“It’s the artist in me. I see pretty women simply as interesting masses of light, shadow, and line.”
“Curved lines, of course.”
“Of course. Did you notice, darling Pat, that there was a certain note in that conversation, on which we so shamelessly eavesdropped, which didn’t quite belong?”
Patricia frowned.
“Well... I... she was flirting with the sergeant — a little. But who wouldn’t? He’s nice-looking, in a craggy sort of way. His kind of crisp curly hair always gives women itchy fingers.”
“I always wondered what did it,” murmured the Saint. “Ah, the patter of little fingers through one’s locks...!” He dropped his bantering tone for one laced with puzzlement. “But there was something off key. Her ‘place’? That usually means an apartment. Why her apartment? She’s a female real-estate agent — why not an office? Oh well...” He shrugged. “The sergeant is a lucky character, Pat. He has — or will shortly have — a place to lay his head, and those of his family. Which he most certainly deserves, but which doesn’t help us. However, it does give me an idea.”
“Don’t let it run away with you,” said Patricia tartly. “You haven’t seen his wife yet.”
The Saint ran a hand over his dark head.
“Darling, my thoughts would get a special award from the Hays office. It only occurred to me that there may be a solution to this hotel business. Why do we have to go through this routine with the hotels? Why don’t we just take an apartment, and when we’re tired of the place we’ll just rent it and move on.”
This was an interesting idea while it lasted, which was for some three hours after lunch. In that time they had an intensive refresher course in the topography of Hollywood and Beverly Hills, made the acquaintance of a couple of dozen real-estate agents and twice that many apartment managers, and came painfully to the conclusion that several thousand other people had had the same idea first.