“I’ll tell you all about it at lunch.”
“Did anyone tell you I was looking for a job?”
“Oh, I know all about you,” said Mr Ufferlitz confidently. “Been watching you for a long time. That was a great thing you did in Arizona. And that funny business in Palm Springs — I read all about it. So I know what you cost. You asked Pellman for a thousand dollars a day, didn’t you? Well, I’ll pay you the same. Only I don’t want a bodyguard.”
“How do you know I can do what you want?”
“Look,” said Mr Ufferlitz, “you’re Simon Templar, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re the fellow they call the Saint.”
Something like the faintest whisper of distant music seemed to touch the Saint’s eardrums with no more substance than the slipstream of a passing butterfly.
“Well,” he admitted cautiously, “I’ve heard the name.”
“You’re what they call the Robin Hood of modern crime. You’re the greatest crook that ever lived, and you’ve put more crooks away than all the detectives who keep trying to hang something on you. You’re always on the side of the guy who’s up against it, and you’re always busting up some graft or dirty work, and all the gals are nuts about you, and you can jump through windows like Doug Fairbanks used to and knock guys cold like Joe Louis and shoot like Annie Oakley and figure things out like Sherlock Holmes and... and—”