"Next week. Off to South Africa, India, Singapore, and back the same way."
"We'll miss you," said Cookie. "What about you, Tom — are you going to England?"
"Shanghai," said the Saint, wiping his droopy moustache. "Through the canal. An' back to Frisco."
Cookie poured herself another drink, and downed it at one gulp like a dose of medicine. Perhaps that was what it was for her.
"I've got to leave you," she announced. "Got my next show to do."
She helped herself to another small jolt, as an afterthought, just in case she had made a mistake and cheated herself on the last one. The effect on her was not even noticeable. Her small piggy eyes summarised the Saint with the quick covert shrewdness of an adept Fiftysecond-Street head waiter taking the measure of a new customer. She said with perfectly timed spontaneity: "Look, why don't you boys come over to the Cellar when you get through here? On the house."
Hogan thumped her heartily on the back without even jarring her.
"Darlin', what did ye think we were waitin' for? Sure, we'll be there shoutin' for ye. Won't we, Tom?"
"Crikey," said the Saint, with a wistful break in his voice. "You ain't arf giving us a time, ma'm. I mean, Cookie."
"That's fine," Cookie said. "Then I'll be expecting you. Kay, you take care of them and bring them along. See you all later."