Call for the Saint (4 page)

“Frankie himself, eh?” Simon smiled. “Well, we’re moving at last. Frankie is going to initiate me into the Metropolitan Benevolent Society, and it’s just possible that I might get an introduction to the King.”

“An’ den we give him de woiks, huh?”

“You know, Hoppy, I’ve never committed regicide.” For a brief second the blind-beggar face showed the same lawless grin that had heralded the end of more than one particularly obnoxious career. “It might be a new sensation… . But it’s not going to be so easy.”

“If I get next to him wit’ my Betsy”

“The trouble is, you weren’t invited. And it might look strange if I showed up with an escort. This time, anyway, your job is going to be to lurk.”

He gave more detailed instructions.

By ten o’clock the Saint’s profit for the day amounted to four dollars, twenty-seven cents, and a Los Angeles streetcar token, which he evaluated at six and a quarter cents. Since he expected to be searched, he carried no lethal weapon, not even the ivory-hilted throwing knife which in his hands was as fast and deadly as any gun. This trip would be an, advanced reconnaissance, and nothing would have been more foolish than to count on turning it extemporaneously into a frontal assault.

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 toward him.

The blond man looked no more sunny and warmhearted 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 skeptically. “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 licenses. If you’re sharp enough to get away with anything, that’s fine-as long as you don’t try it with us.”

“Yeah,” the driver said, laughing again. “This guy’s gonna be a smart apple, though, ain’t he, Frankie?”

“Shut up,” Frankie said without rancor. “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 backtracks the car took. He could only hope that they would not be confusing enough to shake off Hoppy in spite of the trained bloodhound 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 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 recognize him if he were a spy for any opposition gang, or memorizing his features in readiness for future shakedowns.

A voice began to speak, artificially distorted through a crude public-address system..

“We welcome you to the Metropolitan Benevolent Society,” it said unctuously-“an organization designed for all the aid and protection we can give will be at your service …”

It was a formalized 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 honorable professions, that ancient monks had practiced 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 Labor 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 loud-speaker 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 chiseling. 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 realized that he had not underestimated 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 concrete underfoot.

Something chinked 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.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
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 when 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 zigzagging around town -and we went back there later and did a small job of house-breaking. Unfortunately it didn’t pay off. It’s a vacant house. The electricity’s turned on, and there was that loud-speaker 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 in a detective story. But such things have happened. … I should like to have a talk with Brother Elliott, in an unofficial 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 cooperative. 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.”