far more like a toughened chorus boy than what he was.
    He sat behind his desk and listened impassively to the alibi of his ambassador.
    “I tell ya, Rick, I couldn’t do anything about it. The Saint musta been tipped off. He had four guys with him, and they was all heeled.”
    “I don’t believe you,” Lansing said contemptuously. “But even if it’s the truth, what did you come straight back here for? How do you know one of ‘em didn’t tail you?” “Honest, Rick, I shook ‘em clean.”
    This was when Simon Templar quietly opened the door and stepped into the room.
    “That’s right, Rick,” he corroborated gravely. “He shook all of ‘em except me… . Just don’t do anything reckless, boys, and I won’t hurt you either.”
    The position of his left hand in the side pocket of his coat made his proposition especially persuasive.
    Lansing kept his hands on top of the desk and considered the situation without a change of expression.
    “Good evening, Mr Templar,” he said at length. “Good evening, Rick,” said the Saint amiably. “I believe you wanted to see me. So here I am. You didn’t need to make a production of it. I’m only too anxious to hear what’s on your mind. Shall we talk it over in private, or does Sonny Boy here make you feel safer?”
    Lansing sat still for a moment, and then made a slight movement of his hand. “Beat it, Joe.”
    “That’s better,” said the Saint. “Now he can collect the rest of the mob outside the door, which will make you feel really comfortable, but they know I’ve got you here, so I haven’t a thing to worry about. We can let our hair down and enjoy it.”
    Lansing suddenly smiled, displaying a wide row of perfect white teeth.
    “And I thought you were supposed to be smart,” he said. “You’re wasting yourself, Saint. Listen, with your talents you’re just the guy I need for a partner. Petty blackmail isn’t big enough for you. And what if you do tell the D A that Jake Hardy didn’t commit suicide? You couldn’t prove a thing.”
    A slight frown touched the Saint’s brow.
    “Jake Hardy?” he repeated. “You mean your last partner?”
    “Go on-kid me.”
    The Saint’s memory, which missed very little of the under world news that reached the papers or circulated through the grapevine, responded again. Jake Hardy, for reasons unknown, had plunged from a penthouse window to his death several months before, leaving Rick Lansing in sole control of a cartel which, while it was not rated by Dun & Bradstreet and had little standing with