The Saint and the People Importers (7 page)

Tammy gave up her efforts to pry the phone from the Saint’s immovable grasp.

“Who’d sue me?” she asked. “I’d only be reporting what happened.”

Simon lifted his hand from the telephone.

“If you think that a waiter getting his arm fractured by a crate of beans falling off a shelf is news, go right ahead and call it in.”

“You’re kidding me. What really happened?”

“What really happened, I’m sure, is just what you think happened. But the waiter and the other lads from the scullery ain’t seen nothing. They’re as chatty as mourners at a Mafia funeral. And Kalki the Purveyor had scooted out the back of the storeroom and was well on his way to metamorphosing into Kalki the Conqueror by the time I got on to the scene.”

The girl flopped back into her chair.

“Curse!” she said. “That’s just what I’ve run into every time I think I’m getting somewhere on this thing. I wish …”

Whether in express-delivery answer to her wish or not, there were three cautious knocks at her door.

“Gad,” she whispered. “Who could that be? You didn’t bring any friends, did you?”

Simon shook his head. Both he and Tammy were on their feet.

“Maybe it’s the little delegation you were expecting when I walked in,” he suggested. “Ask who it is.”

He stood aside while she leaned close to the door.

“Who’s there?” she called.

“A friend,” came frightened, foreign-accented words from the other side, “please, let me in quickly!”

Simon recognized the voice.

“Let him in,” he murmured. “Keep well back, and I’ll be right here to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

Tammy looked at him searchingly, bit her lower lip, and turned the handle of the door.

There, pressed against the door frame like a sheep huddling for shelter against a blizzard, was Mahmud with his arm in a sling. He slipped inside with an anxious glance over his shoulder. Then he saw Simon and reacted first with sharp surprise and then with relief.

“Mr. Templar!” was all he seemed able to gasp for the moment.

Tammy locked the door and stood away.

“I thought you two hadn’t met,” Simon said.

“We haven’t,” she answered. “Is this …”

“Mahmud,” Simon confirmed. “I’m afraid I don’t know the last name.”

“Dehlavi,” the Pakistani said. “Mahmud Dehlavi.” His forehead was glistening with sweat and he was hugging his wounded arm close against him. “I came to see madame to tell… to tell things I know, because she writes in the paper.”

“Sit down here,” Tammy said, pushing a chair towards him. “You shouldn’t be running around like that.”

Mahmud Dehlavi lowered himself gingerly into the chair, clutching Simon’s arm with his left hand for support.

“Did the doctor fix you up all right?” Simon asked. “Is it badly broken?”

Mahmud looked grimly at his white-swathed right arm, which was now in splints.

“It is fractured,” he said, “but the bone was not separated.”

“Still, that’s a pretty fair job for a wooden crate to do,” the Saint said without a trace of levity.

The slender Pakistani’s dark eyes glowed like coals under a sudden blast of air.

“Mr. Templar, Miss Rowan, can I trust you?” he asked.

“Of course,” Tammy said.

She had settled on a chair facing her new guest. Simon still stood, looking down on both of them.

“You can trust us to do what’s right, if that’s what you mean,” he stipulated.

“I must trust you,” the waiter said. “I would not go to the police for … for various reasons, but everyone knows that the lady-Miss Rowan-has been asking many questions and writing in the papers. It is known you protect the names of those who speak to you, miss, so that is why-tonight-I decided to come and see you.” He looked up at Simon. “Of course I did not know you would be here.”

The Saint acknowledged the statement with a noncommittal nod.

“I’m very grateful that you’ve come,” Tammy said. “Go ahead.”

Mahmud’s youthful face reflected all the impotent shame and rage of a man crushed by arrogant forces hopelessly stronger than himself.

“It was not an accident that broke my arm,” he said in a voice that shook with emotion. “They broke it. They broke it on purpose. They threw me on the floor, and with his foot …” Mahmud stopped, his head hanging, and took new control of himself. When he started talking again it was directly to Tammy. “I know people have spoken to you about the man that calls himself Kalki, the big one that wrestles. He did this to me.”

Simon and Tammy exchanged glances of controlled triumph.

“Why did they pick on you this time?” the Saint asked quietly.

“I was a friend of Ali’s. Not a close friend. He had no close friends. But they did not know how close we might be. They killed Ali because he was going to tell all about them to the police. They … did this to me as a warning, and because I had argued when they last wanted me to pay them.”

“Pay them for what?” Tammy asked.

Mahmud adjusted his position and for a moment his face twisted with pain.

“Many people pay them,” he said. “For nothing.” He directed his next few words to Tammy again. “You have written about this. You know. They bring Pakistani people into England and promise them good papers and jobs, and then when such people are here they are told they will be reported to the police and sent to jail if they do not pay.”

“That’s not a very accurate interpretation of the illegal entry laws,” Simon said.

“Many people do not know the law. They do not know English. They do not care about what the law says-they are just frightened. Very scared.” He shook his head. “And it does not matter about the law anyway. The ones who want the money will take it no matter what you know about the law. I was not afraid of the immigration authorities, but these men took a part of my money each week. After what had happened to Ali-and me-nobody will have courage not to pay them.”

“Besides the two characters from that delivery van, who else is in on the collecting side of this operation?” the Saint asked.

Mahmud’s English, or his nerve, failed him briefly at that point
“I am not sure what you mean,” he said with a puzzled expression.

“Who runs the gang?” Simon said. “Who’s the boss?”

The Pakistani’s mouth twitched with spasmic tension before he finally answered.

“I do not know for sure who is the highest man,” he said hesitantly. “But I know one higher than Kalki.”

Mahmud bogged down again, so Simon urged him on.

“And who is that?”

“Someone you know: Abdul Haroon, the man who owns the Golden Crescent.”

4

The Saint had known enough evildoers of improbable shapes, sizes, temperaments, and professions to be surprised at almost nothing, but Tam Rowan’s journalistic endeavours had apparently not given her quite as much sophistication.

“You mean that nervous little fat man?” she gasped.

“Yes, miss,” replied Mahmud.

Having revealed Abdul Haroon’s darker nature, the slim waiter now looked like a man who had uttered some unforgivable blasphemy and was expecting violent and noisy electrical disturbances of the atmosphere directly above his head.

“He’s the one who gives the orders to the people who collect the money?” Tammy asked.

“Yes. Higher than him is an Englishman, I think, but I do not know his name or anything about him.”

Simon was completely intrigued by the whole situation now, and began to think better of the whim that had led him to become involved. He folded his arms and faced the Pakistani.

“Tell us everything else you know about the way they work,” he told Mahmud. “How do you know Mr. Haroon is one of the gang leaders? Is there any kind of concrete evidence?”

Mahmud’s eyes flashed again, and his voice was shrill with emotion.

“They have broken my arm!” he said. “They have killed Ali. Do you need more evidence than that?”

“I think Mr. Templar means the kind of evidence we could show to the police or use in court,” Tammy intervened soothingly.

Mahmud began struggling with his unbroken arm to heave himself to his feet.

“I should not have come here,” he winced. “I do not want to see police and go in courts! I …”

Simon stepped forward and placed a strong hand on the waiter’s shoulder, easing him back in the chair.

“You don’t have to see the police,” he said. “We could all be fossils before Scotland Yard and the lawyers and the judges and unrestricted-immigration left wing and every bovine bureaucrat in the country got through gnawing on a case like this. Miss Rowan and I are great believers in independent action. Tell us everything you know and we’ll do the rest.”

“I have told you almost everything,” Mahmud responded. “Mr. Haroon and Kalki and the others, they scare Pakistani people to make them pay money, and if they do not pay they are beaten. Kalki and the little American called Shortwave collect the money.”

Simon was looking at him intently.

“Do you know anybody else who could give us information?” he asked.

Mahmud shook his head despondently.

“Nobody will tell anything.” He paused, then looked up. “I have one more information. It might be very important. Just before you came into the restaurant this evening, Mr. Templar, I heard something that Kalki and Mr. Haroon said. Mr. Haroon is going-tonight-to meet with the Englishman who is also high in the gang.”

Tammy leaned forward, brushing her blonde hair away from her face.

“Where?”

“At the Grey Goose-a pub near Datchet.” Mahmud tapped his forehead. “I made certain that I remembered it.”

He began to give directions for driving to the pub which he had heard Kalki relay to Abdul Haroon, but the Saint cut him short.

“It just happens that I know it. I collect pubs for a hobby, and I probably know every one in the Thames Valley. The Grey Goose is a real old-fashioned country ‘local,’ right off the beaten track-I don’t suppose they sell two pints a week to anyone from beyond walking distance. If they were looking for a place where they wouldn’t stand one chance in a million of being seen by anyone who knew them, they couldn’t have picked a better one.”

“If Haroon needs directions it obviously isn’t a regular meeting place,” Tammy objected.

“Maybe they never meet in the same place twice.”

“I think that they do not often meet,” Mahmud put in. “Two-maybe three times I have heard Mr. Haroon speak on the telephone to a man who must be the Englishman … but I do not know any more.”

“What did they talk about?” Simon asked.

The waiter made a vague gesture.

“When will people be coming in on the boat … how much money Haroon is to get … such things as that.”

“This is the boat that smuggles the immigrants into England?” Tammy asked.

Mahmud was showing signs of almost painful weariness in addition to his nervous fear.

“I do not know,” he sighed. “I do not know more. I have told everything-and now they will kill me.”

He began to make feeble efforts to get up again, and Simon thought it best to let him leave if he wanted to. He gave the Pakistani a helping hand and steadied him when he was standing.

“They won’t kill you because of anything we let them know,” Simon assured him. “I suppose you made sure nobody followed you.”

“Yes. I was very sure.”

“Where can we take you?” Tammy asked. She glanced at the Saint. “My car just has room for two.”

“And I came by taxi,” Simon said.

Mahmud interrupted.

“I would not want to have the danger that somebody would see me with you,” he insisted. “It is better that I go in a taxi. If you would please ring for one …”

“Of course,” Tammy said, and picked up the phone.

“I do not think I can walk until I come to a busy road where I could find one,” the waiter said apologetically as she dialled.

“Don’t worry about it,” the Saint told him. “You were a brave man to come here, especially after what happened to you tonight.”

“I was angry,” Mahmud said. “I thought I would rather be dead than lie still while they walked on me and broke my bones.” He leaned tiredly against the wall next to the door. “And what will you do?” he asked. “You will help?”

Simon nodded.

“I think I’ll do a little country pub-crawling.”

“We, not I,” Tammy put in. She looked sympathetically at Mahmud. “The taxi’s on its way. Would you like a drink or something?”

“No, thank you. I will go down and wait. Please do not come with me.”

Tammy opened the door.

“How can we get in touch with you?”

“I have no telephone,” the Pakistani said. “It is best if you do not try to see me at all. I have come here and told you all I know, but I do not want more trouble.”

Tammy asked him to telephone her if he found out anything new.

“I will,” he promised, “but for some weeks I will be not working. A waiter who cannot write orders or carry trays is no good waiter.”

He managed a faint smile and then said goodnight and walked very slowly away towards the stairs.

“Should we just let him go like that?” Tammy said sotto voce when she had closed the door again. “I mean, he’s so weak.”

“He’s right about not wanting to risk being seen with us,” Simon said. “Your room is on the front. Turn out the light and we can watch from the window and at least be sure he gets into his taxi with no trouble. I assume he won’t have much walking to do when it drops him wherever his room is.”

“Oh, Lord, I should have asked him where he lives,” Tammy said.

“I don’t think he’d have told us,” the Saint replied matter-of-factly. “Now let’s get that light out and have a look.”

Tammy flicked off the living-room lights leaving the flat in darkness. The only illumination now came from the street lamps outside. Simon went to the window and partially drew aside the curtain.

“Is he down there yet?” Tammy asked.

“He’s just coming out,” the Saint reported.

The girl came and stood beside him so that she could share his view of the sidewalk. When she realised that her shoulder was pressing against his she edged quickly away.

“He’s pretty brave to do this, you know,” she commented a little nervously.

“Yes. Almost too brave.”