The Saint in Miami Read Free Page B

laws of probability and gravitation for granted,” he said. “We come here and find one screwy situation. Within twelve hours and practically spitting distance, we run into another screwy situation. It’s just a good natural bet that they could raise their hats to each other.”
    “You mean that the kid who was washed ashore with the lifebelt was part of some deep dark plot that Gilbeck is mixed up in somehow,” said Peter Quentin.
    “That’s what I was thinking,” said the Saint
Patricia Holm stared out at the roving lights that wavered over their bow. She had had even more years than Peter Quentin in which to learn that those wild surmises of the Saint were usually as direct and accurate as if some sixth sense perceived them, as simple and positive as optical vision was to ordinary human beings.
    She said: “Why did you want Peter to check up on this fellow March? What has he got to do with anything?”
    “What did Peter find out?” countered the Saint
“Not much,” Peter said moodily. “And I know a lot of more amusing ways of wasting an afternoon and evening in this town … I found out that he owns one of the islands in Biscayne Bay with one of these cute little shacks like Gilbeck’s on it, about the size of the Roney Plaza, with three swimming pools and a private landing field. He also has a yacht in the Bay-a little runabout of two or three hundred tons with twin Diesels and everything else you can think of except torpedo tubes … As you suspected, he’s the celebrated Randolph March who inherited all those patent-medicine millions when he was twentyone. Half a dozen show girls have retired in luxury on the proceeds of divorcing him, but he didn’t even notice it The ones he doesn’t bother to marry do just about as well. It’s rumoured that he likes a sprinkle of marijuana in his cigarettes, and the night club owners hang out flags when he’s here.”
    “Is that all?”
    “Well,” Peter admitted reluctantly, “I did hear something else. Some broker chappie-I ran him down and scraped an acquaintance with him in a bar-said that March had a big load of money in something called the Foreign Investment Pool.”
    The Saint smiled.
    “In which Lawrence Gilbeck also has plenty of shekels,” he said, “as I found out by looking through some of the papers in his desk.”
    “But that’s nothing,” Peter protested. “It’s just an ordinary investment. If they both had their money in General Motors-“
    “They didn’t,” said the Saint. “They had it in a Foreign Investment Pool.’”
    The Meteor canted up the side of a long roller, and above the sound of the engine a deep glug floated forward as Mr Uniatz throatily inhaled the last swallow from his bottle. It was followed by a splash as he regretfully tossed the empty bottle far out over the side.
    “You still haven’t told us why you were interested in March,” said Patricia.
    “Because he phoned Gilbeck twice today,” said the Saint simply.
    Peter clutched his brow.
    “Naturally,” he said, “that hangs him. Anyone who phones anybody else is always mixed up in some dirty business.
    “Twice,” said the Saint calmly. The houseboy took the first call, and told March that Gilbeck was away. March left word to have Gilbeck call him when he got back. Two hours later he phoned again. I took the call. He was very careful to make sure I got his name.”
    “A sinister symptom,” Peter agreed, wagging his head gravely. “Only the most double-dyed villains worry about having their names spelt right”
    “You ass,” said the Saint disapassionately, “he’d already left his name once. He’d already been told that Gilbeck was away. So why should he go through the routine again?”
    “You tell us,” said Peter. “This is making me seasick.”
    Simon drew at his cigarette again.
    “Maybe he knew Gilbeck wasn’t there, all the time. Maybe he just wanted to impress on that dumb Filipino that Randolph March was trying to get hold of