15 The Saint in New York

The traffic lights changed twice before he answered.

'Up at the top of this city,' he said slowly, 'there's a po­litical organization called Tammany Hall. They're the boys who fill all the public offices, and before you were born they'd made electioneering into such an exact science that they just don't even think about it any more. They turn out their voters like an army parade, their hired hoodlums guard the polls, and their employees count the votes. The boss of Tammany Hall is a man called Robert Orcread, and the nickname he gave himself is Honest Bob. Outside the City Hall there's a fine bit of a statue called Civic Virtue, and inside there's the biggest collection of crooks and grafters that ever ran a city.

'There's a district attorney named Marcus Yeald who's so crooked you could use him to pull corks with; and his cases come up before a row of judges like Nather. Things are dif­ferent here from what they are in your country. Over here our judges get elected; and every time a case comes up before them they have to sit down and figure out what the guy's po­litical pull is, or maybe somebody higher up just tells 'em so they won't make any mistake, because if a judge sends a guy up the river who's got a big political drag there's going to be somebody else sittin' in his chair when the next election comes round.

'The politicians appoint the police commissioner, and he does what they say and lays off when they say lay off. The first mistake they ever made was when they put Quistrom in. He takes orders from nobody; and somehow he's gotten himself so well liked and respected by the decent element in this city that even the politicians daren't try and chisel him out now— it'd make too much noise. But it all comes to the same thing in the end. If we send a guy up for trial, he's still got to be prosecuted by Marcus Yeald or one of Yeald's assistants, and a judge like Nather sits on the case an' sees that everything is nice and friendly.

'There's a bunch of rats an' killers in this town that stops nowhere, and they play ball with the politicians, and the pol­iticians play ball with them. We've had kidnapping and mur­der and extortion, and we're goin' to have more. That's the Big Fellow's game, and it's the perfect racket. There's more money in it than there ever was in liquor—and there's less of an answer to it. Look at it yourself. If it was your son, or your wife, or your brother, or your sister, that was bein' held for ransom, and you knew that the rats who were holding 'em were as soft-hearted as a lot of rattlesnakes—wouldn't you pay?'

The Saint nodded silently. Fernack's slow, dispassionate summary added little enough to what he already knew, but it filled in and coloured the picture for him. He had some new names to think about; and that realization brought him back to the question in his mind that he had tactfully postponed.

'Who is Papulos?' he asked; and Fernack grinned wryly.

'You've been getting around. He's pay-off man for Morrie Ualino.'

'Pay-off man for Ualino, eh?' Simon might have guessed the answer, but he gave no sign. 'And what do you know about Morrie?'

'He's one of the big shots I mentioned just now. One of these black-haired, shiny guys, as good-lookin' as Rudolf Valen­tino if you happen to like those kind of looks—lives like a swell, acts an' talks like a gent, rides around in an armoured sedan, and has two trigger men always walking in his shadow.'

'What's he do for a living?'

'Runs one of the biggest travelling poker games on Broad­way. He's slick—and poison. I've taken him to Ossining once, an' Dannemora once, myself, but he never stayed there long enough to wear through a pair of socks.' Fernack's cigar spun through the darkness in a glowing parabola and hit the road with a splutter of fire. 'Go get him, son, if you want him. I've told you all I can.'

'Where do I find him?'

Fernack jerked his head round and stared. The question had been put as casually as if the Saint had been asking for the address of a candy shop; but Simon's face was quite seri­ous.

Fernack turned his eyes back to the road; and after a while he said: 'Down on 49th Street, between Seventh and Eighth Avenues, there's a joint called Charley's Place. It might be worth paying a visit—if you can get in. There's a girl called Fay Edwards who might——'

The inspector broke off short. A third voice had cut eerily into the conversation—an impersonal metallic voice that came from the radio under the dashboard:

'Calling all cars. Calling all cars. Viola Inselheim, age six, kidnapped from home in Sutton Place . . .'

Fernack snapped upright, and the lights of a passing car showed