“Not so fast,” said the Saint. “Whose old lady is in distress?”
“My old lady, if you must know.”
“Your mother?”
“None other.”
“This,” said the Saint, “is beginning to sound like a Gilbert and Sullivan duet. You can buy me lunch and tell me all about it.”
Larry Phelan was a little shorter than the Coit Tower and much more interesting to know. He had the face of a college sophomore and the mind of the top-drawer mining engineer that he was.
“My mother,” he explained gloomily, over écrevisses au vin blanc, “is in the situation of any elderly lady with an excess of both time and money. Especially money.”
“A rather pleasant situation,” commented the Saint, chewing. “Is there such a thing as too much money?”
“Some people seem to think so,” said Phelan. “Did you ever hear of a guy called Melville Rochborne?”
Simon shook his head.