The Saint tagged posts


Having ensconced himself into his lodgings, Simon retrieved a copy of the Post and settled into a large, chair with a slightly contented sigh. But no sooner had he made himself comfortable than a knock came at his door. Lifting himself from the seated position with a sigh, Simon opened the door to reveal a delivery boy.

“Telegram for Mr. Templar,” he said predictably.

Simon identified himself as the recipient and tipped the lad generously before shooing him away. Closing the door, he examined the communique. It was from an old acquaintance of his who had made a fair sum of money chronicling the occasional tale of The Saint’s exploits.

Business advisor Charles Hillarram fleeced clients stop. Lives in Pierre Hotel stop. Up your alley stop. L.C.

A smile curled the corner of the Saint’...

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The Plaza is one of the finest hotels in all of New York City. A hotel which exercises a certain amount of discretion over the guests they admit to their august accommodations. Simon Templar, strolling nonchalantly to the front desk of the Plaza hotel, was well aware of this.

As he signed the register Simon Templar, the desk clerk’s forehead creased in worry as he looked up. “Simon Templar?” he asked. “Are you, by any chance, The Saint?”

The corner of Simon’s mouth twitched upward imperceptibly. As a man used to the best hotels, he was used to this sort of thing. With a nod, he confirmed the clerk’s suspicions. “I have been known by that name, yes.”

The clerk’s spine straightened, and he spoke with the utmost courtesy. “I am sorry, Mr...

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