Call for the Saint

The Saint shook his head.

'Of course not. I didn't sign any deed of gift, either.'

'Uh-huh. We're checking. We got plenty of records on Sammy.' Kearney produced a pad and pen. 'Mind signing this ? I want to compare a few signatures.'

Simon obligingly scribbled his name.

'If you'd show the deed to me, I could tell you right away if it was a forgery. In fact, I can tell you that now.'

'Can't take your word for it,' Kearney said flatly. 'I admit it looks like a frame, and a lousy one. On the other hand, we've got to be sure. You got a certain reputation, Saint.'

'So they tell me,' Simon said. 'I'm surprised you don't lock me up.'

Kearney suddenly grinned.

'We thought of it. But the Commissioner said no. You must have done him a favor sometime.'

Which happened to be true. But Simon didn't answer the implied question. He was staring thoughtfully at Junior's corpse.

'That house at Wheaton-isn't anyone living there?'

'Nobody's shown up there since we got the call.'

'With this housing shortage, too,' Simon drawled. 'You'd think they'd have been around it like ants as soon as a dead body was taken out. . . . Well, it seems as if someone's adopted me for an heir. I'm only sorry I can't help you. If I do run across anything, I'll let you know, though. All right?'

Kearney said: 'Sure, that's all right. Of course, if this is a frame, it might mean you're mixed up in something. It might mean somebody's gunning for you. You wouldn't know about that, would you?'

Simon's attitude changed. He leaned forward confidentially.

'Well,' he said, 'if you'll consider this just between our­selves, and not for publication, I can tell you that I am en­gaged in a small crusade just at present.'

Kearney's eyes opened.

'Yeah?'

'Yeah,' Simon said, and brought his mouth close to the detective's ear. 'Don't breathe a word of it, but I've decided to kill everyone in Chicago.'

He went back to the hotel and told Hoppy the story; and Mr. Uniatz's jaw sagged lower and lower as it proceeded.

'I don't get it,' Mr. Uniatz said finally, making a great con­fession.

'Neither do I, to put it mildly,' said the Saint. 'And fortu­nately, neither does Kearney. But he's no fool. I didn't want him to start asking me the wrong questions. He was on the right track, you know.'

'Yeah?' Hoppy said.

'He knows I'm mixed up in something. And I can't let the police in on this yet. If I did, the King would simply go under­ground. As long as I keep His Majesty thinking there's only one man on his track, he won't be frightened into a strategic retreat. Ever try to scrape a sea anemone off a rock?'

'What would I wanna do a t'ing like dat for?' Hoppy in­quired aggrievedly.

The Saint considered the question solemnly.

'Let's say the anemone had murdered a great-aunt of yours, if you must have a motive. The aunt's name was Abigail. She used to eke out a precarious living by blackmailing anemones. Got that straight?'

'Sure,' said Hoppy, satisfied.

'If you scoop fast, you can scrape up the anemone. But if you aren't quite fast enough, it'll retract and fold up into such a tight knot that you can't pry it loose. I don't want the King to retract.'

Hoppy said: 'Sure.'

'The King doesn't know I'm the blind beggar-I hope. That's something. And I don't think his murder frame has a chance to stick.' Simon frowned. 'Or . . . perhaps he's smarter than I thought. We'll have to wait and see. At worst, you can get an anemone to reopen by feeding it.'

'Hey,' Hoppy said suddenly. 'What's an anemone?'

Simon decided it would be more discreet to leave this alone.

'What we want to know,' he said grimly, 'is how this all happened. Who did what to who? Did Junior dig through a wall and escape? Then who bumped him off and called the cops? Is something wrong about that stooge-what was his name?-Fingers Schultz? Who talked too much to who-and brought my name into it? And how much too much has been said? Most important of all, what made Sammy run?'

'It couldn't of been Sammy,' Hoppy said miserably. 'I'd trust Sammy wit' my right eye. If he signs a receipt, dat is.'

'We didn't get a receipt,' Simon pointed out.

CHAPTER NINE

The Saint had expected Mrs. Laura Wingate's penthouse on Lake Shore Drive to be fairly palatial, but he was not quite prepared for the rococo perspectives that opened before him as he followed Monica Varing out of the elevator and the cocktail party exploded around them like a startled barnyard.

'My God,' he said in a dazed undertone, as he fought their way through the seething throngs. 'Monica, are you sure this is the right place?'

'I think so. We could have crashed the gate without any trouble. Everybody's here.'

This seemed fairly correct. Across the broad acres of terrace, tables were set up, beach umbrellas made gay patterns, and trays of cocktails were levitated toward thirsty throats. The Saint seized two passing Martinis and shared his loot with Monica.

'Let's cruise around,' he suggested. 'I don't know exactly what we're looking for, but there's one way to find out. If you stumble on a clue, such as a rigid body with a knife hilt pro­truding from its back, whistle three times.'

'I wouldn't be too hopeful,' she said. 'The servants must be too well trained to leave rubbish cluttering up the lawn. Still, there may be some rigid bodies around here before the day's over,' Monica pondered, watching a sleek young social­ite tossing off drink after drink with the desperation of a fire-breathing dragon trying to put itself out.

They drifted through the yammer of high-pitched voices, conveniently allowing an eddy among the other guests to cut them off from their sponsors the Kirklands. The Saint's casual­ly roving eyes inventoried the crowd without finding in it any­thing to give direction to his unformed questions. It seemed to be composed of fairly standard ingredients-playboys old and young, businessmen, and politicians, blended with their wives, concubines, and prospectives. He sought and failed exasperatingly to find a single sinister aroma in the brew.

Then through a gap in the crowd he glimpsed a white head that looked like Stephen Elliott, and started to steer Monica towards it. But before they had made much progress the throng parted in another quarter, spilling away like a bow wave be­fore the onrush of a monumental figure that bore down upon them like an ocean liner. Simon only had a moment to hope that it could stop in time, before it rammed them with its monstrous bosom.

'I thought I recognized you,' Mrs. Wingate cried, ignoring Simon to concentrate on his companion. 'It must be Monica Varing. Imagine!'

Monica smiled and said: 'I'm afraid I wasn't invited, Mrs. Wingate, but I was with the Kirklands this afternoon and they insisted I come along with them. I do hope you won't mind.'

She played the gracious lady with such perfect restraint and charm that even Simon was impressed, while Mrs. Wingate almost swooned.

'I'm so glad. How could I possibly mind? I've admired your art for so long, my dear Miss Varing-oh! A cocktail?'

She beckoned urgently, and a servant came with his tray. He offered it to Simon last, and Mrs. Wingate's attention was di­rected to Monica's escort.

'Oh, dear-I should know you too,' she gushed-and gig­gled helplessly. 'I'm sure I should. I have such a dreadful memory for names.'

'There's no reason why you should know mine,' said the Saint amiably. 'I'm uninvited too. I came with Miss Varing. My name is Templar. Simon Templar.'