“Because the Saint’s a lot smarter than the cops,” said Freddie. “That’s what I hired him for. He can run rings round the cops any day. He’s been doing it for years. Lissa knows all about him, because she reads things. You tell them about him, Lissa.”
He came over with clusters of Manhattans in his hands, poured out in goblets that would have been suitable for fruit punch.
“Let her off,” said the Saint hastily. “If she really knows the whole story of my life she might shock somebody. Let’s do some serious drinking instead.”
“Okay,” said Freddie amiably. “You’re the boss. You go on being the mystery man. Let’s all get stinking.”
The fact that they did not all get stinking was certainly no fault of Freddie Pellman’s. It could not be denied that he did his generous best to assist his guests to attain that state of ideal ossification. His failure could only be attributed to the superior discretion of the company, and the remarkably high level of resistance which they seemed to have in common.
It was quite a classic performance in its way. Freddie concocted two more Manhattans, built on the same scale as milk shakes. There was then a brief breathing spell while they went to their rooms to change. Then they went to the Doll House for dinner. They had two more normal-sized cocktails before the meal, and champagne with it. After that they had brandy. Then they proceeded to visit all the other bars up and down the main street, working from north to south and back again. They had Zombies at the Luau, Planter’s Punches at the Cubana, highballs at the Chi Chi, and more highballs at Bil-Al’s. Working back, they freshened up with some beer at Happy’s, clamped it down with a Collins at the Del Tahquitz, topped it with Daiquiris at the Royal Palms, and discovered tequila at Claridge’s. This brought them back to the Doll House for another bottle of champagne. They were all walking on their own feet and talking intelligibly, if not profoundly. People have received medals for less notable feats. It must be admitted nevertheless that there had been a certain amount of cheating. The girls, undoubtedly educated by past experiences, had contrived to leave a respectable number of drinks unfinished, and Simon Templar, who had also been around, had sundry legerdemains of his own for keeping control of the situation.
Freddie Pellman probably had an advantage over all of them in the insulating effect of past picklings, but Simon had to admit that the man was remarkable. He had been alcoholic when Simon met him, but he seemed to progress very little beyond that stage. Possibly he navigated with a little more difficulty, but he could still stand upright; possibly his speech became a little more slurred, but he could still be understood; certainly he became rather more glassy-eyed, but he could still see what was going on. It was as if there was a definite point beyond which his calloused tissues had no further power to assimilate liquid stimulus: being sodden already, the overflow washed over them without depositing any added exhilaration.
He sat and looked at his glass and said, “There must be some other joints we haven’t been to yet.”
Then he rolled gently over sideways and lay flat on the floor, snoring.
Ginny gazed down at him estimatingly and said, “That’s only the third time I’ve seen him pass out. It must be catching up with him.”