Follow the Saint (Simon Templar 'The Saint', Book 20)

Follow the Saint (Simon Templar 'The Saint', Book 20)

Leslie Charteris

Language: English

Pages: 168

ISBN: 0891903828

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Three more classic adventures for the Saint in which he discovers some truly miraculous tea, agrees to meet a woman with some information on a major swindle—but finds her dead—and, in the last story, decides to take the self-appointed guardian of the nation’s morality down a peg or two, only to end up in the aftermath of a bank robbery…

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every item with the mechanical infallibility of an adding machine. His nerves were tingling. His glance whipped from side to side. He was standing again approximately where he had been when the shot cracked out, but facing the opposite way. On his right quarter was the window that had been broken, with the shards of glass scattered on the floor below it—he ought to have understood everything when he heard them hit the floor. Turning the other way, he saw that the line from the window to himself

details,” he said gruffly to the constable with the notebook, and turned to Rosemary Chase. “The deceased’s name is Nora Prescott—is that right, miss?” “Yes.” “You knew her quite well?” “Of course. She was one of my father’s personal secretaries,” said the dark girl, and the Saint suddenly felt as if the last knot in the tangle had been untied. 5 He listened with tingling detachment while Rosemary Chase talked and answered questions. The dead girl’s father was a man who had known

chest heaved as though it were taking part in his terrific struggle to achieve coherence. He got his eyes wide open. “Don’t worry about me,” he whispered with painful clarity. “Look after—Mr Chase.” His eyelids fluttered again. Simon let him go against the wall, and he slid down almost to a sitting position, clasping his head in his hands. The Saint balanced his Luger in his hand, and his eyes were narrowed to chips of sapphire hardness. He glanced up and down the corridor. From where he

hair and considered him guardedly. “You can’t do anything else about it,” she said. “Even you can’t alter that sort of thing, so you might as well save your energy.” “I suppose so.” The Saint scowled. “But it’s just too hopeless to resign yourself to spending the rest of your life watching nine-tenths of the world’s population, who’ve got more than enough serious things to worry about already, being browbeaten into a superstitious respect for the humbug of a handful of yapping crypt-orchid

adducing the ultimate evidence of dementia praecox. Simon squeezed his way through and slipped a thermometer into the patient’s mouth. He held Verdean’s wrist with sensitive fingers. “Don’t you want to get up, Mr Verdean?” The bank manager gazed at him expressionlessly. “You don’t want to be late at the bank, do you?” said the Saint. “You might lose your job.” “What bank?” Verdean asked. “You know. The one that was robbed.” “I don’t know. Where am I?” “You’re safe now. Kaskin is looking

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