Call for the Saint s-27

by Leslie Charteris

  His tone was casually serious enough to make her shiver.

  "Then we might get further if I went out and played beggar again," she said; but the Saint shook his head.

  "I hate to criticize your performance, but I think the part is going to have to be played another way. And that's a way I wouldn't let you risk."

  It took three days. For Frankie Weiss did not appear at his rendezvous with Junior on Wednesday night; and, after the Saint had waited, for an hour, he began to feel a familiar tin­gling sensation at the roots of his hair. The move had been taken away from him. The best he could hope was that Junior's disappearance from his usual haunts had been reported with­out making Frankie suspect anything more than that Junior had skipped town-with some of the take.

  But there had to be other agents than Junior, and they would still be operating; and that was what Simon's plan was based on.

  In the evenings he became a beggar. It took an elaborate make-up to disguise the fact that Monica Varing would have needed to beg for anything; but for him it was easier. A few skillful lines to put ten years on his face, a slack vacancy of expression, a pair of dark glasses, and he was half dressed for the part. An old suit, picked up at a Halsted Street pawnshop, a white cane, a battered hat, a tin cup and a sheaf of pencils, and a few smears of grime artfully applied to his face-for a blind man cannot use a mirror-and he was ready to pass any scrutiny. Hoppy lounged by at intervals to check with him, and continued his practice in the art of spitting BBs. He found it more satisfactory now to work with living targets, as he strolled along the streets, and his aim was improving prodi­giously.

  And then there were lunches with Monica Varing, and su­perbly wasted afternoons, and late suppers after the theater; and quite naturally and in no time at all it became accepted that it must be lunch again tomorrow and supper again that night, and the same again the day after tomorrow and the day after that So three days went by much faster than they sound, too fast it seemed sometimes; and while they talked a lot about the King of Beggars, a very different community of interest began to supersede him as the principal link between them.

  It was Mrs. Laura Wingate who brought the Saint luck. Or perhaps it was Stephen Elliott, though the gray-haired philan­thropist was not the one who dropped a coin in Simon's cup.

  "You poor dear man," a treacly voice said sympathetically. "I always feel so sorry for the blind. Here."

  She was a woman out of a Mary Petty drawing, protruding fore and aft, with several powdered chins and a look of deter­mined charity. The man was a nonentity beside her, spare and white-haired and silent, his gaze fixed abstractedly on the far distances and his fingers fumbling with the watch chain stretched across his vest.

  "Thank you," the Saint mumbled. "God bless you, ma'am."

  "Oh, you're welcome," the treacly voice said, and, startling­ly, giggled. "I always feel I must give to the poor unfortu­nates."

  "What?" The man let go of his watch chain. "Laura, we'll be late."

  "Oh, dear. Of course--"

  She went on, her ridiculously high heels clicking busily and helping to exaggerate the undulant protrusion of her behind.

  Hoppy Uniatz, coming by on one of his visits just then, leaned against the wall by the Saint and craned to peer into the cup.

  "A lousy dime," he observed disgustedly. "An' I could get ten grand right around de corner for dem rocks she's wearin'."

  "It's the spirit that counts," said the Saint. "Didn't you recognize her?"

  "She ain't anudder of dem actresses, is she?"

  "No. But she doesn't do all her charity with dimes. That's Mrs. Laura Wingate. I've seen her in the papers lately. She's been backing Stephen Elliott-the abstracted gentleman you just saw."

  "What's his racket?"

  "Founding missions and homes for the poor. Philanthropy. . . . Take a walk, Hoppy," the Saint said abruptly, in the same low tone, and Mr. Uniatz's eyelids flickered. But he did not look around. With a grunt he reached for a coin, dropped it into the tin cup, and moved away.

  "God bless you," the Saint said, more loudly now.

  Another man stood in front of him. He was tall, bitter-faced, sharply dressed. Pale blond hair showed under an ex­pensive hat. A hairline mustache accentuated the thin lines of the downcurved mouth.

  Simon intoned: "Help a poor blind man. . . . Buy a pen­cil?"

  The man said: "I want to talk to you."

  "Yes, sir?"

  "You're new here, aren't you?"

  Simon nodded.

  "Yes, sir. A friend told me this was a good corner-and the man who had it died just lately--"

  "That's right," the clipped harsh voice said. "He died, sure enough. Know why he died?"

  "No, sir."

  "He wasn't smart. That's why he died. Maybe you're smart­er. Think so?"

  "I . . . don't quite understand."

  "I'm telling you. Ever hear of the Metropolitan Benevolent Society?"

  Simon moved his head slowly, with the helpless searching motion of the blind.

  "I'm new in town," he whined. "Nobody told--"

  "The head guy is the King of the Beggars."

  It sounded unreal in the mechanical hubbub of the Chicago street. It belonged in the time of Francois Villon, or in the lands of the Arabian Nights, Yet the fantastic title came easily from the thin twisted lips of the blond man, but without even the superficial glamour of those periods. In terms of today it was as coldly sinister as a leveled gun barrel. Simon had a moment's fastidious, catlike withdrawal from that momentary evil, but it was purely an inward motion. To all appearances he was still the same-a blind beggar, a little frightened now, and very unsure of himself.

  Even his voice was high-pitched and hesitant.

  "I've . . . heard of him. Yes, sir. I've heard of him."

  The blond man said: "Well, the King sent me especially to invite you to join the Society."

  "But suppose I don't-"

  "Suit yourself. The guy who had this corner before you didn't want to join, either. So?"

  The Saint said nothing. Presently, very slowly, he nodded.

  "Smart boy," the blond man said. "I'll pick you up at ten tonight, right here."

  "Yes, sir," Simon Templar whispered.

  The blond man went away.

  CHAPTER SIX

  "Dat was Frankie," Mr. Uniatz announced, a few minutes later. "He ain't changed much."

  "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.