The Saint Goes West (The Saint Series)
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When the Saint visits Arizona, he battles a Nazi scientist whose interest in ranching is prompted by the mercury deposits underneath the ranch. In Palm Springs, an alcoholic millionaire hires him after a series of near-fatal accidents. And real danger ensues in Hollywood when an enterprising producer decides the Saint should be a movie star—but then the producer turns up dead.
rather that I’m trying to make some amends, by proxy, for his bad manners.” “Did he tell you what he was threatening to do—about the stream?” “He did say something about trying to cut it off.” “Which would make this place practically worthless.” “That would be a great pity. But it might not happen.” “You must think quite a lot of your drag with Valmon.” The pink-faced man fluttered a plump deprecating hand. His smile was so unshakably sweet that a baby would have been ashamed not to give
hadn’t developed any real conviction of danger over-shadowing the house, and at that moment the idea seemed particularly far-fetched. He went out of the room, and the Filipino switched off the light. “Everything already lock up, sir. You no worry. I go to sleep now.” “Happy dreams,” said the Saint. He returned to his own room, and undressed and rolled into bed. He felt in pretty good shape, but he didn’t want to start the next day with an unnecessary headache. He was likely to have enough
income. I guess Papa Pellman knew Freddie pretty well, and so he didn’t trust him. He sewed everything up tight. Freddie never will be able to touch most of the capital, but he gets two or three million to play with when he’s thirty-five. On one condition. He mustn’t marry before that. I guess Papa knew all about girls like me. If Freddie marries before he’s thirty-five, he doesn’t get another penny. Ever. Income or anything. It all goes to a fund to feed stray cats or something like that.”
New York last May. Freddie came in for some Bromo-Seltzer, and we just got talking.” “In other words,” said the Saint, “any one of you could have been a girlfriend of Johnny’s, and promoted yourselves in here after he was killed.” Nobody said anything. “Okay,” Freddie said at last. “Well, we’ve got fingerprints, haven’t we? How about the fingerprints on that knife?” “We can find out if there are any,” said the Saint. He took it out of the pocket of his robe, where he had kept it with him
with such self-sacrificing generosity. He had just walked in and smoked a few cigarettes and fired his gun and emptied the ashtrays and walked out again, without leaving any more traces than any normal visitor would leave. “Which is Unfair to Disorganised Detectives,” said the Saint to himself. “If I knew where the guy lived I’d picket him.” But the flippancy was just a ripple on the surface of his mind, and underneath it his brain was working with the steady flow of an assembly line, putting