The Saint to the Rescue (The Saint Series)
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Six more classic adventures: there’s a murky tale of blackmail at a candy convention; a chance to turn the tables on an unscrupulous real-estate broker; a confidence trickster with a keen grasp of math; a scientific invention that is too good to be true; some respectable ladies with a secret to be kept; and a criminal lawyer who’s perhaps too close to the criminals he represents.
that’s what you call your intelligent opinion, would you back it up with any more than hot air?” Even from his attenuated costume he was able to produce a wad of currency which he slammed on the table with a vehemence that almost equaled a slap in the face. “You want to bet even money with me? I’ll say the cigarettes touches the line, you can do the tossing, and we’ll see who comes out ahead. And I’ll fade anyone else who wants to come in.” Simon adroitly evaded the contentious bantam’s
enough to vote he had looked more like a doctor of something highly intellectual than most men who had worked for years to earn the title. The house where he was living in the vicinity of Mission Beach, about six miles south of La Jolla, was perfectly appropriate for an unworldly scientist or a struggling inventor. “Cottage” would have been a determined salesman’s word for it, but “shack” would have been a description more realistic than real estate agents professionally care to be. In those
while Violet might have mirrored the abandoned mother who had pined away. “Now do you have an idea what they’re like?” Kathleen asked, as Ida went on her busy way. “Well, vaguely,” said the Saint, mechanically circling a number on his card with one of the colored crayons provided for the purpose. “But—” “That’s Aunt Flo,” she said, “up there on the platform.” At the focal point of the long tables where the congregation sat there was a high dais draped in bunting, not much larger than was
the jackpot when he saw the possibilities of the trading stamp business. At this time the craze for these miniature coupons was booming from coast to coast, and probably half the families in America were daily pasting up “stamps” of various colors and designs, given to them by local merchants at the rate of ten for every dollar they spent, in booklets which when filled and accumulated in sufficient numbers could be exchanged for almost anything from a razor to a refrigerator. These stamps were
second lieutenant. “Take him in the dining room, Earl. Buy him a drink.” Earl opened the door, and Simon followed him docilely across the hall into a room on the other side. There was an assortment of bottles on the sideboard, among which Simon noticed the label of Peter Dawson. “Help yourself,” Earl said hospitably. He raked together a pack of cards that were scattered over one end of the table, and riffled them thoughtfully. “You play gin rummy?” “Not very well,” said the Saint modestly.