“My friends call me Luella. And I’m sure you’re a friend.”
Without moving a muscle, the Saint conveyed the impression of bashfully digging a toe into the bar carpet.
“That’s mighty nice of you, ma’am — Luella. It’s a right pretty name. Sort of bell-like — or something.”
Luella touched the snapshot with a long red-tipped finger. “Your summer place looks wonderful.”
“Cost twenty thousand,” the Saint said modestly, “but worth every cent. Wife’s up there with the boys. And I’m here in Hollywood. Tendin’ to some business, o’ course, but—” His glance was a work of genius. It reminded you of a timid bather sticking a dainty toe in a pool of water before wading — not plunging — in. It reminded you of a nice boy playing hooky for the first time. It reminded you of a professor of Sanskrit about to consign a single quarter to a gaudy slot machine. “—but havin’ a little fun, too, if we tell the truth.”
Seated on a stool at the Beverly Wilshire bar, the Saint looked the part of a conservative businessman who could stick twenty grand into a summer place. His blue serge suit was of excellent cloth, but by a tailor who must have hated London. His high collar and tightly knotted dark tie placed him as a man who served on civic committees. And his hair, sleekly parted in the middle, added the final touch of authenticity to his characterization of Mr Samuel Taggart, Vice-President of the Stockmen’s National Bank of Visalia, California.
And that was what his business card, freshly printed earlier that same day, said. The name Taggart appeared on the back of the snapshot, bought earlier from a photographer’s shop.
“And are you having fun, Mr — uh—”
“Call me Sam, Luella,” the Saint simpered. “Wife calls me Samuel most of the time, but I like Sam. Sorta friendly, I think.”
“Are you having fun, Sam?”