In case any patron might be arriving without a perfectly clean conception of the atmospheric motif of the joint, the requisite keynote was struck immediately by the resplendent personage who advanced to greet them as they pulled up alongside the “gangplank.”
“Get a load of the Admiral,” Simon observed, as he set the hand brake.
The “Admiral” was one to arouse exclamations. He had more gold braid than an Arabian-nights tapestry, his epaulets raised his shoulder height three inches, his cocked hat probably had John Paul Jones spinning in his grave, and the boots were masterpieces of dully gleaming leather. His face was square, and hearty and red as fresh beefsteak.
He eyed the Saint and Patricia, resplendent in evening dress, with limited approbation.
“Ahoy there!” he hailed them, in a restrained bellow. “Have you arranged for your moorings?”
“If by that corny seagoing salutation you mean do we have reservations,” the Saint replied, “no. We do not.”
“Then I’m sorry, skipper,” the admiral boomed. “You can’t drop anchor.”
“But, Admiral,” Pat said, “we drove all the way from—”
“Very sorry, miss. But the harbor’s overcrowded already.”
“This is Patricia Holm,” the Saint said, “and I am Simon Templar.”