The Saint Sees it Through (The Saint Series)
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When the Saint goes for a drink in a New York nightclub—Cookie’s Cellar—he discovers the rather lovely nightclub singer Avalon Dexter; however, he soon meets the less lovely Cookie herself.
over town and seeing so many people, and I can’t have been noticing much.” “Oh, well,” she said, with a stage sigh. “Dexter the Forgotten Girl. What a life!…And I thought you came to my rescue tonight because you remembered. But all the time you were taken up with so many people that you never even saw me.” “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I must have been taken up with too many people. And I’ll never forgive any of them.” She looked at him, and her smile was teasing and gay, and her eyes were
standards of the current season on Broadway.” Simon Templar went downstairs again for a drink, and Wolcott Gibbs waved to him across the lobby, and they spent a couple of congenial hours lamenting the sad standards of the current season on Broadway, and all the time Simon was watching the clock and wondering what held back the hands. It was fifteen hours, or minutes, after seven when the call came. “Merry Christmas,” she said. “And a Happy New Year to you,” he said. “What goes?” “Darling,”
by side, and advanced upon the Saint. It was obvious that he was their objective. The Saint didn’t move. He watched the approach of the brawny gents with the bright-eyed interest of a small boy at his first circus. He noted the width of Jake’s shoulders, the practised walk bespeaking sessions in a prize-ring, and the shamble of his companion. He weighed them, mentally, and calculated the swiftness of their reflexes. He smiled. He could see Avalon’s clenched fists, just below the rim of the
multi-dimensional alchemy between his finger-tips and his remembrance began to sear his brain with a lambent reality that cauterised the last limp tissues of vagueness out of his awakening. He felt his own grip biting into her flesh. “Avalon,” he said, in a voice that came from a long way off in the dark. “You’ve been in this up to the neck from the beginning. You might even have started a lot of it—for all of us—by that parting crack of yours about the Saint after I socked Zellermann. But the
his shoulders. He grasped the Saint’s arm and said without any professional servility, “What’s this all about?” “Just a little apache dance routine,” Simon said pleasantly. “Unscheduled addition to the floor show. I’ve been practising it quite a while. Would you like me to show you, or would you rather let go my arm?” The bouncer captain, with the Saint’s biceps palpably under his fingers and the Saint’s very cool blue eyes on him, seemed to experience a shred of indecision. Avalon Dexter’s