Call for the Saint

'Simon Templar,' Mrs. Wingate echoed, looking at him along her nose, over a battery of chins, 'It's familiar, somehow. Oh, I know. The Senator from --'

Behind the Saint a deep, mild, slightly treacly voice said: 'Not quite, Laura. Not quite.'

Stephen Elliott moved into the group with a sort of apolo­getic benevolence that reminded the Saint of an undertaker associating with the bereaved.

Seen without interference by the dark glasses through which Simon had observed him first, there was a fresh pink tint to his long aristocratic features, rather similar in contour to those of a well-bred horse, which suggested that he had arrived fresh from a facial. His skin strengthened that impression with a smooth softness which implied the same attention daily. Whatever his other philanthropies may have been, it was evident that he must have been a benison to his barber.

Simon admitted him to their circle with an easy geniality that contained no hint of recognition.

'I'm not in the public eye just now,' he said. 'Though there was a time when I was, rather painfully.'

Mrs. Wingate fixed him with a sharp stare.

'I can't remember names, but I have a wonderful memory for faces. I-oh, no. Of course not.'

But her eyes were puzzled.

Stephen Elliott's deprecating smile and unnaturally soothing voice implied that all was for the best as he said: 'Mr. Templar is the Saint, Laura. Surely you've heard of the Saint?'

'Oh, heavens,' Mrs. Wingate said, losing her poise and clutching at a sapphire pendant sitting like a mahout on the elephantine bulge of her bosom.

'My dear Mrs. Wingate,' Simon said lightly, 'even if I were still actively pursuing my profession, I could never bring myself to swipe sapphires from such a charming throat.'

Mrs. Wingate giggled; but she relinquished her grip on the pendant rather reluctantly.

'Surely you're not-I mean --'

She glanced around apprehensively. Simon smiled at her.

'Even Jack the Ripper must have had his social hours,' he said. 'Please consider me on my best behavior. You need have no fears for your sapphires, your silver, or your honor, though the latter . . .' He beamed at Mrs. Wingate, who snickered again, unaware that the sentence might have been finished in many more ways than one, and at least half of them un­flattering.

Elliott introduced himself, '-since Laura is too flustered, I gather,' he said gravely. 'Miss Varing? How do you do? Meet­ing two such notable figures is rather an event. I'll celebrate it by joining you in a drink.'

He beckoned to a passing tray.

'To crime,' the Saint suggested, and they drank, though Mrs. Wingate had a moment's startled pause first.

'To crime,' Elliott repeated. 'I'm surprised to hear that from you, Mr. Templar. I thought the Saint changed sides a while ago.'

'There was a war on at the time,' Simon said casually, 'and some of it seemed sort of important. But now I'm back to stirring up my own trouble. You might call it my private recon­version problem. ... As a matter of fact, I'm working on a case now, and I find I haven't lost much of my knack.'

'A case?' Elliott asked.

'Yes. It should interest you, in view of the work you've been doing among Chicago's poor. Have you ever heard of someone called the King of the Beggars?'

Simon threw out the phrase with perfect carelessness, and just as airily made no point of watching for a reaction.

It would have made little difference if he had. Stephen Elliott's Santa Claus eyebrows merely drew together in a vaguely worried way; while Mrs. Wingate bridled as if her position in the Social Register had been questioned, and then said: 'It's fantastic. Utterly fantastic. I've heard rumors, of course, but-Mr. Templar, you must realize that such things are-are--'

'Fantastic?' the Saint prompted.

'Not too much so in my opinion,' Stephen Elliott answered him. 'There certainly is some sort of, criminal organization victimizing the poor in Chicago. I'm not blind, Mr. Templar. But just how widespread is it?.'

Simon shrugged.

Elliott's distinguished equine face worked uncomfortably.

'I know,' he said at last. 'It's a pernicious racket, no matter how small. It should be stamped out. And you say you're going after it?'

The Saint flipped a mental coin, and decided to hold his course.

'Yes. I haven't been able to find out much yet. I wonder if you could help me?'

Elliott pursed his lips.

'I'm afraid they don't talk to me. Not about that. It's hard to break down the wall of reticence a socially unfortunate man has had to build up. I can inquire, if that will help.'

'You haven't been interested enough so far to ask ques­tions?' Monica put in.

'It's a police matter. I feel that I can do more good in my own way. ... Of course, if I could be of any use--'

Mrs. Wingate said abruptly: 'Why, you're the blind beggar!'

This time the Saint was naturally watching Elliott. He saw blank startled astonishment leap into the man's eyes. He held his own reflexes frozen under an unmoving mask of bronze and waited, while Mrs. Laura Wingate babbled on,'I don't understand. I'm sure I can't be mistaken! But-but- I never forget a face, Mr. Templar. What in the world--'

Elliott's hand moved toward the watch chain stretched across his vest.

'What do you mean, Laura?'

'I'm sure I must be making a fool of myself. But, Stephen, you know I've got a photographic memory. I think you were with me, too. . . . Yesterday! Mr. Templar--'

The coin had come down and bedded itself flatly in hot solder. There wasn't even a theoretical chance any more of it landing on its edge. Its verdict had been delivered with more finality even than the Saint had played for. But he had always been a sucker for the fast showdown, the cards on the table and the hell with complicated stratagems. , . .

He relaxed with an infinitude of relaxation, and smiled at Laura Wingate with a complete happiness that could only stem from that.

'She's perfectly right,' he said. 'I often travel incognito. As a matter of fact, I was trying to get some information about the King's organization. To do that, I had to pose as a beggar. I hope you'll keep it confidential.'

'Oh, goodness,' Mrs. Wingate said breathlessly. 'How romantic!'

Stephen Elliott maintained his mildly worried expression.

'Since we've stumbled on something that's apparently secret,' he said temperately, 'I suspect we'd better not ask any more questions. If Mr. Templar really has taken up the chase, and if his quarry should learn about it, it might be extremely dangerous for him. Perhaps even'-he shot the Saint a delib­erate measuring glance-'fatal.'

'I wouldn't dream of telling a soul,' Mrs. Wingate pro­tested. 'I just wish I weren't so curious!'

Elliott's attention remained on the Saint.

'In fact,' he said, 'I'm not at all sure that it's wise for you to go on with this project, even now. From what little I have heard, the King of the Beggars protects his absolute sovereignty as ruthlessly as any despot. I have a great admiration for your exploits, and I should hate to see anything happen to you.'

'Thank you,' Simon said. 'I've a great admiration for yours.'

Elliott hesitated, staring.

'Scarcely in the same category--'

'I mean your charities. The Elliott Hotel, for example.'

The philanthropist nodded.

'I am trying to follow a plan,' he said, a slightly fanatical glaze coming into his eyes. 'I'll admit that the several rooming houses I own in Chicago aren't in the same class as the Palmer House, but I think, all told, I have more guests in my various establishments than any single Chicago hotel. The greatest good for the greatest number of the needy automatically means that one must supply bread, not eclairs.'