The Saint in Miami
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Simon Templar is the Saint―daring, dazzling, and just a little disreputable. On the side of the law, but standing outside it, he dispenses his own brand of justice one criminal at a time.
The Saint and Patricia go to visit some friends in Miami―but when they get there they are shocked to learn their friends have disappeared. They move into their friends' house and start to investigate. Things get complicated when a tanker explodes off the Florida coast and a dead British sailor washes up on the shore. Simon suspects a link between the explosion and the disappearance, as well as the activities of shady millionaire Randolph March. There seems to be a Nazi spy ring operating out of Florida….
Leslie Charteris was born in Singapore and moved to England in 1919. He left Cambridge University early when his first novel was accepted for publication. He wrote novels about the Saint throughout his life, becoming one of the 20th century's most prolific and popular authors.
didn’t really trust you.” “For what reason?” March inquired coldly. “Well,” said the Saint, “he left this letter I was telling you about. In a sealed envelope. And there was a note with it which gave instructions that if anything happened to him it was to be sent to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” March sat quite still. The girl lighted a cigarette for herself, watching the Saint with intent and luminous eyes. March said, in an uneven voice, “Better put your gun away, Captain. It’s
dealer dangerously, “what sort of a place do you think this is?” The invisible coldness of angry men waiting for an explanation slid down like an avalanching glacier and crystallised the atmosphere of the room, but the Saint was utterly at ease. He leaned back in his chair and favoured the dealer with his most benevolent and carefree smile. “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
raced over everything, without stirring one fibre of that deep physical repose. So this was it…It seemed simple enough, now, so simple that he had to deride the energy he had squandered on all his preliminary alertness. Rogers had seen him, recognised him, and beaten him to the draw. He didn’t remember ever having seen Rogers before, but that was no reason to think that Rogers didn’t know him—he had to be more than a name to at least some of the units in the chain of conspiracy. Lafe Jennet
their crazy chariot bucketing down. The lights dipped woozily and rose slowly again towards the sky. When they levelled again, the way was barred with a solid curtain of sickly green that glittered with an unearthly luminescence. It took him some moments to realise that he was facing a motionless barrier of sawgrass with heavy stalks alight with clinging beads of dew. “Plenty grass,” said Charlie Halwuk. “But bottom got some sand right here. Drive on.” For an interminable hour the Saint clung
before them with sullen hostility and timeless patience, as though it were a sentient hungry thing that knew they must weaken in the end and be devoured… The marsh buggy chugged through endless alternations of jungle and swamp and grass and graves where the ghostly remnants of cypress trees spired upwards to make circular pincushions of mysterious pools. As the heat grew more stifling, jutting ends of logs became the sun-roofs of assorted turtles basking in friendly fashion beside deadly