He said, “This happened just after I went out?”
“Yassah. The desk clerk said you hadn’t been gone more ’n a few minutes. He said you went out with a lady.”
“What about that Detective Yard?”
“Ah didn’t see him, sah. Ah guess most likely he went out when you did.”
It had been a nice job of contrivance anyhow. If the ungodly knew or assumed that the police were watching Simon Templar, they could also assume that the police would go out when Simon Templar went out. So the coast would be relatively clear when they knew he was going out.
He had been on his guard against uninvited shadows, when it seemed like a good idea to watch out for uninvited shadows. He hadn’t bothered much about those who stayed behind, because he hadn’t been thinking about anything worth staying behind for. But they had been.
The three faceless men. Blatt, Weinbach, and Maris. Two of whom he had only heard described. And Maris, whom nobody had heard of and nobody had even seen.
But Olga Ivanovitch must have known at least one of them. Or even more positively, at least one of them must have known her. They must have sat and looked at each other in the lobby while she was waiting for him. One way or another, the Saint was being taken out of the way for a safe period, and some of them had known it and watched it when he went out. Quite probably, Olga.
Simon’s lips hardened momentarily as he finished refolding the last shirt and laid it on top of the stack in his bag. He turned back from the job to watch Port Arthur Jones fastidiously fitting a chair back into the scars which its standard position had printed on the nap of the carpet. The room looked as tidy again as if nothing had ever happened there.
“Thanks, chum,” said the Saint. “Have we forgotten anything?”
The coloured man scratched his close-cropped head.
“Well, sah, Ah dunno. The Alamo House is a mighty respectable hotel—”
“Will you be in trouble on account of the time you’ve been shut up in here?”
“Nawsah, Ah can’t say that. Ah goes off for mah supper, and then Ah comes back and just stays around as long as there’s a chance of earnin’ an honest tip. Ah don’t clock out at no definite time. But with people breakin’ into rooms and pullin’ a gun on you and tyin’ you up, it seems like the management or the police or somebody oughta know what’s goin’ on.”
He was honestly confused and worried about the whole thing.
Simon took a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and flattened it between his hands so that the numbers were plainly visible.
“Look,” he said, as one man to another, “I don’t want any trouble with the hotel. And I don’t want any help from the cops. I’d rather take care of these guys myself if I ever catch up with them. Why can’t we just pretend that you went home early, and none of this ever happened, except that you did spot two more of those people I asked you about and pointed them out to me, and I’ll pay you off on that basis.”
The scruples of Mr Port Arthur Jones were probably no less sincere and confirmed than those of Mr Henry Morgenthau, but he eyed the dangling sawbuck and was irresistibly swayed by its potentialities in his budget. You could see box cars rolling majestically over the murky tracks of his mind.
“Yassah,” he said, beaming. “Ah don’t wanna start no trouble. Ah’ll just forget it if that’s what you say, sah.”
Simon watched him stow away the green consolation and close the door contentedly after him.
Then he poured himself the highball which he had come home for in the first place. He was glad that at least his guests hadn’t been searching for something that might have been soluble in alcohol.
He was just getting acquainted with the drink when his telephone rang.
“I’ve taken care of your friend,” said The Times-Tribune. “He should be back at the Campeche in just a little while. One of the boys is taking care of him.”
“Good,” said the Saint. “I’ll be over there in just a little while too.”
“I was able to fix it with the hotel and get to the judge,” persisted the voice, rather mournfully. “At this time of night, that’s not so easy.”
“Congratulations,” said the Saint. “You must be persona very grata.”
There was a brief hiatus where the city editor silenced as if he was digging out a new lead.
“I liked the way you talked to that man, Vaschetti,” he excavated at length, “and I think I ought to talk to you the same way. I’ll hold everything while you bring in your story, but I have to live here, too. So whatever you bring in, I’ll have to turn over to the police and the FBI.”
“I’ll give you a personal commendation for your fine public spirit,” said the Saint.
He could see the pear-shaped figure with its feet on the desk and the battered hat tilted over the eyes that were the only sparkle in the dried poker face, as if it were sitting directly in front of him.
“You’ve said things that sounded as if you had a hell of a lot of inside dope on this case,” said the city editor finally. “What are you doing in Galveston anyway, and why don’t you give me the whole story and earn yourself some real dough?”
“I’ll think about it,” said the Saint, “after I’ve talked to Vaschetti again.”
He dropped the phone, and tried to resume relations with his highball.
He had absorbed one good solid sip when the bell rang again.
This time it was Washington.
“Hamilton,” said the line. “I hope this is an awkward moment.”
Simon grinned for his own benefit, and said, “No.”
“This is all I’ve got so far on those names. During Prohibition, there were two trigger men in Milwaukee named Johan Blatt and Fritzie Weinbach. They usually worked together. Racketeers. One or two charges—assault, carrying concealed weapons, and so on. Associated with un-American activities in Chicago just before the War. I can read you their full records, but they just sound like a couple of mercenary hoodlums.”
“Don’t bother,” said the Saint. “What about Maris?”
“Nothing yet. A name doesn’t mean anything. Hasn’t anyone even seen the colour of his eyes?”
“Nobody ever sees Maris,” said the Saint. “They don’t notice anything about him at all. But I’ll find him before you do. I’m still working. Have some more black coffee and wait up for me.”
He pronged the transceiver again, and reached for his glass once more with indomitable determination.
Maris—the man nobody saw. The man who might be much more than the mere trick answer to a riddle that had been posed by the premature cremation of Henry Stephen Matson. The man who might materialise into one of those almost legendary spear-carriers who were primarily responsible for Simon Templar’s excursions as a talent scout even to such outposts as Galveston. The man who might be more concerned than anyone about the contents of the ostrich-skin leather case which had consumed Matson’s dying breath.
Or about the lists or memory of Nick Vaschetti, a glorified errand-boy with a bad case of fright or fluctuating conscience. He crumpled out the stub of his cigarette and went downstairs. Port Arthur Jones, shining like refurbished ebony, intercepted him as he left the elevator.
“Mistah Templah, sah, that Detective Yard just gone home. Another detective took over for him. His name’s Mistah Callahan. He’s sittin’ half behind the second palm across the lobby. A stout gennelman with a bald head in a grey suit—”
Simon slipped another Lincoln label into the bell-boy’s pink palm.
“If you keep on like this, Po’t Arthur,” he said, “you’re going to end up a capitalist whether you want to or not.”
It was a well indicated move which should have been taken before, to replace the too familiar Mr Yard with somebody else whom the Saint might not recognise. Simon’s only surprise was that it hadn’t happened sooner. But presumably the whimsical antics of the Selective Service System had not excluded the Galveston Police Department from the scope of their ruthless raids upon
personnel. That wasn’t the Saint’s business. But for the most immediate future, at least until he had consummated the Vaschetti diversion, Simon Templar preferred to get along without the politically complicated protection of the Galveston gendarmerie.
Wherefore he shelved Mr Callahan by the rather kindergarten expedient of climbing very deliberately into his parked car, switching on the lights, fiddling with the starter, and then just as leisurely stepping out of the other door, boarding a passing cab, and going away in it while Mr Callahan was still glued to the bridge of his municipal sampan and waiting for the Saint’s wagon to weigh anchor so that he could pursue it.
Which was an entirely elementary technique, but didn’t even begin to tackle the major problem of the Law in Galveston.
What Simon wanted more than anything at that moment was Mr Vaschetti’s autographed statement, and the list of names and addresses which he had promised. Those things, as weapons, would be worth even more to him than the gun that still bulked under his left arm, or the knife which he could feel with every swing of his right leg.
The Campeche Hotel was down on Water Street, and it appeared to be a very popular bivouac, for there was such a large crowd of citizens clustered around the entrance that they obstructed the traffic, and the Saint left his taxi a few doors away and walked into the throng. As he edged his way through them he was conscious of the crunching of broken glass under his feet, but he didn’t think much about it until he noticed some of the crowd glancing upwards, and he glanced upwards with them and saw the jagged gaping hole in the shattered marquee overhead. Then with the advantage of his height he looked over a few heads and shoulders and saw the thing that was the nucleus of the assembly. A rather shapeless lump of something in the centre of a clear circle of blood-spattered sidewalk, with one foot sticking out from under a blanket that covered its grosser deformations.
Even then, he knew, but he had to ask.
“What gives?” he said to the nearest bystander.
“Guy just got discouraged,” was the laconic answer. “Walked outa his window on the eighth floor. I didn’t see him jump, but I saw him light. He came through that marquee like a bomb.”
Simon didn’t even feel curious about getting the blanket moved for a glimpse of anything identifiable that might have been left as a face. He observed the uniformed patrolman standing rather smug guard over the remains, and said quite coldly, “How long ago did this happen?”
“Only about five minutes ago. They’re still waitin’ for the ambulance. I was just goin’ by on the other side of the street, and I happened to look around—”
The Saint didn’t weary his ears with the rest of the anecdote. He was too busy consuming the fact that one more character in that particular episode had elected to go voyaging into the Great Beyond in the middle of another of those unfinished revelations which only the most corny of scenario cookers would have tolerated for a moment. Either he had to take a very dim view of the writing talent in the books of Destiny, or else it would begin to seem that the abrupt transmigration of Nick Vaschetti was just another cog in a divine conspiracy to make life tantalising for Simon Templar.
9
The links went clicking through Simon’s brain as if they were meshing over the teeth of a perfectly fitted sprocket.
The ungodly had ransacked his room at the Alamo House while they knew he would be out of the way, and had drawn a blank. But they would have had plenty of time to pick him up again, and it would have been childishly simple for them to do it, because they knew he was with Olga Ivanovitch, and the place where she was going to steer him for dinner had been decided in advance. The Saint had been alert for the kind of ambuscade that would have been orchestrated with explosions and flying lead, but not for ordinary trailing, because why should the ungodly trail him when one of them was already with him to note all his movements? He had left Olga Ivanovitch in his car outside The Times-Tribune building, as he said, for a front and a cover: it hadn’t occurred to him that she might be a front and a cover for others of the ungodly. She sat there covering the front while they took the precaution of covering the other exits. When he came out of the back alley, they followed. When he went to the City Gaol, they remembered Vaschetti and knew that that must have been the man he had gone to see. Therefore one of them had waited for a chance to silence Vaschetti, and when Vaschetti was released and led back to the Campeche, the opportunity had been thrown into their laps. It had been as mechanically simple as that.
And Olga Ivanovitch had done a swell job all the way through. All those items went interlocking through his mind as he stood at the desk inside and faced an assistant manager who was trying somewhat flabbily to look as though he had everything under perfect control.
Simon flipped his lapel in a conventional gesture, but without showing anything, and said aggressively, “Police Department. What room was Vaschetti in?”
“Eight-twelve,” said the assistant manager, in the accents of a harassed mortician. “The house detective is up there now. I assure you, we—”
“Who was with him when he jumped?”
“No one that I know of. He was brought in by one of the men from The Times-Tribune, who redeemed his cheque. Then the reporter left, and—”
“He didn’t have any visitors after that?”
“No, nobody asked for him. I’m sure of that, because I was standing by the desk all the time. I’d just taken the money for his cheque, and told Mr Vaschetti that we’d like to have his room in the morning, and I was chatting with a friend of mine—”
“Where are the elevators?”
“Over in that corner. I’ll be glad to take you up, Mr—”
“Thanks. I can still push my own buttons,” said the Saint brusquely, and headed away in the direction indicated, leaving the assistant manager with only one more truncated sentence in his script.
He had very little time to spare, if any. It could be only a matter of seconds before the accredited constabulary would arrive on the scene, and he wanted to verify what he could before they were in his hair.
He went up and found 812, where the house detective could be seen through the open door, surveying the scene with his hands in his pockets and a dead piece of chewing cigar in the corner of his mouth.
Simon shouldered in with exactly the same authoritative technique and motion of a hand towards the flap of his buttonhole.
“What’s the bad news?” he demanded breezily.
The house detective kept his hands in his pockets and made a speech with his shoulders and the protruding cud of his cigar that said as eloquently as anything, “You got eyes, ain’tcha?”
Simon fished out a pack of cigarettes and let his own eyes do the work.
It didn’t take more than one wandering glance to rub in the certainty that he was still running behind schedule. Although not exactly a shambles, the room showed all the signs of a sound working over. The bed was torn apart, and the mattress had been slit open in several places, as had the upholstery of the single armchair. The closet door stood wide, and the few garments inside had been ripped to pieces and tossed on the floor. Every drawer of the dresser had been pulled out, and its contents dumped and pawed over on the carpet. The spectacle was reminiscent of the Saint’s own room at the Alamo House—with trimmings. He wouldn’t have wasted a second on any searching of his own. The search had already been made, by experts.
So someone already had Vaschetti’s diary, or else no one was likely to come across it there.
The Saint scraped a match with his thumbnail and let the picture shroud itself in a blue haze.
“What about the men who were up here with Vaschetti?” he asked.
“I never saw anyone with him,” responded the house dick promptly.
He had a broad beam and an advancing stomach, so that he had some of the air of a frog standing upright.
“I didn’t get your name,” he said. “Mine’s Rowden.”
“You didn’t hear any commotion up here, Rowden?”
“I didn’t hear a thing. Not until the crash Vaschetti made going through the marquee. I didn’t even know he was back out of gaol until just now. Where’s Kinglake? He usually comes out on death cases.”
“He’ll be along,” Simon promised, with conviction.
There was one fascinating detail to consider, Simon observed as he narrowed down the broad outlines of the scene. In the middle of the strewn junk on the floor there was an almost new gladstone bag, empty and open, lying on its side. He moved to examine it more closely.
“Anybody else been up here?” he inquired.
“Nope. You’re the first. Funny I don’t know you. I thought I’d met all the plain-clothes men in Galveston.”
“Maybe you have,” said the Saint encouragingly.
Indubitably that was the gladstone which he had heard about. It even had the initials “H S M” gold-stamped beside the handle. But if there had ever been an ostrich-skin leather case in the lining, it wasn’t there any more. The lining had been slashed to ribbons, and you could have found a long-lost pin in it.
It was a picturesque mystery-museum piece, but that was all. The current questions were, how had it come to rest there, and why? Johan Blatt had removed it from the Ascot, and by no stretch of imagination could his description have been confused with that of the latest failure in the field of empirical levitation. Vaschetti and Blatt were even more different than chalk and cheese: they didn’t even begin with the same letter.
Simon Templar pondered that intensely for a time, while the house detective teetered batrachianly on his heels and gnawed on his bowsprit of cigar. The house detective, Simon thought, would surely have been a great help in detecting a house. Aside from that, he was evidently content to let nature and the Police Department take their course. He would have made Dick Tracey break out in a rectangular rash.
They remained in that sterile atmosphere until the sound of voices and footsteps in the corridor swelling rapidly louder presaged the advent of Lieutenant Kinglake and his cohorts.
The Saint on Guard (The Saint Series) Page 20
