The Saint Intervenes (The Saint Series)
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Crooked financiers, bookies, fake inventors, dodgy bankers, porn dealers, unethical businessmen, murderers, thieves, and liars—all will come to regret the day they came to the attention of the Saint.
and while he waited for it to arrive he was selecting a cigarette from a thin case which to the lay eye might have been silver, but which Mr Immelbern knew beyond all doubt was platinum. There are forms of instinct which soar beyond all physical explanations into the clear realms of clairvoyance. The homing pigeon wings its way across sightless space to the old roost. The Arabian camel finds the water-hole, and the pig detects the subterranean truffle. Even thus was the clairvoyance of Mr
unspeakable ruffian was this man who called himself the Saint.’ ” However hard it might have been for Mr Parstone to place the name of Simon Templar, he was by no means ignorant of the Saint. His watery eyes popped halfway out of their sockets, and his jaw hardened at the same time. “So you’re the Saind?” he said. “Of course,” murmured Simon. “Id your own words, a low cribidal—” Simon shook his head. “Oh, no, Herbert,” he said. “By no means as low as that. My reputation may be bad, but it’s
to have-a da baby, too.” He stripped off his helmet and goggles, and watched the unloading of his cargo with interest. Signor Giuseppe Rolfieri had recovered considerably from the effects of the drug under whose influence he had been embarked, but the hangover, combined with some bumpy weather on the last part of the journey, restrained him hardly less effectively from much resistance. Simon had never known before that the human skin could really turn green, but the epidermis of Signor Rolfieri
Tombs, and he choked. “But this was an accident! You remember, Tanfold. They wanted her to sit on top of a step-ladder—they asked me to help her up—and I only caught her when she slipped—” “I know,” said Mr Tanfold. “But nobody else does. You’re the mug, Tombs. That photograph wouldn’t look so good in a Melbourne paper, would it? With a caption saying, ‘Son of prominent Melbourne businessman “holding the baby” at artists’ revel in Paris’—or something like that.” Mr Tombs swallowed. “But I can
hero for his next book. This was The Bandit, an adventure story featuring Ramon Francisco De Castilla y Espronceda Manrique, published in the summer of 1929 after its serialisation in the Empire News, a now long-forgotten Sunday newspaper. But sales of The Bandit were less than impressive, and Charteris began to question his choice of career. It was all very well writing—but if nobody wants to read what you write, what’s the point? “I had to succeed, because before me loomed the only