Send for the Saint Read Free Page A

his first love, Simon knew, was still shipping. And it was the incidental uses of some of Mr Patroclos’ ships in particular that had begun to arouse the Saint’s speculation.
    The Patroclos headquarters occupied one of the more salubriously situated, better camouflaged, and (as Greek estate agents or their counterparts anywhere in the world might have put it) more mature of the office blocks whose incursions Simon had lamented from the air. Which is simply to say that the physical centre of Mr Patroclos’ aforementioned web of businesses was an edifice of manifestly superior quality, decently separated by a protective peripheral cushioning of verdure — including a few decorative citrus groves — from the nearest hubs of lesser commercial universes.
    The Rolls disgorged its three passengers at the main entrance, and Ariadne ushered the Saint through the smoked-glass doors, where a plaque of suitably impressive dimensions depicted the chief constellations of the Patroclos cosmos. Big Spiro, his automatic no longer prominently on display, lumbered along behind; and the Saint flashed him a winning smile.
    “Does Diogenes keep many other pet performing elephants ?” he inquired with genuine interest.
    Neither the mammoth nor Ariadne deigned to answer; and the Saint shrugged, and abandoned the attempt at polite conversation.
    They proceeded into a large office labelled “D. Patroclos — General Staff’ where male and female secretaries were busying themselves with typewriters and telephones. A male secretary got up after a few respectful words into a white telephone and opened the heavy double doors that led to Patroclos’ inner office.
    The room was spacious, though smaller than Simon had expected, sumptuously carpeted, and sparsely but superbly furnished in rich heavy browns with splashes of silver and glass here and there.
    Patroclos stood up from his desk — a heavy, aggressive-looking man, exuding power like the room itself.
    “Sir,” began the girl, “This is Mr — “
    “Out,” snapped Patroclos. “I want no calls or interruptions.”
    He bundled her out and slammed the doors shut behind her: and the Saint meanwhile calmly installed himself in the mogul’s reclining leather and silver chair, and rested his feet on the elegant walnut desk.
    Patroclos turned and eyed the Saint penetratingly, making a lightning appraisal of the debonair ice-cool man who was lounging so insolently before him. And Patroclos saw a lean tanned buccaneer’s face in which the lines of mirth and steel determination somehow coincided; a long relaxed frame that tapered from broad shoulders to the polished shoes that had taken defiant possession of the desk-top; and about the whole person of the Saint an indefinably yet almost tangibly dangerous swashbuckling air. And the Saint stared back at Diogenes Patroclos with ice-blue eyes that had narrowed fractionally as they observed the brusque treatment of Ariadne.
    “What the Saint saw was a broad, shortish, almost squat figure, a thickset powerful body, a strong face, black musketballs of eyes under bushy black eyebrows, and still plenty of matching hair atop the somewhat cro-magnon head. Patroclos was wearing a blue serge suit, stiff gleaming linen, and a ring with a diamond in it as big as a cob-nut.
    The Saint saw all these things. And then his anger surfaced.
    “Dio, old toad,” he began, in a voice thinly edged with silk, “you have made a serious blunder. I am about to give you a graphically detailed rundown on your antecedents, your future prospects of happiness, and a few of the unpleasant experiences which I’ve decided will have to befall you. Besides which I expect to describe — if I can bring myself to look at you — some of the many repellent features of your gross person.”
    Patroclos inclined his head slightly and studied the Saint for a few moments longer.
    “So you are the famous Simon Templar,” he said, baring his teeth in a mechanical half-smile. “I am