She almost ran out of the apartment, and the front door slammed behind her.
Patricia and Hoppy returned their blank stares to the Saint — Patricia’s tinged with irony.
“Too bad,” she said. “And you were just starting to make such an impression.”
“Chees,” Hoppy said between mouthfuls, resuming his assault on the food, “de Torpedo gettin’ killed last night kinda made her blow her top, huh, boss?”
“It was that gun,” Pat stated, “that upset her. Why?”
Simon picked up the revolver and turned it idly in his hands.
“My crystal ball doesn’t work like yours,” he said, and he smiled at her. “Rather an attractive little thing, isn’t she?”
“Oh, rather,” Pat agreed, her smile sweetly corrosive, “if you like them on the slightly hysterical side.”
Simon laughed, his fingernail tracing the small intertwined letters engraved on the metal just above the stock of the gun.
“Poor Melusina,” he sighed whimsically. “I’m afraid her dear old daddy is making her cry.”