He stopped his horse abruptly, after a time, as the broad flat that they had been riding over ended suddenly at the brink of a sharp cliff. At the foot of the bluff, another long column of tall silent palms bordered a rustling stream. He lighted a cigarette, and wondered cynically how many of the spoiled playboys and playgirls who used Palm Springs for their wilder weekends, and saw nothing but the smooth hotels and the Racquet Club, even realised that the name was not just a name, and that there really were Palm Springs, sparkling and crystal clear, racing down out of the overshadowing mountains to make hidden nests of beauty before they washed out into the extinction of the barren plain...
Freddie Pellman reined in beside him, looked the landscape over, and said, tolerantly, as if it were a production that had been offered for his approval: “This is pretty good. Is this where we eat?”
“If everybody can take it,” said the Saint, “there’s a pool further up that I’d like to look at again.”
“I can take it,” said Freddie, comprehensively settling the matter.
Simon put his horse down the steep zigzag, and stopped at the bottom to let it drink from the stream. Freddie drew up beside him again — he rode well enough, having probably been raised to it in the normal course of a millionaire’s son’s upbringing — and said, still laboring with the same subject: “Do you really think one of the girls could be in on it?”
“Of course,” said the Saint calmly. “Gangsters have girlfriends. Girlfriends do things like that.”
“But I’ve known all of them for some time at least.”
“That may be part of the act. A smart girl wouldn’t want to make it too obvious — meet you one day, and bump you off the next. Besides, she may have a nice streak of ham in her. Most women have. Maybe she thinks it would be cute to keep you in suspense for a while. Maybe she wants to make an anniversary of it, and pay off for Johnny this Christmas.”
Freddie swallowed.
“That’s going to make some things — a bit difficult.”