Call for the Saint

She was a woman out of a Mary Petty drawing, protruding fore and aft, with several powdered chins and a look of deter­mined charity. The man was a nonentity beside her, spare and white-haired and silent, his gaze fixed abstractedly on the far distances and his fingers fumbling with the watch chain stretched across his vest.

'Thank you,' the Saint mumbled. 'God bless you, ma'am.'

'Oh, you're welcome,' the treacly voice said, and, startling­ly, giggled. 'I always feel I must give to the poor unfortu­nates.'

'What?' The man let go of his watch chain. 'Laura, we'll be late.'

'Oh, dear. Of course--'

She went on, her ridiculously high heels clicking busily and helping to exaggerate the undulant protrusion of her behind.

Hoppy Uniatz, coming by on one of his visits just then, leaned against the wall by the Saint and craned to peer into the cup.

'A lousy dime,' he observed disgustedly. 'An' I could get ten grand right around de corner for dem rocks she's wearin'.'

'It's the spirit that counts,' said the Saint. 'Didn't you recognize her?'

'She ain't anudder of dem actresses, is she?'

'No. But she doesn't do all her charity with dimes. That's Mrs. Laura Wingate. I've seen her in the papers lately. She's been backing Stephen Elliott-the abstracted gentleman you just saw.'

'What's his racket?'

'Founding missions and homes for the poor. Philanthropy. . . . Take a walk, Hoppy,' the Saint said abruptly, in the same low tone, and Mr. Uniatz's eyelids flickered. But he did not look around. With a grunt he reached for a coin, dropped it into the tin cup, and moved away.

'God bless you,' the Saint said, more loudly now.

Another man stood in front of him. He was tall, bitter-faced, sharply dressed. Pale blond hair showed under an ex­pensive hat. A hairline mustache accentuated the thin lines of the downcurved mouth.

Simon intoned: 'Help a poor blind man. . . . Buy a pen­cil?'

The man said: 'I want to talk to you.'

'Yes, sir?'

'You're new here, aren't you?'

Simon nodded.

'Yes, sir. A friend told me this was a good corner-and the man who had it died just lately--'

'That's right,' the clipped harsh voice said. 'He died, sure enough. Know why he died?'

'No, sir.'

'He wasn't smart. That's why he died. Maybe you're smart­er. Think so?'

'I . . . don't quite understand.'

'I'm telling you. Ever hear of the Metropolitan Benevolent Society?'

Simon moved his head slowly, with the helpless searching motion of the blind.

'I'm new in town,' he whined. 'Nobody told--'

'The head guy is the King of the Beggars.'

It sounded unreal in the mechanical hubbub of the Chicago street. It belonged in the time of Francois Villon, or in the lands of the Arabian Nights, Yet the fantastic title came easily from the thin twisted lips of the blond man, but without even the superficial glamour of those periods. In terms of today it was as coldly sinister as a leveled gun barrel. Simon had a moment's fastidious, catlike withdrawal from that momentary evil, but it was purely an inward motion. To all appearances he was still the same-a blind beggar, a little frightened now, and very unsure of himself.

Even his voice was high-pitched and hesitant.

'I've . . . heard of him. Yes, sir. I've heard of him.'

The blond man said: 'Well, the King sent me especially to invite you to join the Society.'

'But suppose I don't-'

'Suit yourself. The guy who had this corner before you didn't want to join, either. So?'

The Saint said nothing. Presently, very slowly, he nodded.

'Smart boy,' the blond man said. 'I'll pick you up at ten tonight, right here.'

'Yes, sir,' Simon Templar whispered.

The blond man went away.

CHAPTER SIX

'Dat was Frankie,' Mr. Uniatz announced, a few minutes later. 'He ain't changed much.'

'Frankie himself, eh?' Simon smiled. 'Well, we're moving at last. Frankie is going to initiate me into the Metropolitan Benevolent Society, and it's just possible that I might get an introduction to the King.'

'An' den we give him de woiks, huh?'

'You know, Hoppy, I've never committed regicide.' For a brief second the blind-beggar face showed the same lawless grin that had heralded the end of more than one particularly obnoxious career. 'It might be a new sensation. . . . But it's not going to be so easy.'

'If I get next to him wit' my Betsy'

'The trouble is, you weren't invited. And it might look strange if I showed up with an escort. This time, anyway, your job is going to be to lurk.'

He gave more detailed instructions.

By ten o'clock the Saint's profit for the day amounted to four dollars, twenty-seven cents, and a Los Angeles streetcar token, which he evaluated at six and a quarter cents. Since he expected to be searched, he carried no lethal weapon, not even the ivory-hilted throwing knife which in his hands was as fast and deadly as any gun. This trip would be an, advanced recon­naissance, and nothing would have been more foolish than to count on turning it extemporaneously into a frontal assault.

At ten o'clock he carefully ignored the unobtrusive dark sedan that rolled silently to a stop at the curb a few feet away. The driver's features were in shadow under a low-pulled hat, but the hands that lay on the steering wheel were not those of a King. The nails, Simon decided, were too septic to belong to royalty, even a racket royalty. Besides, when did royalty ever drive its own cars, except such rare cases as ex-King Alfonso. And look what happened to him, the Saint told himself, as he stared at nothing through his dark glasses and apparently did not see Frankie Weiss get out of the car and move toward him.

The blond man looked no more sunny and warmhearted than he had before dinner. His shark's mouth had presumably just grabbed for a tasty mackerel and got hold of an old boot instead. Working this organ slightly, Mr. Weiss paused be­fore the Saint and stared down.

Simon jingled his cup.

'Help a blind man, sir?'

'Lay off the act,' Frankie said. 'You remember me.'

The Saint hesitated.

'Oh. Oh, yes. You're the man who ... I know your voice. But I'm blind--'

'Maybe,' Frankie said skeptically. 'Let's get going.'

'Why . . . yes, sir. But I'd like to know a little more about this . . . this business.'

Frankie grasped the Saint's arm with bony fingers that dug deliberately into the flesh.

'Come on,' he said, and the Saint had only time to assure himself that Hoppy Uniatz was at his post half a block away before he was in the back of the sedan, the clash of the closing door committing him irrevocably to this chapter of the adven­ture.

The chauffeur's unkempt neckline confirmed his opinion that the man was a subordinate. Simon had little chance to study his subject, for as the car slid smoothly into gear Frankie lifted the dark-lensed glasses from the Saint's nose, dropped them casually into Simon's lap, and replaced them with a total­ly opaque elastic bandage. Simon slipped the spectacles into a pocket and put up a mildly protesting hand.

'What's that? I don't need a blindfold.'

The driver laughed shortly. But Frankie's tone held no amusement as he said: 'Maybe. And maybe not.'

'But--'