“A blonde,” she said. “Well, Lissa, it’s nice to have known you.”
Freddie didn’t even seem to hear it. He picked up his glass, still staring raptly at the vision. He put the glass to his lips.
It barely touched, and he stiffened. He took it away and stared at it frozenly. Then he pushed it across the table towards the Saint.
“Smell that,” he said.
Simon put it to his nostrils. The hackneyed odor of bitter almonds was as strong and unmistakable as any mystery-story fan could have desired.
“It doesn’t smell like prussic acid,” he said, with commendable mildness. He put the glass down and drew on his cigarette again, regarding the exhibit moodily. He was quite sure now that he was going to collect his day’s wages without much more delay. And probably the next day’s pay in advance, as well. At that, he thought that the job was poorly paid for what it was. He could see nothing in it at all to make him happy. But being a philosopher, he had to cast around for one little ray of sunshine. Being persistent, he found it. “So anyway,” he said, “at least we don’t have to bother about the servants anymore.”
7
It was a pretty slender consolation, he reflected, even after they had returned to the house and he had perfunctorily questioned the servants, only to have them jointly and severally corroborate each other’s statements that none of them had left the place that afternoon.
After which, they had all firmly but respectfully announced that they were not used to being under suspicion, that they did not feel comfortable in a household where people were frequently getting stabbed at, shot at, and poisoned at; that in any case they would prefer a less exacting job with more regular hours; that they had already packed their bags; and that they would like to catch the evening bus back to Los Angeles, if Mr Pellman would kindly pay them up to date.
Freddie had obliged them with a good deal of nonchalance, being apparently not unaccustomed to the transience of domestic help.