The Saint in Miami
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Simon Templar is the Saint―daring, dazzling, and just a little disreputable. On the side of the law, but standing outside it, he dispenses his own brand of justice one criminal at a time.
The Saint and Patricia go to visit some friends in Miami―but when they get there they are shocked to learn their friends have disappeared. They move into their friends' house and start to investigate. Things get complicated when a tanker explodes off the Florida coast and a dead British sailor washes up on the shore. Simon suspects a link between the explosion and the disappearance, as well as the activities of shady millionaire Randolph March. There seems to be a Nazi spy ring operating out of Florida….
Leslie Charteris was born in Singapore and moved to England in 1919. He left Cambridge University early when his first novel was accepted for publication. He wrote novels about the Saint throughout his life, becoming one of the 20th century's most prolific and popular authors.
found that my motives are sometimes misunderstood when I try to interest the Law in my troubles.” “Mebbe that’s so.” “Look,” Simon insisted, “how hard did you try to give me the benefit of the doubt when you found that note of mine on the Mirage? Not any longer than it took you to get out to Gilbeck’s and start calling me names—” “Just a minute, son.” Haskins elongated his neck a couple of inches. “Who told you that was where I found that note?” The Saint sighed out a steady feather of smoke.
cigarette. Peter and Patricia would never have gone to bed until they heard from him. And they wouldn’t have gone out, because he had told them to stand by. But except for a single light burning in the servants’ quarters the house was in blackness. He went into the hall and through it to the patio. The lights were out there also, and his ears could pick up no sound but the rustle of palm fronds and the ceaseless muted roaring of the surf. He turned from the patio into the kitchen. “Where are
with its periscope and conning tower outlined in sharp silhouette against the sheen of the pool. To his right, a small dock shaped like a slender capital T pointed from the water into the shore, at a place where a group of corrugated-iron buildings, probably storehouses, clustered around a huge aluminium-painted fuel storage tank. Tied up to the dock was a small open motor-boat, rubbing gently against the piling in the river current. A little further on, another long low building broke the dusk
either. At his side, the lengthy funebrial form of Sheriff Newton Haskins dripped black coat-tails down the back of his perch. He looked at Simon with a fair rendition of surprise. “Well, dang my eyes? Wheah did you come from, son?” “I was here first,” said the Saint. “If you remember.” The sheriff’s lean jaws champed once on nothing. As though the motion reminded him of an omission, Haskins drew one hand slowly out of a pocket and bit off a chew from a fresh length of plug. “Waitin’ for
break the whole story as soon as they’re set for it.” Haskins drank again, gloomily. “O’ course,” he said, “I don’t rightly know if that covers a feller in Ochopee who’s swore out a warrant agin you for assaultin’ him an’ stealin’ his blasted car.” “Are you going to serve it?” “Nope,” Haskins said. “I tore it up. I figured it warn’t legal. Who the hell ever heard o’ callin’ a boat with ten-foot wheels on it a car?” Simon lighted a cigarette with some care. “Daddy,” he said softly, “I was