The Saint in Miami

'I think,' he said, 'that it's the sort of place where ugly little runts like you give suckers a nice game with a marked deck.' He sat up again; and suddenly, without warning, he snatched the pack out of the dealer's hand and smeared it in front of the other players. 'Look for yourselves, boys. It's all done in the veins of the leaf in the left- hand corner. Nothing to notice if you aren't looking for it, but as plain as a billboard when you know the code. It's nice work, but it gives the house too much of an edge for my money.'

The horsy man picked up some cards with a grin which held nothing but trouble.

'If you're right about this, guy, there's more coming to me than I've lost here today.'

'Use your eyes,' said the Saint cynically. 'I don't know how many of you are in with him, but the rest of you can see it. You might like to do something about it. Personally, I'll have my dough back and talk to the manager.'

'You'll do that,' muttered the dealer.

There was the sound of one padding step in the alleyway outside, and a new man showed in the doorway with a sub-machine-gun covering the room.

The Saint knew an instant of frozen expectancy when all the other close calls he had ever had passed in review before the immutable knowledge that some day somewhere there must be a call too close to dodge, and he thought: 'This is it.' For a flash the whole set-up seemed entirely rational and obvious. A gambling barge, a quarrel over a card game, a few shots, and the whole thing might be settled in a way in which Randolph March couldn't possibly be implicated. Only a su­preme combination of intuition and will-power kept his right hand from starting a hopeless dive for the butt of the Luger under his arm. It was a more than human feat to sit there without movement and expect the tearing shock of lead; but he thought: 'That's what they're waiting for. They want to be able to say I fired first. I won't give them that break, anyway.' But there were goose-pimples all over his body. The horsy man forced a laugh that clicked his teeth together, and stammered: 'G-good God, Gallipolis, what's the ripper for?'

There was still no shooting, and it seemed to Simon that he had stopped breathing for a long time. In a detached but still partly incredulous way he began to take in the details of the prospective gunner.

Any cooperative reader who has been herded along the paths of romance and adventure by well-trained authors before, knows that a Greek must be fat, swarthy, and apparently freshly rubbed down with oil. It is this chronicler's discouraging task to try to convince such an audience that Mr Gallipolis most inconsiderately declined to conform to these simple requirements. His figure was svelte, almost feminine. Limpid eyes showed tar-black in a sunburnt face crowned with crisp black curls. He wore a pink polo shirt open at the neck, khaki pants, and very clean white tennis shoes. He leaned against the door jamb and exhibited flawless white teeth in a grin. His hands on the double grips of the Thompson gun were as slender as a girl's.

He didn't even seem to pay any special attention to the Saint. His eyes enfolded the dealer in a melting embrace.

'Why did you push the buzzer, Frank?' he inquired liquidly. 'There's no stick-up here.'

'That's what you think,' said Frank. 'This cheapskate you let in here was trying to pull a fast one and welsh on us.'

The Greek said: 'So?' and his eyes wrapped themselves around Simon. 'Who the hell are you and how did you get on board? I never saw you before.'

'I came in the back door,' said the Saint. 'I sat in the game and accused your dealer of cheating, that's all'

Gallipolis's face grew long with melancholy.

'Were you cheating, Frank?'

'Hell, no! He was getting in too deep, so he tried to start something.'

'That's a lot of malarky!' said one of the bookkeepers boldly. 'He didn't start anything. He said these cards were crooked, and they are. We've seen 'em.'

Gallipolis looked amused.

'I have a hell of a time with dealers,' he told the Saint 'How much you got coming?'

'Fifty dollars.'

'Give him his money,' repeated Gallipolis, with a broadening smile.

The dealer produced a ten and two twenties and slapped them on the table. Gallipolis stepped aside and spoke to the Saint again.

''Come on, mister. You must have something on your mind or you wouldn't have come in the back door. We can talk it over in the bar.'

Simon took his money and stood up, admiring the way Gallipolis handled his gun. As Simon walked around the table, the Greek edged along the wall to keep the other players out of the line of fire. He was behind Simon when the Saint reached the door.

'Take it easy,' he recommended, as the Saint stepped out­side. 'If you start running I can drop you before you make the end of the hall.' He turned back to the other players. 'See what you can get out of Frank, boys. If you're still short anything, see me before you go.'

As Gallipolis left the room, the horsy man said: 'Did you ever eat a pack of cards, Quickfingers?' and left the table to close the door.

The bar furniture comprised a simple pinewood counter and three kitchen tables flanked with chairs. The Saint, walk­ing with a circumspect negation of haste, reached it alive, which he had at no time taken for granted. He discovered that the landward windows were shuttered to conceal an inside coating of thin steel. A square hole provided an outlook from the window at one end of the bar, and would also, Simon decided, have served very well for a gun port.

Gallipolis rested the machine gun on the counter and nodded Simon to a chair. He studied the Saint with his ever-present grin.

'Well, you're on board. So what? You don't look like a heist man. What are you, a Sam?' He answered his own question with a shake of his curly head. 'No, you don't look like the law. Give, friend, give. Who are you, and what do you want?'

IV How Mr Gallipolis Became Hospitable, and Karen Leith Kept Her Date

'I'm Simon Templar.' The Saint locked hands around his knee.

Curtains veiled the Greek's swimming eyes.

'So? The Saint? I heard you were in the southlands.'

'Who told you?'

Gallipolis shrugged.

'News leaks out fast to a boat like this. I thought you were big time-the biggest of the lot. What the hell's the idea of picking on me?'

Muffled noises came from the poker room, followed by curses and a groan. The Saint said: 'I'm afraid your customers really are feeding that pack of cards to Frank. I wonder if he's got a good digestion.'

'He had it coming,' said Gallipolis, still grinning. 'But you didn't come out here just for that. What else have I got that you want?'

The Saint found a smoke, thumbed his lighter, and inhaled pensively.

'I'm looking for a guy named Jesse Rogers.'

The Greek's face remained pleasantly receptive, with just a faint upward movement of his strongly marked black brows. Simon could picture his expression staying exactly the same right up until his forefinger squeezed a trigger.

'So?'

'Do you know him?'

'Sure.'

It was a spine-tickling sensation, having to take all the ini­tiative while growing more firmly convinced that Gallipolis would give no illuminating facial reaction until something fatal was said, and then fatal would be the only word for it 'Do you want to tell me anything about him?'

'Why not?' The Greek's candour seemed engagingly unfeigned. 'He's an entertainer-sings smutty songs at the piano. He plays here sometimes.'

'When?'

'Oh, not professionally. I mean he gambles. He works every night at a dive uptown called the Palmleaf Fan. You could have found him there. Why did you have to come and make trouble here?'