Call for the Saint (2 page)

“Listen!” Junior yelped. “You can’t do this to me!”

“Why not?” the Saint asked, and in the face of that logical query Junior was silent.

Monica Varing said: “I never thought this would happen. I’d set a trap, with myself as the bait—”

“Start at the beginning,” Simon interrupted. “With your predecessor, say. What happened to him?”

Monica said: “John Irvine. He was blind. He was a stage manager in vaudeville-where a lot of us started. He was blinded ten years ago, and got a begging permit. Whenever I played Chicago, I’d look him up and put something in his cup. It was a-well, a libation, in the classic sense. But it wasn’t only that. No matter how long it would be between runs, John would always recognize my footsteps. He’d say hello and wish me luck. On opening night I always gave him a hundred dollars. I wasn’t the only one, either. Plenty of other troupers were big enough to remember.”

“Last Wednesday,” Simon went on for her, “a bum named John Irvine was found shot to death in that alley where we met. He’d been beaten up first. … . He left a widow and children, didn’t he?”

“Three children,” Monica said.

The Saint looked at Junior, and his face was not friendly.

“Quite a few beggars have been beaten up in Chicago in the last few weeks. The one’s who were able to talk said the same thing. Something about a mysterious character called the King of the Beggars.”

“The beggars have to pay off a percentage of their earnings to His Majesty,” Monica said bitterly. “Or else they’re beaten up. The gang made an example of Irvine. To frighten the others. It just happened to be him; it might have been any beggar. The police-well, why should they make a big thing of it?”

“Why should you?” Simon asked.

She met his impersonal gaze no less directly.

“You may think I’m crazy, but it meant something to me. I knew the cops should have taken care of it, but I knew just as well they wouldn’t. There weren’t any headlines in it, and no civic committees were going to raise hell if they let it drop… . I’m a damned good actress, and I know make-up- the kind that’ll even get by in daylight. I thought I might get a lead on something. I’d rather catch that King of the Beggars than star in another hit on Broadway.”

“Me too,” said the Saint. “Not that anyone ever offered me Broadway.”

But there it was-the Robin Hood touch that would undoubtedly be the death of him someday … but literally. The whisper of a new racket which couldn’t help reaching his hypersensitive ears, tuned as they were to every fresh stirring in the endless ferment of ungodliness. Something big and ugly, but preying on small and helpless people … A penny-ante racket, until there were enough pennies … So you wanna be a beggar, pal? Okay, but you gotta pay off, pal. You gotta have protection, pal. We can make sure you don’t have no competition on your beat, see? But you gotta join the Protective Association, pal. You gotta kick in your dues. Otherwise you dunno what might happen. You might get run off the streets; you might even get hurt bad, pal. We’re all for you, but you gotta play ball. . , . And somewhere at the top, as always some smooth and bloated spider grew fat on the leachings from the little unco-ordinated jerks who paid their tax to Fear.

The Saint said: “That’s why I’ve been sitting in this joint for days. That’s why I watched you, until Junior hustled you into the alley. I’m just trying to move a step up the ladder.”

Monica Varing said: “I’m going to find out —”

“You’ve got courage,” Simon told her. “We know that. But this job needs more than that. Let’s say-a certain skill in unusual fields. For example, the trick of getting people to confide in you.” He turned to his silent guest. “Who’s the King, Junior?”

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.”