Charteris, Leslie - [The Saint 50] - Salvage for the Saint.pdf

(381 KB) Pobierz

Leslie Charteris'

Salvage for the Saint

Original teleplay by

John Kruse

Adapted by

Peter Bloxsom

G.K. HALL & CO.

Boston, Massachusetts

1988

The villains and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no actual relation to any real person or

happening.

Published in Large Print by arrangement with John Farquharson Limited.

G.K. Hall Large Print Book Series. Set in 16 pt Plantin.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Charteris, Leslie, 1907-

[Salvage for the Saint]

Leslie Charteris' Salvage for the Saint / original teleplay by John

Kruse ; developed by Peter Bloxsom.

p. cm.—(G.K. Hall large print book series)

(Nightingale series)

ISBN 0-8161-4631-4

1. Large type books. I. Kruse, John. II. Bloxsom, Peter.

III. Title. IV. Title: Salvage for the Saint.

[PR6005.H348S47 1988]

823'.912—dcl9

88—16292

Forenote

After some thought, I am making a brief intrusion here, in preference to a footnote later.

This offspring of the successive talents of John Kruse and Peter Bloxsom, whom attentive readers will

recognise as seasoned veterans of the latter-day genre of Saint adventures, is linked with just one feature

unique among these semi-pastiches with which I have tried to beguile you over the last few otiose years.

Besides performing my usual role of meddler with the original television

script (in which I frankly had a lot less authority than I had in revising

this book which is now based on it) I had on this occasion the rare

pleasure of spending a couple of weeks with the crew shooting in the

south of France, making myself fractionally useful in suggesting and

scouting locations and so forth. I even had the privilege of making a

short but necessary voyage on the luxury yacht chartered at awful

expense to play the part of the

Phoenix—an

experience in sampling how

a real millionaire can live which I shall never forget.

But to make the memory even more special, by being on the spot I was able to con the amiable director into

letting me walk through a tiny and totally unimportant scene. Thereby consigning myself, for once only, to

video immortality.

No prizes are offered for spotting me in this extraordinary appearance. But when the TV Movie is re-run—as

it assuredly will be—this Forenote might just give you a hint of what to watch for.

Or maybe not.

St Jean

—

Cap Ferrat

October 1982

Contents

I How Simon Templar anticipated a Lady's Plea,

L.C.

and Charles Tatenor went Astray.

II How Arabella began a Journey, and Simon went

Beachcombing. 54

III

How the Saint missed the Boat, and Arabella came down to Earth.

102

IV How Inspector Lebec introduced Himself, and

Captain Finnegan accepted Coffee.

148

V How Jacques Descartes played a Game, and Simon

Templar went Under.

184

VI How Bernadotti was Discovered, and the Phoenix

was set loose.

238

VII How there was a Three-way Reunion, and the

Saint saw more Fun Ahead. 279

I: How Simon Templar anticipated a Lady's Plea, and Charles Tatenor went Astray.

-1-

Like so many of Simon Templar's hair-raising adventures, it began with a beautiful girl and led him to a

merry-go-round of battle and murder and sudden death, and there was booty by the ton.

All of which, from Simon Templar's point of view, was very much as it should have been. Those were the

established ingredients of his life, and he could hardly remember a time when he would have wanted it

otherwise.

But the ingredients never came together in the same way twice: it was never exactly the mixture as before.

And that was a blessed bounty, a sublimely serendipitous piece of good organisation for which Simon

Templar —who was also known as the Saint—never ceased to offer up thanks to whatever wise providence

might have been responsible. To him the exhilarating wine of adventure had it own numberless subtleties of

region and vintage, so that it always tasted fresh and bracing on his palate and made every escapade different

and new.

This one was to take him from the Isle of Wight, that Mecca of yachtsmen and sandcastle-builders off the

south coast of England, and down through France to the Mediterranean on a freewheeling chase across land

and sea, and under the sea, and into the past . . .

He was finishing off some vigorous bedtime calisthenics with a toothbrush when he heard the soft but

insistent knocking on the door of his Cowes hotel room.

He shrugged into his dressing gown, a positively shrieking green foulard effort, and made his way to the

door. The knocking stopped briefly; then it re-started. The Saint paused, with his hand hovering over the

doorknob.

His immediate impulse, the impulse of his temperament, was to open up without preamble and confront the

late visitor. But one result of his years of notoriety was that it was never close season on Saints these days,

and there were some hard against-the-grain compromises he had had to make for the sake of staying alive,

which he considered an important priority. One of these reluctant compromises was the habit of challenging

people who knocked on his door— especially people who knocked on his door late at night.

He spoke, aiming a short sharp question through the wood.

"Who is it?"

He would have been the first to agree that it wasn't a startlingly original utterance. But it did have a certain

workmanlike quality to it. It was a practical and utilitarian piece of dialogue answering perfectly to the needs

of the moment.

The reply came in a vibrantly confidential whisper that thrilled its way back to him after the most fractional

of hesitations.

"Mata Hari."

It was good enough for the Saint. He opened the door—and saw at once that she was as gratifyingly beautiful

as all uninvited late callers ought to be.

For her part, the first thing that hit her eye was his eye-searing robe; and it was a measure of her self-control

that she confined her reaction to a single blink.

"Come right in—sunshine," he invited, and led the way.

She puzzled a moment over the endearment as she followed him into the room, which in point of strict

accuracy wasn't a room only but a suite, and wasn't even a suite only but nothing less than the most luxurious

and expensive suite in the hotel. Simon Templar was sometimes inclined to extravagance, though he used an

economical gesture now to indicate a chair.

"Your drink will be—let me guess—a gin and tonic. Am I right?"

Even as he spoke he was already at work at the compact cabinet, mixing the drink with an unhurried

adroitness that few men could have matched without years of professional practice. By the time she nodded

her agreement with his selection the ice was already tinkling into the glass; and it seemed only a bare few

seconds later that the Saint was lounging back in a chair facing her with his own choice of alcoholic

refreshment in his hand.

He studied her gravely for a few moments.

"Mata Hari," he said, by way of explaining his greeting. "Either from my encyclopaedic knowledge of

eastern languages or else because I came across the fact in a magazine somewhere, I happen to know that the

words come from the Malay. Where English uses the crude and unimaginative monosyllable 'sun', the

Malays say 'mata hari'—literally, it means 'eye of the day'."

"Oh," she said, smiling. "How poetically oriental."

"And in your case, I'd say, quite appropriate. I'll bet you bring a lot of sunshine to a lot of old men's dreams

simply by strolling along by the harbour wall." He paused, eyeing her reflectively. "That is, when you're not

Charteris, Leslie - [The Saint 50] - Salvage for the Saint.pdf

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: