'Used to?'

'Yeah.' The detective's cigar moved through an arc at the end of his arm as he flicked ash into the road. 'Nowadays things are kind of different. Nowadays when we talk about the Big Fellow we mean the guy nobody knows: the man who's behind Morrie Ualino and Dutch Kuhlmann and Red Mc­Guire and all the rest of 'em ­­and bigger than any of them ever were. The guy who's made himself the secret king of the biggest underworld empire that ever happened. . . . Where did you hear of him?' Fernack asked.

The Saint smiled.

'I was eavesdropping—it's one of my bad habits.'

'At Nather's?'

'Draw your own conclusions.'

Fernack turned in his seat, his massive body cramped by the wheel; and the grey eyes under his down-drawn shaggy brows reflected the reddish light of his cigar end.

'Get this,' he said harshly. 'Everything you say about me and the rest of the force may be true. I'm not arguing. That's the way this town's run, and it's been like that ever since I was pounding a beat. But I'm telling you that some day I'm gonna pin a rap on that mug, judge or no judge—an' make it stick! If that line you shot at me was said to Nather, it means there's something dirty brewing around here tonight; and if there's any way of tying Nather in with it, I'll nail him. And I'll see that he gets the works all the way up the line!'

'Why should it mean that?'

'Because Nather is just another stooge of the Big Fellow's, the same as Irboll was. Listen: If that bunch is going out to­night, there's always the chance something may go blooey. One or two of 'em may get taken in by the cops. That means they'll get beaten up. Don't kid yourself. When we get those guys in the station house we don't pat them with paper streamers. Mostly the only punishment they ever get is what we give them in the back room. An' they don't like it. You can be as tough as you like and never let out a peep, but a strong-arm dick with a yard of rubber hose can still hurt you. So when a bunch is smart, they have a lawyer ready to dash in with writs of habeas corpus before we can even get started on 'em—and those writs have to be signed by a judge. One day a law will be passed to allow racketeers to make out the writs themselves an' save everyone a lot of expense, but at present you still gotta find a judge at home.'

'I see,' said the Saint gently.

Fernack grunted, and his fingers hardened on the cigar.

'Who gave that order?' he grated.

'I haven't the faintest idea,' said the Saint untruthfully. He sympathized with Fernack, but it was too late in his career to overcome an ingrained objection to letting any detective get ahead of him. 'The speech came over the phone, and that's all there was.'

'What did you go to Nather's for?'

'I asked you the same question, but I don't have to repeat it. I stayed right under the window and listened.'

Fernack's cigar fell out of his mouth and struck his knee with a fountain of sparks.

'You what?'

'Just in case you'd decided to follow me,' explained the Saint blandly. 'This business of haring for the tall timber in front of squads of infuriated policemen is all right for Charlie Chaplin, but it's a bit undignified for me.' He grinned rem­iniscently. 'I admired your vocabulary,' he said.

The detective groped elaborately for his fallen weed.

'I had to do it,' he growled. 'That son of a——pulled just one too many when he acquitted Irboll. I may be transferred for it, but I couldn't of stayed away if I'd been told beforehand that I was going to wake up tomorrow pounding a two-mile beat out on Staten Island.'

Simon put his head back and gazed up at the low roof of the sedan. 'What's the line-up?'

Fernack leaned on the wheel and smoked, staring straight ahead again. Taxis and cars thrummed past them in conflicting streams, and up in a tree over their heads a night bird bragged about what he was going to do to his wife when she came home.

Вы читаете 15 The Saint in New York
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