The Saint struck a match.
“I have a sort of weakness,” he explained apologetically, “for knowing what’s going on. A lot of weird things have been happening lately, and a guy can’t be too careful. My dear old grannie always told me that. If you really want me to believe that you just came following me in search of fun, I’ll be a little gentleman and stop arguing—out loud. But you seemed to be pretty well in with Randy last night, and you may have gathered that there is some unfinished business between him and me. So I’m going to ask a lot of questions about your change of heart, whether you like it or not. On the other hand, if you’ve got something else on your mind, let’s quit stalling and have it out.”
“Suppose I came here to tell you something?”
“To warn me off?” he said quizzically. “I’ve been warned off before.”
“Damn you!” she flashed. “You wouldn’t have to tell me you couldn’t be warned. Anyone would know it. You’re the Saint—the King of Crime—the magnificent infallible hero! You couldn’t be told that you were meddling with something too tough for you. I wouldn’t waste my time.”
“Then what?” he inquired equably.
She mastered the temper that went so well with her proud fiery head.
“I might be able to tell you where Haskins found the note that brought him here. I might—”
A whining sound like that of a magnified malignant mosquito zipping between them cut her off. From the direction of the driveway a rifle cracked, sending its echo bouncing out to sea. Frozenly she turned her head and stared at the scar where a mushroom bullet had excavated its own grave in the stucco wall.
2
Bushes crashed at the base of the palms along the driveway. Simon saw the fluttering movement of the foliage, and heard a squeal reminiscent of a frightened rat, and the sound of a heavy fall. Instinctively he reached for Karen Leith, and was ready to swing her out of the way of whatever might be developing. With her soft figure in the curve of his arm, he stood warily watching the shrubbery.
“You can always find some excuse for this sort of thing, can’t you?” she remarked, with commendable sang-froid.
“It’s a knack I have,” he said, without a shift of his keen blue eyes.
The nearer oleanders began to sway. They parted, making way for the passage of Hoppy Uniatz’s pithecanthropoid physique.
Mr Uniatz clutched a rifle in one hand, and the neck of a denim-clad figure in the other. His homely face was beatific with the consciousness of work well done as he ploughed towards the patio with both his burdens at trail. The worn heels of the lanky captive in his right hand bumped limply along behind him, kicking up little spurts of dust.
He waded through an intervening bed of assorted petunias, leaving a wide swath of destruction behind him, and dumped his prize at Simon’s feet with the pleased and playful air of a spaniel bringing in a bird.
“Dis is de lug,” he said. “He shoots at ya once before I can get to him.”
He swung his foot at the offender broodingly.
“Before you boot him to death,” Simon intervened, “let’s find out if he’s got anything to say.”
He released the girl, and inspected the catch with interest.
The man was breathing noisily, sucking in gobs of air to replenish the supply which had been temporarily cut off by the clutch of Hoppy’s ungentle hand. He stared back up at Simon with sunken rabbit eyes which formed reddish beads in a face of a million lines. The wrinkles converged on loose-hung lips drawn back over snaggly yellow teeth. Topping the face was a dirty patch of unkempt hair.
“A very pretty creature,” said the Saint, and turned to Karen. “Is he a friend of yours?”
Her red lips tightened.
“Thanks for the flattery.”
“Well, have you ever seen him before?”
“Thank God, no. Why should I have?”
“I just wondered,” said the Saint carelessly, “who he was aiming at.”
From behind them, Patricia asked anxiously, “What happened, boy? We heard the shot from the beach.”
The red-haired girl whirled round and stared at her with detached appraisal. Peter Quentin came up on the run and stopped beside Pat, and did his own staring. As between expert inventories, there was nothing much in it for either side to claim an edge.
“Friends of mine,” said the Saint. “Miss Holm and Mr Quentin.” He pointed to the bullet hole in the wall. “Miss Leith very kindly came here to tell me something, and she was about to do it when our little playmate took a pot at us.”
“I warn’t shootin’ at nobody,” the man broke out in a sullen whine.
“Get up,” ordered the Saint coldly.
The man hesitated, and Hoppy prodded him in the stomach with the muzzle of the rifle.
“Giddap, youse! You hoid what de boss said.” The man scrambled to his feet, and Hoppy turned to Simon. “Lemme woik him over a bit, boss. I can break him down.”
“In the rumpus room,” said the Saint.
Mr Uniatz took hold of the prisoner’s collar and moved him off, encouraging his progress by goosing him briskly in the stern with the rifle barrel. Simon followed, and was not surprised to find the others silently entering the playroom after him.
He waved them to chairs, and carefully closed the door. The room was spacious and rather bare, an admirable venue for sonic mildly athletic cross-examination. Best of all, it was well sound-proofed with an eye to its normal function, but that feature was equally convenient for other things. Mr Uniatz pushed the scowling captive into a seat, and then became aware that in addition to its other advantages the room also contained a bar. It seemed to him that this was a last refining touch of architectural genius. Satisfied that the situation was now under the Saint’s adequate command, he eased away on a voyage of exploration…
Simon straddled a chair, leaned on his folded arms, and scrutinised the specimen for dissection for a leisured period which was intended to give it every opportunity to realise its predicament.
“You can make it just as tough as you like, brother,” he announced at length. “What were you shooting at us for?”
The man glared back at him with stubborn animosity, wriggling uneasily on the edge of the hard seat which Hoppy had chosen for him. The overalls he wore were a shade too small. An ungainly stretch of sockless ankle showed white above the tops of his shoes.
“What’s your name?” asked the Saint patiently.
The red eyes squinted.
“None of your goddam—”
The rest of the speech was cut off with a clunking sound as Mr Uniatz tapped him moderately on the side of the head with the bottle of Peter Dawson which he had just opened.
“I can make him come t’ru, boss,” he volunteered. “I know a guy once in Brooklyn I have to ask questions about some dough he is holdin’ out. He talks for two hours straight when I hold matches under his toes.”
“You see, brother,” Simon explained, “Hoppy gets homesick for the good old days every now and again and wants to play, and I simply haven’t the heart to refuse him.”
The man’s gnarled fingers clasped and unclasped nervously. He ran one hand up the leg of his overalls to remove sweat from the palm.
“My name’s Lafe Jennet,” he said sulkily. “I was shootin’ at a bird. You ain’t goin’ to kill nobody and you ain’t goin’ to hurt nobody, and I ain’t aimin’ to talk none to you.”
“Boss,” pleaded Mr Uniatz, warming to the flow of inspiration and Scotch whisky, “I got anudder idea. You get some pliers outa de car an’ take hold of de guy’s toenails—”
“We may have time to try both,” said the Saint cheeringly. “Take off his shoe.”
He rose and turned his back and strolled towards a window. He heard Hoppy’s frightening voice.
“Stick out ya foot or I’ll kick ya shins in.”
“The other one,” Simon said without looking round. “Not the one he stuck out. Take off his other shoe.”
�
��It don’t make no difference, boss. It woiks de same.”
“The other shoe, Hoppy.”
He gazed out at the sunlit scene outside, and waited. The sound of a brief scuffle ended in a grunt of pain.
“It’s off, boss. Which ja wanna try foist?”
Karen Leith crushed out her cigarette and gave a tiny sigh.
“Take a look at his ankle and tell me what you see,” Simon instructed.
“Chees, boss, he’s got ringwoim,” Hoppy exclaimed admiringly. “Howja know dat?”
“It’s the gall of a leg-iron.” Simon turned from the window and strode back towards the prisoner. “You’ve been towing around a ball in a chain gang, Lafe. You ought to have blown yourself to a pair of socks. The mark shows.”
“You’re pretty damn smart, ain’t you?” Jennet spat out “Well, I been in a chain gang an’ I served my time. So what’s it to you?”
Simon stepped back a pace and surveyed the calloused ankle.
“You escaped, Lafe,” he stated impassively. “You hung it on the limb. Somebody knocked that shackle off you with a sledge-hammer. Your ankle’s still black and blue. Of course, if you’d rather talk to Sheriff Haskins than to me, we can always send for him.”
Jennet’s bloodshot eyes swivelled from left to right, as if in search of a way of escape that was not there. He sat erect for an instant, a picture of deadly hatred; then he slumped back and gripped his hands about one knee.
“I’ll talk to you, mister.”
“That’s splendid.” Simon drew his cigarette into a glow. “Who hired you to shoot at us?”
“I don’t know.”
The Saint raised his eyebrows.
“Hoppy—”
“I told you, I don’t know. That is, I don’t know nuthin’ except his name—Jesse Rogers.”
Behind him, Simon heard the quick grating creak of a wicker chair. For some reason it made his mind flash back to the night before, when Karen Leith had spilled her champagne.
He turned quickly. She was lighting a cigarette with a tremorless hand. She had taken the match from a box on a table beside her—her shift of position in reaching for the light accounted for the sound.
Simon resumed his interrogation with a sheepish feeling that for once his nerves had played him false.
“Where does this guy live?”
“I don’t know.”
“I suppose you don’t know nothing except his address.”
“See here,” Jennet snarled. “I said I’d talk, an’ I’m talkin’. I lammed from the gang a week ago from a road camp near Olustee. I got a friend who owns a barge near heah. I done somethin’ for him once, so he done somethin’ for me. He hid me out.”
“What’s his name?”
“A Greek called Gallipolis. This Rogers comes in to do a little gamblin’. Somehow he got on to me. He come out there early this mornin’. It was a case of you or me. Either I did the job or he sent me back to the gang. I never saw him before, an’ I don’t know nuthin’ about him.”
“Are you sure,” said the Saint, “that you weren’t hired to kill a girl? A red-haired girl?” He pointed to Karen. “Like this one?”
“No, mister. It was you.”
“You must be a lousy shot.”
“I’m the best danged—”
Jennet broke off raggedly.
The Saint looked at him peacefully and said, “Oh, are you? Then under those humble and somewhat smelly overalls you must hide a kind heart after all.”
“Mister, I never tried. If I’d tried, you wouldn’t be standin’ up now. I never could shoot a man in cold blood.”
The Saint took a meditative saunter up and down the room. Nobody else moved. Aside from the almost inaudible pad of his bare footsteps, the only thing that intruded into the stillness was the sedative gurgle of good Scotch laving the appreciative palate of Mr Uniatz.
Finally he faced Jennet again, with his decision made.
“I’m going to give you a chance to prove your story,” he said. “I want to meet this guy Rogers.”
Jennet’s face crinkled with a touch of fear.
“What good does that do me?”
“If your story’s true,” Simon told him, “I might forget my legal duty and not give you back to Sheriff Haskins.”
“How do I know?”
“You don’t,” said the Saint unhelpfully. “You’ll just have to take a chance. You’re going to lead me to that barge after lunch…Hoppy, give him his shoes back and tie him up. I’ll have some food sent over, but don’t let Desdemona in. She might be a little startled. Take the tray at the door. I’m going to put on some clothes and get a drink.”
As they crossed the patio, Karen Leith looked at her watch.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to go,” she said.
“Must you?”
“I’ve stayed too long already.” She turned to Peter and Patricia. “It’s so nice to have met you.”
“You must come again,” said Patricia, in a voice of arsenical sweetness.
Simon’s lip twitched impenitently as he took the red-haired girl’s arm and led her around the house.
“Did you change your mind about what you were going to tell me?”
“I’ll exchange it for something else.”
“Another catch?”
“You don’t have to trade if you don’t want to.”
“Suppose you ask first.”
She played with a bracelet on her wrist.
“I wanted to be here before Haskins arrived. I came as soon as I knew. Since I was late, I’d give anything to know how you were able to satisfy him.”
The Saint laughed, softly and rapturously, like a small boy.
“That’s making it too easy. I wanted you to know. I’d have told you anyway. I even wish I could be sure you’d go back to March and tell him. It’s too good to lose.”
“Why?”
“Because it was the best thing that could have ever happened. I didn’t have to deny anything. I admitted that I wrote that note.”
“But—”
“I know I didn’t. But I might have. It fitted perfectly. You see, Justine Gilbeck wrote us a letter and begged us to come here, because her father was in some sort of mysterious trouble and she thought we might be able to help. I’d kept the letter. So I just had hysterics, and showed it to Haskins.”
Her face showed a mixture of reactions too complex to analyse. Red lips and deep violet eyes were both as elusive as the reflections in rippling water, but he felt the involuntary stirring of firm muscles in her rounded arm.
“Now, Ginger,” he said, “where did that note come from?”
“From the Mirage.” Her voice at least was completely matter-of-fact. “It was found this morning, abandoned at Wildcat Key. There was no trace of the Gilbecks or their crew.”
He walked a few steps in silence, trying to find a niche for this new knowledge.
“Where is this Wildcat Key?” he asked evenly.
“It’s just outside of Card Sound, south of Old Rhodes Key.” They had reached the cream-coloured Packard. “We could run down there on a fishing trip tomorrow—if your blonde girlfriend wouldn’t object.”
He opened the car door.
“Let’s have dinner tonight and talk it over—if you can get away from Randy again.”
She settled herself on the maroon leather upholstery. The starter whirred, twisting the motor into a throaty purr.
“What else is there to talk over?”
“I still haven’t asked you the most important question.”
“What’s that?”
“What is your place in this picnic?”
His hand was still on the car door, and for a moment her fingers rested lightly on his.
“Ask me tonight,” she said. And then she was gone, and he was crinkling his eyes into the dust of her departure.
3
Simon Templar poured gin and French vermouth into a tall crystal mixer, added a shot of Angostura, and swizzled the
mixture with a long spoon. Then he poured some of it over the olives in three cocktail glasses and passed them around.
“In spite of your lack of sex appeal,” Peter Quentin said frowningly, “Patricia and I have been getting attached to you. We’re going to miss you when you’re gone.”
“Gone where?” Simon inquired.
Peter flourished a hand which seemed to push back the walls of the house and patio and encompass the world outside.
“Out to the Great Beyond,” he said sombrely. “When you start for that barge this afternoon, you might wear a target over your heart. It’ll give March’s snipers something to aim at, and save a lot of messy bracketing.”
Simon regarded him compassionately, and tested his concoction.
“You’re worrying about nothing. You heard Lafe Jennet boast about how he could shoot, and I believe him. That bloodshot eye was hatched out behind a rifle sight. He could knock an ant out of a palm top, shooting against the sun.”
“Then what was he trying to do—knock down the wall?”
“The trouble with your peanut brain,” said the Saint disparagingly, “is that you’re putting the March Combine in the same class as Hoppy—bop ’em quick, and the hell with where they fall. You’ve forgotten our mythical protective letter, and other such complications. If Jennet could have popped me if he’d wanted to, which I believe, then his orders only were to scare me. And the organiser of the scheme expected that we’d catch him. And the organiser also expected Jennet to squeal when things started to look too tough. And Jennet did. He squealed all he knew, which was exactly what he was meant to squeal, and did it much better that way than if they’d tried to coach him in a part. The idea being to make me think I’ve been pretty clever, and send me rushing out to this barge like a snorting warhorse.”
“And that’s just what you mean to do, so everybody ought to be happy.” Peter finished his Martini and ate the olive. “Whatever they’ve arranged for you there goes through according to schedule, and you end up at the bottom of the Tamiami Canal, weighted down with a couple of tons of coal.”
He went back to the portable bar for a refill.
“His red-headed heart-throb won’t look so luscious in black,” said Patricia troubledly.
The Saint in Miami (The Saint Series) Page 8