The Saint on the Spanish Main Read Online Free PDF Page A

track, for he went on as if it
were in the most natural sequence:
“If ye don’t give her the benefit av it yourself, ye’re not the man
I’ve heard tell ye are.”
    “What makes you think she’d be so
amenable?” Si mon asked amusedly.
    “Because she’s gettin’ thoroughly tired
of Uckrose, as anyone can see. Already today she’s sayin’ how bored she
is wid his way o’ fishin’. But he won’t hear o’ me takin’ her out alone
if it’s too rough for him. So she tells him she’s a mind to go right back to
Nassau where she could do things an’ have fun. She’s as ripe an’ ready for trouble as
a woman ever will be, Simon me b’y, an’ if ye don’t take advantage
av it it’s a disillusioned owld man I’ll be.”
    Simon accepted a cigarette and a cup of
coffee, and then headed back to the hotel. By that time the cumulative
effect of the food and beer on top of the long sun-drenched morning
was making the ancient tropical custom of a siesta seem remarkably
intelligent and invit ing. He took a cold shower, closed the
jalousie shutters enough to produce a restful twilight, and stretched out naked on
the bed to relax and think.
    Somewhere near by, some aspiring native
Crosby with a guitar was rehearsing an apocryphal calypso:
    “Oh, le’ we go down to Bimini —
    You never git a lickin’ till you go down to
    Binini …”
    Simon wondered idly what historic rhubarb was com memorated
in that quaint refrain.
    “Bimini gal is a rock in de harbor —
    You never git a lickin’ till you go down to
    Bimini!”
    And that also could provide sustenance for
extensive speculation.
    Ta-tap … ta-ta-tap!
    The knocks were on his door, very softly yet
quite distinctly. In a flash he was on his feet, pulling on his trousers
through their stealthiness he detected a certain flippancy in their
odd little rhythm, a kind of con spiratorial gaiety that was persuasively
reassuring. It would have taken an almost incredible Machiavelli of an assassin
to have put that subtle touch into a knock. Simon was practically sure of what
he would see as he turned the door knob.
    Gloria Uckrose came in, wearing a green silk
dressing gown and
apparently nothing else.
     
    4
    “I thought,” she said, “I’d
see whether you were kid ding, about joining you for a drink.”
    “Throw on a dress,” said the Saint
agreeably, “and I’ll be waiting for you in the bar.”
    “I’d be more comfortable here.”
    “Then I’d have to go get
something.”
    “I don’t really need anything. I’ll
settle for just join ing.” She had come all the way into the
room, walking confidently across towards the window. Now she stood with a
cigarette in a short holder in her mouth, her vel vet eyes resting on
him a little mockingly through the trickle of smoke. “Why don’t you
shut the door?”
    Simon leaned on the handle, fanning the door
a little wider if anything.
    “Your husband mightn’t understand,”
he explained ingenuously. “He might follow you here, and come bursting
in, brandishing a revolver. He might even be acquitted if he shot me.”
    She laughed shortly.
    “My husband would be too scared of the
bang to pull the trigger. Anyway, he’s snoring his head off. He had
three double Daiquiris before lunch, and I know exactly what they
do to him. A hurricane wouldn’t wake him up before cocktail
time.”
    “Which room do you have?”
    “The third door along to your left.
Why?”
    “Would you think me unduly nervous if I
went and listened to this snore myself?”
    “Not at all. Go ahead.”
    “In that case I don’t need to,”
said the Saint cryptically. He started to shut the door, stopped again, and
said: “What
about Brother Innutio? Suppose he notices something that he thinks Clinton
should hear about?”
    “He took dramamine on the boat. He could hardly keep his eyes
open through lunch.”
    Simon closed the door.
    “It’s nice to meet someone as wide awake
as you,” he murmured. “You probably even know already exactly