“ Wine, that maketh glad the heart of man,” quoted Simon Templar, holding his glass appreciatively to the light. “The Psalmist would have had things to talk about.”
“It would have been a love match,” said Lieutenant Wendel, like a load of gravel.
“Up to a point,” Simon agreed. “But then he goes on: And oil to make him a cheerful countenance. Here we start asking questions. Is the prescription for internal or external application? Are we supposed to swallow the oil, or rub it on the face?... I am, of course, quoting the Revised Version. The King James has it Oil to make his face to shine, but the revisers must have had some reason for the change. Perhaps they wanted to restore some element of ambiguity in the original, dividing the plug equally between mayonnaise and Max Factor.”
The detective stared at him woodenly.
“I’ve wondered a lot of things about you, Saint. But what a guy like you wants with that quiz stuff is beyond me.”
Simon smiled.
“A man in my business can never know too much. A brigand has to be just a little ahead of the field — because the field isn’t just a lot of horses trying to win a race with him, but a pack of hounds trying to run him down. Quite a lot of my phenomenal success,” he said modestly, “is due to my memory for unconsidered trifles.”
Wendel grunted.
They sat in a booth in Arnaud’s, which Simon had chosen over the claims of such other temples of New Orleans cuisine as Antoine’s or Galatoire’s because the oak beams and subdued lights seemed to offer a more propitious atmosphere for a meal which he wanted to keep peaceful.
For Simon Templar was in some practical respects a devout lover of peace, and frequently tried very hard to vindicate the first person who had nicknamed him the Saint, in spite of all the legends of tumult and mayhem that had collected about that apparently incongruous sobriquet. Because a modern buccaneer in the perfect exploit would cause no commotion at all, even if this would make singularly dull reading; it is only when something goes wrong that the fireworks go off and the plot thickens with alarums and excursions, hues and cries, and all the uproar and excitement that provide such entertainment for the reader.