Call for the Saint

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 unfunc­ tional 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.