The scion of Amsterdam’s most traditionalistic brewery had spent some years in the United States, and prided himself on his complete assimilation of the culture of the New World.
“Pete!” The Saint grinned. “You couldn’t have shown up at a better moment.”
“I’ve been out in the sticks,” Liefman said. “I just got back in town and got your message, and I came right over to try and track you down. What’s boiling?”
“Let’s get a drink somewhere and I’ll tell you.”
“My hot-shot’s outside. We can drive out to Scherpenzeel, to the De Witte.”
“Good enough. The way you drive, you can get me back in plenty of time for what I want to do later.”
As Pieter Liefman needled his Jaguar through the sparse evening traffic with an ebullient disregard for all speed laws and principles of safety that would have had most passengers gripping the seat and muttering despondent prayers, Simon Templar leaned back with a cigarette and reflected gratefully on his good fortune. Pieter’s timely arrival had made his project even neater than he had hoped.
“I guess you rate pretty high in this town, Pete,” he remarked.
“If you mean I should get a ducat for speeding, you don’t know the quarter of it. They throw the books at me about once a week.”
“But in any serious case, I imagine you’d be as influential a witness as any guy could want.”