At ten o’clock he carefully ignored the unobtrusive dark sedan that rolled silently to a stop at the curb a few feet away. The driver’s features were in shadow under a low-pulled hat, but the hands that lay on the steering wheel were not those of a King.
The nails, Simon decided, were too septic to belong to royalty, even a racket royalty. Besides, when did royalty ever drive its own cars, except such rare cases as ex-King Alfonso. And look what happened to him, the Saint told himself as he stared at nothing through his dark glasses and apparently did not see Frankie Weiss get out of the car and move towards him.
The blond man looked no more sunny and warm-hearted than he had before dinner. His shark’s mouth had presumably just grabbed for a tasty mackerel and got hold of an old boot instead. Working this organ slightly, Mr Weiss paused before the Saint and stared down.
Simon jingled his cup.
“Help a blind man, sir?”
“Lay off the act,” Frankie said. “You remember me.”
The Saint hesitated.
“Oh. Oh, yes. You’re the man who…I know your voice. But I’m blind—”
“Maybe,” Frankie said sceptically. “Let’s get going.”
“Why…yes, sir. But I’d like to know a little more about this…this business.”
Frankie grasped the Saint’s arm with bony fingers that dug deliberately into the flesh.
“Come on,” he said, and the Saint had only time to assure himself that Hoppy Uniatz was at his post half a block away before he was in the back of the sedan, the clash of the closing door committing him irrevocably to this chapter of the adventure.
The chauffeur’s unkempt neckline confirmed his opinion that the man was a subordinate. Simon had little chance to study his subject, for as the car slid smoothly into gear Frankie lifted the dark-lensed glasses from the Saint’s nose, dropped them casually into Simon’s lap, and replaced them with a totally opaque elastic bandage. Simon slipped the spectacles into a pocket and put up a mildly protesting hand.
“What’s that? I don’t need a blindfold.”
The driver laughed shortly. But Frankie’s tone held no amusement as he said, “Maybe. And maybe not.”
“But—”
“Forget it,” Frankie said. “Save it for the cops. What the hell do you think we care whether you’re blind or not? A guy’s got a right to make a living.” Unpleasant mockery sounded in his voice now. “That’s where we don’t hold with the authorities. We don’t make any stink about handing out begging licences. If you’re sharp enough to get away with anything, that’s fine—as long as you don’t try it with us.”
Simon was silent. Frankie slapped the Saint’s knee.
“That’s none of our business. There’s only one question we ask. How much?”
“Yeah,” the driver said, laughing again. “This guy’s gonna be a smart apple, though, ain’t he, Frankie?”
“Shut up,” Frankie said without rancour. “Sure he is. But nobody’s asking you.”
His hands worked over the Saint, efficiently exploring every inch from head to foot where a weapon could have been concealed.
Simon said pleadingly, “I don’t understand this. Where are we going?”
“It’s like a lodge, see?” Frankie told him. “You gotta be introduced and sworn in, see?”
Simon tried to keep up with their route by ear, but even a man born and bred in Chicago would have been finally baffled by the turns and back-tracks the car took. He could only hope that they would not be confusing enough to shake off Hoppy in spite of the trained blood hound talents which, like his celerity on the draw, were among the few useful legacies of his vocation during the Volstead Era.
A little more than half an hour later, as near as the Saint could judge, the car stopped and the door clicked open. Simon put up a hand to his blindfold, but Frankie slapped it down. The same cruelly probing fingers gripped his arm again and guided him out of the sedan and across a paved area where the wind blew mildly against his face. There was very little noise of traffic now, and the air had the cleaner smell of a residential district.
A door opened and shut. Simon could hear his footsteps echoed, and presently another latch clicked, and he was guided down a steep flight of steps.
“Okay, turn on the lights,” Frankie said. The guiding hand let go. Frankie said, “Stay where you are.”
The Saint stood still, and in the hushed pause that followed he was aware of tiny scuffs and rustles of movement, such as would come from a small group of people waiting in conscious silence.
Then the blindfold was lifted from his eyes, and a painful intensity of light blazed directly into his face.
He did not wince, though the glare was brutal. The new blindness which it induced made little difference—he knew that it would have been impossible to see past those spotlights at any time. This was the police line-up, with a difference. He stood motionless, knowing that eyes were studying him from behind the lights, but that these were not the eyes of guardians of the law and peace. They belonged to brothers-in-arms of Junior, alert to recognise him if he were a spy for any opposition gang, or memorising his features in readiness for future shakedowns.
A voice began to speak, artificially through a crude public-address system.
“We welcome you to the Metropolitan Benevolent Society,” it said unctuously, “an organisation designed for the aid and protection we can give will be at your service…”
It was a formalised little speech, which might have been a phonograph recording for all Simon could tell; he guessed that it had been used often before and was a part of the regular routine. Again that flash of monstrous incongruity struck through him at the situation—ruthless killers making a Rotary Club speech, the Arabian Nights in Chicago. But his face showed nothing but a slightly vacuous listening intentness.
The speaker went on to observe that begging was one of the most ancient and honourable professions, that ancient monks had practised it respectably, as the Salvation Army did today, but that in these times the individual practitioner was in danger of all kinds of arbitrary persecution. And just as exploited Labour had been forced to band together to safeguard the rights which no lone individual could defend, so the professional mendicants had been obliged to band together and declare a closed shop for their fraternity—this same fraternity, of course, being the Metropolitan Benevolent Society.
It sounded good, the Saint admitted to himself. He was beginning to be able to see a little now, through the swimming spots and dazzles of his maltreated retinas, but there was not a great deal to see—only part of a bare cement-walled room with one door in it, and a portable loudspeaker on the floor to one side, with wires trailing from it and disappearing behind the lights.
The voice went on smoothly:
“In return for your protection,” it said paternally, “you will turn in one-half of your daily take to Big Hazel Green, manager of the Elliott Hotel, where you will be given lodgings at a nominal price. She will be your contact with headquarters, and will supply you with all information and assign you your territory. One thing more…” The voice became more greasily friendly than ever. “Don’t try any chiselling. You will be watched constantly, and any violation of our rules will be severely punished. If you have any questions now, Frankie will answer them.”
The Saint had many questions, but he knew that this was no time to ask them. He realised that he had not under-estimated the cautiousness of the King. Even if the King was actually there at all, which Simon now doubted more than ever. His Majesty or any of his privy council could have potted him like a sitting rabbit before he even got through the shield of lights.
There was going to be no quick checkmate. This was not even the time to give check.
“No, sir,” he said weakly. “No questions now.”
“Let’s go,” Frankie said.
He replaced the elastic bandage and gripped the Saint’s arm. Again the latch clicked, and they went up the stairs. Again there was a cool wind and co
ncrete underfoot.
Something clinked in the Saint’s pocket and rattled on the pavement. Simon stopped and bent over, groping hesitantly, but Frankie’s hand jerked him upright again. Suspicion rasped in the man’s voice.
“Hey, what’s the idea?”
Then the chauffeur, “It’s only half a buck the guy dropped. Here it is.”
“I’m sorry,” Simon stammered. “I guess I’m…kind of nervous.”
That carried conviction, and both men laughed briefly.
“You won’t get rich that way,” the chauffeur said, and put the coin in the Saint’s hand. “Come on. We’re taking another little ride.”
“Where to?”
“Around,” Frankie said. “Just around. And back where we picked you up. Just so you won’t come back without being invited. The King don’t like visitors.”
7
Simon had cocktails already ordered when Monica Varing came into the Buttery at noon the next day. She was the most punctual woman he had ever met. He had discovered that you could set a clock by her, and it amused him to have the drinks arriving, freshly chilled, at the very moment she walked in.
“Well,” he said as she sat down while their hands still held, “I am fraternally yours as of last night.”
Her beautifully drawn eyebrows rose.
“What have I done?”
“A figure of speech,” he explained hastily. “I don’t feel at all fraternal. But I am now an accredited member of your fraternity of beggars. I even had an audience with the King.”
“Tell me everything.”
The Saint told her.
“When I dropped the coin,” he concluded, “it was the signal to Hoppy that everything was under control and that was the joint he had to get the address of. He got it all right—they hadn’t shaken him off with their zig-zagging around the town—and we went back there later and did a small job of housebreaking. Unfortunately it didn’t pay off. It’s a vacant house. The electricity’s turned on, and there was that loudspeaker and a mike in the basement room, but nothing else except the spotlights.”
“Who owns the house?” Monica asked, and the Saint shrugged.
“I’m trying to find out. Meanwhile, we have another lead. There’s this Big Hazel Green, manageress of the Elliott Hotel. And you know who that joint belongs to? Stephen Elliott.”
“Stephen Elliott? The philanthropist?”
“It says here. At any rate, the Elliott Hotel is more or less a charity, according to the inquiries I’ve made. The point is, does Elliott know that his manageress is a liaison officer for the King of the Beggars?”
“Or,” she said slowly, “could Elliott be the King?” The Saint nodded.
“Just like a detective story. But such things have happened…I should like to have a talk with Brother Elliott in an official sort of way.” Monica wrinkled her brow. “Could I help?”
“I read in a society column this morning that Mrs Laura Wingate is giving a cocktail party for him today. Do you happen to know her?”
“No, but I’m sure to know somebody who does. Let me make a few phone calls.”
Simon called a waiter, and lighted a cigarette for her while a telephone was brought and plugged in. Then he went to a phone booth outside and made a call for himself. “Hoppy?” he said. “Did you get a report from that real-estate company yet?”
“No, boss.” Mr Uniatz’s voice, which had never been distinguished by any flutelike purity of tone, had a perturbed croak in it which registered on the Saint’s sensitive ear just a second before he blurted out its cause and explanation. “I got a cop here, boss. I dunno what goes on, but he wants to talk to ya. Only he ain’t got no warrant.”
“No warrant is required for that,” Simon said. “If he longs to hear my dulcet tones, we can accommodate him. Put him on. It’s all right, Hoppy.”
“I hope so,” Mr Uniatz muttered dubiously.
Then a cool, deep-pitched voice sounded in the Saint’s ear.
“Mr Templar?”
“Yes.”
“This is Detective Lieutenant Alvin Kearney. I’d like to see you about a matter.”
Simon drew a slow, careful breath.
“Are you selling subscriptions to the police fund?” he inquired genially. “If so, you can count on me. This business of taking out old policemen and shooting them has always struck me as unnecessarily cruel.”
“What?” Kearney said. “Look, Mr Templar. I want to see you.”
“So you said,” the Saint agreed. “About a Matter. But just at the moment I’m already seeing someone about a Matter. Perhaps if you told me the nature of this Matter of yours I’d be more co-operative. How do I know it’s important?”
“We’ve got a body down at the morgue, and we’d like you to look at it. That’s all.”
“Ah,” said the Saint, and was briefly silent while he lighted a thoughtful cigarette. “I’d love to, Lieutenant. I’ve always said that Chicago is one of the most hospitable cities in the world. But I’ve already seen the Art Institute and Marshall Field’s and the Natural History Museum, and I don’t think I need a corpse to increase my liking for your city. Unless it’s got two heads. Has it got two heads?”
Kearney said doggedly, “It’s only got one head and we want you to look at it. I’m being polite, Mr Templar. But I don’t have to be, you know.”
Simon knew it. He had heard that tone of voice before. And he was very definitely curious.
“I know,” he murmured. “It’s just your better nature. Well, I’d do almost anything to make you happy. When and where do you want me to ogle this cadaver?”
“If you could come on down to the morgue right now, I could meet you there. It would help.”
“Fine,” Simon said. “In about twenty minutes?”
“That’ll suit me. Thanks, Mr Templar.”
“Not at all,” said the Saint, and went more soberly back to the table.
Monica had finished her calls. The dark richness of her hair tossed like a wave of night as she looked up at him.
“It’s all set,” she said cheerfully. “We’re going with the Kennedys. I didn’t tell them about you. You’ll be a surprise.”
Simon said, “I hope I can make it. Somehow the police seldom see things my way.” He sat down. “There’s been a corpse found, and it seems they want me to identify it. Why anyone should think I might supply the clue is something else again. It isn’t my corpse or yours or Hoppy’s—we know that.”
Her face was only a shade paler—or that might have been a change of lighting on her camellia skin.
“Then—who could it be?”
“As a betting proportion,” said the Saint, “I’ll take three guesses. And Stephen Elliott is not one of them.”
8
The last time Simon Templar had seen the man who lay on the morgue slab was in the parlour of Sammy the Leg. Junior’s rat face was as unattractive in death as in life—less so, in view of the small blue-rimmed hole that marred his forehead. As the Saint looked at it, he was conscious of a curious urgency to dematerialise himself, drift like smoke towards the house near Wheaton, and ask Sammy questions.
Lieutenant Alvin Kearney was a very tall, very thin man with protruding brown eyes and a bobbing Adam’s apple. He seemed to be mainly fascinated by the body, in a sort of dull, desperate way.
“Know him?” he asked.
“What makes you think I would?” Simon countered cautiously.
“Ever seen him before?” Kearney insisted.
The Saint said plaintively, “I very seldom meet people with bullet-holes in their foreheads. They’re so taciturn they bore me.”
Kearney closed his mouth and juggled his Adam’s apple. His cheeks darkened a trifle.
“You’re funny as a crutch,” he said. “I want a straight answer.”
Simon’s innocent blue gaze met Kearney’s squarely.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t help you. I can’t even tell you the man’s name. Who is he?”
“Dunno,” Kearney said. “Unidentified so far.”
“Oh. Did he have a note in his hand directing that his remains be sent to me?”
“Not quite,” Kearney said. “There was a sort of tie-up, though. We found him in a house just north of Wheaton. Ever been there?”
The Saint took out a cigarette and turned it between his fingers, correcting minute flaws in its roundness. His face wore no more reaction than a slight, thoughtful frown, but a prescient vacuum had suddenly created itself just below his ribs. It had always been obvious that Kearney hadn’t called him out of sheer civic hospitality. Now the showing of cards, led up to with almost Oriental obliquity, was starting to uncork a Sunday punch. But it was starting from such a fantastic direction that the Saint’s footwork felt stiff and stumbling.
He said, “Wait a minute, Lieutenant. You found this man in the house, you say?”
“Not me personally. But he was in a basement room there, yes.”
“Does the local patrolman’s beat include the inside of houses?”
Kearney said, “I get it. No, there was a phone call. An anonymous tip. The usual thing. We gave it a routine check-up, and there was this house with this guy in it.”
“No clues?” Simon said.
“Clues!” Kearney chewed the word. “Well—maybe one. We checked up to see who the house belongs to.”
He was staring at the Saint. Simon merely nodded and looked brightly interested.
Kearney said, “It belonged to a gunsel called Sammy the Leg, up to yesterday. Then a deed of gift was filed. Now it belongs to Mr Simon Templar.”
So that was it…The hollow space under the Saint’s wishbone filled up abruptly with fast-setting cement.
It was nightmarish, absurd, impossible; it was something that not only shouldn’t but happily couldn’t happen to a dog. He could only theoretically sympathise with the emotions of this hypothetical hound upon watching some rival pooch dig up a treasured bone miles away from its established burial-ground—and upon discerning that the bone had also been booby-trapped in transit.
Call for the Saint (The Saint Series) Page 4