“I didn’t think they’d ever part with a negative,” said the Saint. “You’d have felt fine in a few months when Brother Joyson dropped in and told you how sorry he was he hadn’t been able to get any more evidence with your dough, and he was going to have to cite you as correspondent after all — unless, of course, you wanted to finance some more detectives.”
“All the pictures have names and address on them,” confirmed Patricia, who was going through the suitcase in the back of the car while they drove.
“So a lot of people will have a pleasant surprise when they get ’em back. That’s why it had to be played my way, so the gang’d be sure to pack everything up and drop it in our laps. Sometimes I think a great psychologist was lost in me.”
Simon Templar eased the sedan around a corner and parked it behind his own convertible.
“A very satisfactory evening,” he remarked. “What else have you got in that suitcase besides clothes, Pat?”
She handed him one of the bundles of greenbacks, and the Saint grinned.
“Fourteen hundred bucks, wasn’t it, Bill?” He flipped off the bills. “And the rest I suppose we’ll have to divvy up and send back to the original donors — less, of course, our fee for collection.”
Bill Harvey said, “I can’t tell you how swell you’ve been, sir. If it hadn’t been for you—”
“Forget it,” said the Saint. “I can’t tell you how much fun it was.”
Patricia Holm harked back to that, broodingly, some minutes later when they were driving away in their own car.