Junior said rude things.
"You see?" said the Saint. "The atmosphere isn't right. But just wait till I have a heart-to-heart talk with him. I'll even bribe him, if necessary. I'll introduce him to a good dentist. I know he can't enjoy being mistaken for a rat every time he passes an exterminator service. Besides, I'm sure he can't chew his food properly. Bad indigestion probably soured his temper in youth and led him into a life of crime. We can fix that. We take him to a dentist, and just ask him whether he'll have it with or without novocain. Now if you call me tomorrow--''
Monica Varing, to her astonishment, found that she was at the door.
"Wait a minute!" she protested. "I started this--"
"And a nice job you did," said the Saint sincerely. "But Junior's vocabulary may shock you when we really go to work on him. And I promised you wouldn't be late for your curtain. But I'll report progress-do you get up for lunch?"
He closed the door after her, and came back to stand thoughtfully over Junior.
"Chees," said Hoppy, giving voice to a profound conclusion. "Who'd ever tink dat old sack was an actress?"
"She may surprise you next time you see her," said the Saint, "even if she doesn't use fans in her act. . . . She's given me an idea, too. Hoppy, I feel Thespian urges."
Mr. Uniatz appeared shocked. Luckily, before he could speak, Simon set his mind at ease.
"I'm going to be an actor. I'm going to play the role of a beggar. After all, I can be bait just as well as Monica Varing. . . . First, though, we'd better put Junior on ice."
"Dat's gonna be tough, boss," Hoppy said dubiously. "Won't de cement stores be shut?"
"Then we'll have to try something else," said the Saint cheerfully. "Do you know where we can park Junior till they open? A warm, cozy oubliette?"
Hoppy considered.
"Lemme see. I useta know a guy called Sammy de Leg."
"Then by all means pick up the phone and call Samuel. Ask him if he'd like to have a house guest."
"Listen!" Junior burst out. "I don't know nothing about this beggar racket! That dame chased me up the alley--"
"With your gun in her back," Simon agreed. "I saw it. You need protection. If beggar women keep chasing you up alleys, you won't be safe till you're locked up where they can't get at you. Hoppy and I feel we must take care of you."
He finished his drink contentedly while Mr. Uniatz completed a cryptic conversation.
"It's all set, boss," Hoppy announced finally. "We can go dere right now."
"I ain't goin' nowhere!" Junior cried desperately.
"How you do talk," said the Saint.
CHAPTER FOUR
Two miles north of Wheaton, Simon Templar turned his car, at Hoppy's direction, into a driveway bordered by high hedges.
Even the Saint's fortitude was slightly shaken by the rambling lunatic monstrosity of a house that squatted like Tom o' Bedlam in the midst of well-kept lawns. Simon was no great authority on architecture, but he felt that the man who had designed this excrescence should have been shot, preferably in the cradle. It had once been a mansion; there was a carriage house, converted into a garage, and servants' quarters hung precariously on the structure's gray scaling back, like a laggard extra hump on a camel. Gambrels, cupolas, balconies, railings, warts, wens, and minor scrofulous scraps were all over the house. It was a fine example of the corniest period in unfunctional design.
"Dis is it," Hoppy said proudly. "De classiest jernt in de county, when Capone has it."
Simon brought the car to a halt, and smiled encouragingly upon the troubled passenger beside him.
"Don't let the rococo touch scare you, Junior," he said. "I've seen mortuaries that looked like night clubs, too. . . . Unpack him, Hoppy."
Mr. Uniatz, the other half of the sandwich whose ham was Junior, had already emerged. He jerked the rug from Junior's knees and deftly unbuckled the strap that had immobilized the gunman's ankles.
"C'mon," he said. "I seen lotsa better guys dan you walk in here, even if dey was carried out."
The rickety front porch creaked under them. Hoppy rang the bell and almost instantly something resembling a beer barrel covered with a thick pelt of black fur rolled out and began beating Hoppy violently about the ears. Simon watched in amazement. Yells, curses, and jovial threats curdled the air. Mr. Uniatz, a horrible grin splitting his anthropoid face, locked in a death struggle with his opponent, and in this manner they revolved across the threshold and vanished into the house, A muffled bellowing leaked out behind them.
"Don't leave us," the Saint said, reaching out to collar Junior. "You wouldn't get anywhere."
He lugged his burden through the doorway, where he found that the brawl had broken up, and Hoppy and the beer barrel were lumbering around each other, cursing furiously.
"Is this Queensberry rules, or would anyone like a knife?" Simon asked interestedly.
A voice boomed from the beer barrel.
"I be Gah-damned," it said. "So you're this here Saint character? What kinda mob you runnin' round with now, Uniatz ? Hey, mitt me, bud. Any friend o' Hoppy's a pal of mine, chum."
"Meet Sammy de Leg," Hoppy said unnecessarily.
"What a grip," Sammy yelled, extricating his paw from Simon's palm and shaking it vigorously. "Come on in. Have a beer. Hoppy, you lousy ol' son of a bitch, you sure look like hell. Jesus!"
With shouts and cries he fell upon Mr. Uniatz and bore him beyond a beaded portiere. The Saint followed at a discreet distance, propelling his Junior ahead of him.
There was a huge white refrigerator set up in one corner of an old-fashioned living room, and Sammy the Leg was already extracting bottles and handing them around. He paused before Junior.
"This the guy you want put away?" he asked. "Well, he don't get no beer. Siddown an' shaddup."
He thrust Junior violently into the depths of a chair and made faces at him.
The Saint relaxed and drank beer. Its cold catnip flavor tingled pleasantly at the back of his throat. He felt agreeably at Home. Simon Templar had a feeling that he was going to like Sammy the Leg very much indeed. The man had a certain directness that was refreshing, once you decided to sidetrack Emily Post.
"For a pal," Sammy said, waving his bottle, "anything in the whole wide world, as far south as Indianapolis. You don't need to say a word. When I bought this here place, I'm my own boss. Nobody bothers me. I can keep a guy under wraps here but indefinitely."
The Saint leaned back more comfortably. He nodded toward his prisoner.
"Ever seen Junior before?"
Sammy's small eyes dug tiny holes in the specimen.
"Uh-uh. He's imported. Not one of the Chi boys. Though I could be wrong, at that, I guess. Where'd you blow from, bub?"
"You go to hell," Junior said unoriginally; but his voice cracked.
Sammy the Leg bellowed with laughter.
"Tells me to go to hell! What a joker. Ja hear him?"
"A character," the Saint said. "I've an idea he's working for another character. Somebody called the King of the Beggars."
"Look, pal," Sammy said cautiously, "I don't know from nothin'. I just rent rooms. Now I'm gonna take a walk. When you want me, ring that bell over there by you, Saint. Then I'll put your chum under wraps for you. There's more beer in the icebox."
He grinned, and waddled out.
Simon listened to the tinkling of the beaded portiere as it fell back into place. It jingled again as Sammy the Leg thrust his face back through it.
"Get that there electric broiler down from that shelf an' stick his feet in it," he advised. "It works swell."
He vanished; and. the Saint gazed speculatively at the indicated shelf.
"Not a bad idea," he drawled. "Hoppy, what goes with Sammy?"
"Huh?" Hoppy said. "He went out."
"Yes. I noticed. What I want to know is whether you're sure Sammy the Leg is leveling with us."
"Lissen," Hoppy said, almost indignantly, "Sammy an' me was in Joliet togedder.
"
He made this statement more devastatingly than any Harvard graduate identifying a brother alumnus, and in the face of such credentials Simon relaxed.
"In that case," he said, "go ahead and plug in the broiler."
Junior jumped out of his chair. The Saint did not rise. His foot shot forward, and Junior sat down again abruptly.
"My God," Junior gasped. "You wouldn't d-do--"
Simon's eyebrows were an angelic arch.
"Why not? Prosthetic devices are being improved all the time. You should be able to get along beautifully with an artificial leg. Maybe you'll only need a foot, though. It'll depend on how soon you start talking."
Junior said frantically: "I'm talking right now. Keep that damn thing away from me. I'm talking, see? For God's sake ask me some questions."
"Hold it, Hoppy," the Saint said. "You might leave the broiler plugged in, though. Our friend can look at it to cover awkward lulls in the conversation. There's only one question you need to answer, though, Junior. Who's the King?"
"Believe me," Junior said earnestly. "I wish to God I knew. I'd spill it. After that I'd start traveling. For my health. But I never seen the King."
He was telling the truth. Simon knew that; he was a connoisseur in such matters. Junior was obviously afraid of the King's power, but he was more afraid of the Saint. After all, Simon Templar was only a few feet from him, and the King of the Beggars was not-at the moment.
Simon said: "I'd have been surprised if you'd said anything different, this early in the story. Still, there must be a few precious pearls of information nestling in your head. I'd love to hear them. Start where you first heard of the King."
Junior was talking before the Saint had finished. He was, it seemed, a native of San Francisco. Traveling for his health a few months ago, he had landed in Chicago and naturally gravitated to the lower depths. There he had been approached by one of the King's ambassadors, who had been intrigued by Junior's obviously criminal appearance.
"But I never seen the King," Junior repeated. "Frankie's my contact."
"Frankie who?"
"Frankie Weiss. I'm just a collector, that's all. I make the rounds and collect the percentage off the beggars. I hand the dough over to Frankie an' he pays me off. That's all I got to do with it."
"A beautiful, literate, well-motivated story," the Saint said. "Except one point. You forgot to say why you took Miss Varing up an alley."
"She was a new one. She hadn't joined our . . . She told me to go to hell. People what don't want to kick in, we sorta convince 'em." Junior's voice trailed off weakly.
"A beating usually does the trick, I imagine," Simon said very lightly. "Did you by any chance help to convince a beggar named John Irvine?"
"I didn't have nothing to do with that. Honest to God!"
"Then who did?"
Junior swallowed.
"It could of been Frankie."
There was an almost inaudible ping, and Junior clapped a hand to his cheek with a startled expression, as if he had been sharply stung by some unsuspected insect.
"It should of been in de eye," Hoppy Uniatz said enigmatically. "Ya lousy stool pigeon."
"Don't discourage him yet," said the Saint. "Tell me, Junior, what happens when a beggar does agree to kick in?"
"Well, then he joins the Society."
"Society?"
"The Metropolitan Benevolent Society. . . . Then I take him to Frankie. But that's all I got to do with it. Frankie's waiting somewhere in his car and drives off with the guy. It ain't my business after that. I don't ask questions."
"Where do you meet Frankie?"
"It's different all the time. I was to see him next Wednesday night, at eight o'clock-corner of State and Adams."
"I hope he won't be too disappointed when you don't show up," said the Saint gently.
Junior gulped.
"Now lissen," he pleaded. "I told you everything. I run off at the mouth --"
"You certainly do," Simon conceded. "What worries me is that it may be a habit with you. And I certainly don't want you going to the King, or Frankie Weiss, and running off some more about this little tete-a-tete of ours. So while we decide whether we're going to kill you, we'll just have to keep you out of circulation. . . . Can you get Samuel back, Hoppy ?"
Mr. Uniatz solved this problem by exposing his tonsils in a stentorian bellow which made the chandelier vibrate. In a few seconds Sammy the Leg came in, beaming hospitably.
"All through?" he shouted softly. "Oh-I forgot. This is Fingers Schultz. You remember Fingers, Hoppy?"
"Sure," Hoppy said. "Where is he?"
Sammy stepped aside, revealing a small colorless man who blinked blankly at the Saint. Hoppy said: "Hi, Fingers."
Mr. Schultz nodded and kept on blinking.
Sammy the Leg said: "Can't run a joint like this alone. Fingers gives me a hand." He looked startled. "Hey. I made a joke. Fingers-hand. It ain't bad."
Nobody laughed. Simon said: "Will you keep Junior on ice for a few days?"
"It'll be a pleasure," Sammy said. "At twenty-five a day, that'll be one seventy-five. I always get a week in advance." He kept his palm extended. "Board and room," he explained. "Cut rate to you, though."
Simon opened his wallet and laid several bills on the waiting paw.
"Thanks," Sammy said. "If you. want to stop keeping him, lemme know, an' maybe we can take care of that too."
"I'll let you know," Simon assured him gravely. "Come along, Hoppy."
He had a last glimpse of Junior's white staring face as they went out.
CHAPTER FIVE
He met her for lunch at the Pump Room, and almost failed to recognize her as the headwaiter ushered her to his booth. Half-remembered pictures of her were too posed and static, and the last time he had seen her across the footlights was a year or more ago, in a costume piece with powdered wig and baroque skirt.
In the flesh, and modern dress, she was not less beautiful, but different. And certainly a thousand times different again from the character part in which he had first met her.
She crossed the room towards him with splendid assurance in every motion. Someone had spent a great deal of loving thought upon the cut of her Scotch tweed suit, which managed deftly to emphasize breath-taking lines beneath the tweed. The Saint permitted himself to dwell admiringly upon the exquisite long curve that swept from waist to knee with every long sure step, and on other unmasculine curves beneath the tailored jacket. The time-honored banalities of greeting seemed more than ordinarily empty as he rose to let her slide into the seat beside him.
He ordered cocktails for them both; and then there was a little silence while Monica Varing looked at him, and Simon leaned back and allowed himself the ordinarily quite expensive pleasure of gazing his fill upon Monica Varing. That wonderful mutable face was never twice quite the same, and the warm vitality that radiated from it gave her a transcendent vividness which critics had hymned and artists tried in vain to capture. Three generations of actresses named Varing had carried that inner illumination, the Saint thought; it must have come down from mother to daughter like a burning flame handed along the unbroken line.
She looked world-weary today-and eager as a schoolgirl beneath the weariness. She was exciting to look at and exciting to inhale; the perfume that floated across the table was just elusive enough to tempt Simon to edge closer and closer to identify it.
"Well, Mr. Templar," she said at last, her voice pitched so low that it ran a velvety finger along Simon's nerves and made them tingle, "do you always stare like that?"
"Always, when there's anything like you to stare at," he said shamelessly.
She made a face that still didn't reject the obvious compliment entirely.
"Give me a cigarette," she said, "arid tell me what I really want to hear."
As he offered his pack and a light, he thought it all out again.
He knew quite well that the cold wise course would have been to avoid Moni
ca Varing entirely. Monica was used to a starring role. She had been the center of her own stage long enough to feel the limelight was hers by right, and her essay at detection in beggar garb proved her resourceful and determined, if not strictly sensible. She was unlikely to sit quiet and let the Saint take over her part without wanting to share in the fun-and the King played for keeps. There would be no coming out for smiling bows after the curtain fell on a performance before the King of the Beggars.
The Saint's logic told him all this. But the impatience to see her again, and without disguise, had been stronger than any logic. And now that she was here, and all her real loveliness within inches of him, logic became almost meaningless.
"There really isn't much to tell," he tried to hedge.
"What happened last night?" Monica demanded, leaning forward distractingly and clasping long coral-tipped fingers on the table. "Remember, this was my party before you crashed it."
"I had an impression it was open to the public," he said. "I just asked myself in to help an old woman. I was watching before that, and I'm going to have to watch some more. I want to see what men are on the board. The King's got himself protected very thoroughly. Getting close to him is liable to be dangerous."
"You can't leave me out. I want to do something, Saint. I had a reason for getting into this business, if you haven't forgotten."
"You'll have your chance. I don't know yet where I'm going to need you most."
He quirked an eyebrow at her and his eyes brightened with an interestingly irrelevant tangent to that idea; but Monica was not to be diverted.
"Keep that wicked look out of your eyes," she said, "and stick to the subject. What did you find out from Junior?"
"Not very much, I'm afraid."
He told her just what he had learned, holding back nothing but Sammy the Leg's address. There was nothing much else to withhold.
"I think Junior came clean-as clean as he could," he concluded. "The King wouldn't last long if any little jerk like Junior could put the finger on him. The only thing Junior may have weaseled on is how much he really had to do with the Irvine killing. We might burn that out of him, but it wouldn't stand up in court. So maybe we'll have to kill him anyway, just to make sure."
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