“Tea leaves, eh?” said the Saint. “Lucky numbers and cards and so forth?”
“And signs of the zodiac,” supplemented Phelan. “A swami, no less. The Swami Yogadevi.”
“Sounds like a new cocktail. Where does he come in?”
“The swami,” said Phelan sourly, “is the guy who advised Mom to buy the wretched stock. She’s sort of gotten into a habit of consulting him, I’m afraid. I suppose he makes a couple of passes at his crystal and evokes a genie, or something. Seems to lay Mother and several dozen other respectable old-ladies-about-town in the aisles, anyway.”
Simon cleaned up his plate and lighted a cigarette.
“One gathers, Larry, that Mama has been hornswoggled by a couple of pretty smooth operators. I almost think it’s a new combination.”
“Combination?”
“Of course. It must be. Don’t you see how it works? Your swami spots the suckers who have plenty of moola, and gets their confidence with his mumbo-jumbo. Which isn’t illegal if he doesn’t claim to predict futures. Your Mr Rochborne peddles stocks and makes no claim for them. You can’t prosecute a man for that. Separately, they mightn’t get too far. Working together, they’re terrific... How much,” asked the Saint gently, “did your mother pay for the Lucky Nugget mine?”
“Forty-five thousand smackers,” Phelan admitted glumly.
The Saint whistled. He proceeded to order coffee and then sank into a lethargy which might or might not have denoted deep thought.