Simon, known as the Saint in varying degrees of love, hate, and envy, lounged behind the wheel of a long low convertible, and pushed that rented job up Collins Avenue at ten miles more than the law allowed. Patricia, her golden head making the moon look like a polished penny, sat easily beside him.
“Simon,” she said, “look at that moon. It can’t be real.”
“Strictly a prop, Pat,” the Saint said. “The president of the Chamber of Commerce hangs it up each night.”
“If you had any romance in what you call your soul,” Patricia complained, “you’d admit it was pretty lush.”
“And when we get to the Quarterdeck Club, the atmosphere will be even lusher.”
After a contemplative silence, the girl said, “There must be something beyond that, Simon — something that scared Lida Verity half out of her mind. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been so desperate on the phone.”
“You know her better than I do. Is she the hysterical type?”
“Not even in the Greek meaning of the word,” Pat said. “She’s a swell gal. Nice family, nice husband in the Navy, plenty of money, and she has her head screwed on tight. She’s in trouble, all right.”
“Then why didn’t she call Sheriff Haskins?... Ah, I see things.”
“Things” were a neon sign which read “The Quarterdeck” and a driveway which led through an avenue of royal palms, past a doorway labeled “Gangplank,” to a vista of macadam which could have served as the flight deck of an aircraft carrier, but appeared to be used as a parking lot. On this bit of real-estate development were parked Cadillacs, Chryslers, Chevrolets, and cars further along in the alphabet, all with gleaming paint jobs and, as far as could be seen in the advertisable moonlight, good tires.