Call for the Saint

Monica wrinkled her brow.

'Could I help?'

'I read in a society column this morning that Mrs. Laura Wingate is giving a cocktail party for him today. Do you happen to know her?'

'No, but I'm sure to know somebody who does. Let me make a few phone calls.'

Simon called a waiter, and lighted a cigarette for her while a telephone was brought and plugged in. Then he went to a phone booth outside and made a call for himself.

'Hoppy?' he said. 'Did you get a report from that real-estate company yet?'

'No, boss.' Mr. Uniatz's voice, which had never been dis­tinguished by any flutelike purity of tone, had a perturbed croak in it which registered on the Saint's sensitive ear just a second before he blurted out its cause and explanation. 'I got a cop here, boss. I dunno what goes on, but he wants to talk to ya. Only he ain't got no warrant.'

'No warrant is required for that,' Simon said. 'If he longs to hear my dulcet tones, we can accommodate him. Put him on. It's all right, Hoppy.'

'I hope so,' Mr. Uniatz muttered dubiously.

Then a cool deep-pitched voice sounded in the Saint's ear.

'Mr. Templar?'

'Yes.'

'This is Detective Lieutenant Alvin Kearney. I'd like to see you about a matter.'

Simon drew a slow careful breath.

'Are you selling subscriptions to the police fund?' he in­quired genially. 'If so, you can count on me. This business of taking out old policemen and shooting them has always struck me as unnecessarily cruel.'

'What?' Kearney said. 'Look, Mr. Templar. I want to see you.'

'So you said,' the Saint agreed. 'About a matter. But just at the moment I'm already seeing someone about a Matter. Per­haps if you told me the nature of this Matter of yours I'd be more cooperative. How do I know it's important?'

'We've got a body down at the morgue, and we'd like you to look at it. That's all.'

'Ah,' said the Saint, and was briefly silent while he lighted a thoughtful cigarette. 'I'd love to, Lieutenant. I've always said that Chicago is one of the most hospitable cities in the world. But I've already seen the Art Institute and Marshall Field's and the Natural History Museum, and I don't think I need a corpse to increase my liking for your city. Unless it's got two heads. Has it got two heads?'

Kearney said doggedly: 'It's only got one head and we want you to look at it. I'm being polite, Mr. Templar. But I don't have to be, you know.'

Simon knew it. He had heard that tone of voice before. And he was very definitely curious.

'I know,' he murmured. 'It's just your better nature. Well, I'd do almost anything to make you happy. When and where do you want me to ogle this cadaver?'

'If you could come on down to the morgue right now, I could meet you there. It would help.'

'Fine,' Simon said. 'In about twenty minutes?'

'That'll suit me. Thanks, Mr. Templar.'

'Not at all,' said the Saint, and went more soberly back to the table.

Monica had finished her calls. The dark richness of her hair tossed like a wave of night as she looked up at him.

'It's all set,' she said cheerfully. 'We're going with the Kirklands. I didn't tell them about you. You'll be a surprise.'

Simon said, 'I hope I can make it. Somehow the police seldom see things my way.' He sat down. 'There's been a corpse found, and it seems they want me to identify it. Why anyone should think I might supply the clue is something else again. It isn't my corpse or yours or Hoppy's-we know that.'

Her face was only a shade paler-or that might have been a change of lighting on her camellia skin.

'Then-who could it be?'

'As a betting proposition,' said the Saint, 'I'll take three guesses. And Stephen Elliott is not one of them.'

CHAPTER EIGHT

The last time Simon Templar had seen the man who lay on the morgue slab was in the parlor of Sammy the Leg. Junior's rat face was as unattractive in death as in life -less so, in view of the small blue-rimmed hole that marred his forehead. As the Saint looked at it, he was conscious of a curious urgency to dematerialize himself, drift like smoke toward the house near Wheaton, and ask Sammy questions. Apparently Hoppy had similar thoughts, but the articulation of them seemed to elude him.

Lieutenant Alvin Kearney was a very tall, very thin man with protruding brown eyes and a bobbing Adam's apple. He seemed to be mainly fascinated by the body, in a sort of dull desperate way.

'Know him?' he asked.

'What makes you think I would?' Simon countered cau­tiously.

'Ever seen him before?' Kearney insisted.

The Saint said plaintively: 'I very seldom meet people with bullet holes in their foreheads. They're so taciturn they bore me.'

Kearney closed his mouth and juggled his Adam's apple. His cheeks darkened a trifle.

'You're funny as a crutch,' he said. 'I want a straight an­swer.'

Simon's innocent blue gaze met Kearney's squarely.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I can't help you. I can't even tell you the man's name. Who is he?'

'Dunno,' Kearney said. 'Unidentified, so far.'

'Oh. Did he have a note in his hand directing that his re­mains be sent to me?'

'Not quite,' Kearney said. 'There was a sort of tie-up, though. We found him in a house just north of Wheaton. Ever been there?'

The Saint took out a cigarette and turned it between his fingers, correcting minute flaws in its roundness. His face wore no more reaction than a slight thoughtful frown; but a pre­scient vacuum had suddenly created itself just below his ribs. It had always been obvious that Kearney hadn't called him out of sheer civic hospitality. Now the showing of cards, led up to with almost Oriental obliquity, was starting to uncork a Sunday punch. But it was starting from such a fantastic direc­tion that the Saint's footwork felt stiff and stumbling.

He said: 'Wait a minute, Lieutenant. You found this man in the house, you say?'

'Not me personally. But he was in a basement room there, yes.'

'Does the local patrolman's beat include the inside of houses?'

Kearney said: 'I get it. No, there was a phone call. An anonymous tip. The usual thing. We gave it a routine checkup, and there was this house with this guy in it.'

'No clues?' Simon said.

'Clues!' Kearney chewed the word. 'Well-maybe one. We checked up to see who the house belongs to.'

He was staring at the Saint. Simon merely nodded and looked brightly interested.

Kearney said: 'It belonged to an ex-con called Sammy the Leg, up to yesterday. Then a deed of gift was filed. Now it be­longs to Mr. Simon Templar.'

So that was it. ... The hollow space under the Saint's wishbone filled up abruptly with fast-setting cement.

It was nightmarish, absurd, impossible; it was something that not only shouldn't but happily couldn't happen to a dog. He could only theoretically sympathize with the emotions of this hypothetical hound upon watching some rival pooch dig up a treasured bone miles away from its established burial ground-and upon discerning that the bone had also been booby-trapped in transit.

Somehow he managed to strike a match and set it to his ciga­rette without a quiver.

'Somebody should have told me,' he murmured. 'I always wanted to be a real-estate tycoon.'

'You didn't know about it, huh?' Kearney said. 'I kind of thought you didn't. You ever meet Sammy the Leg?'