Call for the Saint

'Forget it,' Frankie said. 'Save it for the cops. What the hell do you think we care whether you're blind or not? A guy's got a right to make a living.' Unpleasant mockery sounded in his voice now. 'That's where we don't hold with the authori­ties. We don't make any stink about handing out begging li­censes. If you're sharp enough to get away with anything, that's fine-as long as you don't try it with us.'

'Yeah,' the driver said, laughing again. 'This guy's gonna be a smart apple, though, ain't he, Frankie?'

'Shut up,' Frankie said without rancor. 'Sure he is. But no­body's asking you.'

His hands worked over the Saint, efficiently exploring every inch from head to foot where a weapon could have been con­cealed.

Simon said pleadingly: 'I don't understand this. Where are we going?'

'It's like a lodge, see?' Frankie told him. 'You gotta be introduced and sworn in, see?'

Simon tried to keep up with their route by ear, but even a man born and bred in Chicago would have been finally baffled by the turns and backtracks the car took. He could only hope that they would not be confusing enough to shake off Hoppy in spite of the trained bloodhound talents which, like his celerity on the draw, were among the few useful legacies of his vocation during the Volstead Era.

A little more than half an hour later, as near as the Saint could judge, the car stopped and the door clicked open. Simon put up a hand to his blindfold, but Frankie slapped it down. The same cruelly probing fingers gripped his arm again and guided him out of the sedan and across a paved area where wind blew mildly against his face. There was very little noise of traffic now, and the air had the cleaner smell of a residential district.

A door opened and shut. Simon could hear his footsteps echoed, and presently another latch clicked, and he was guided down a steep flight of steps.

'Okay, turn on the lights,' Frankie said. The guiding hand let go. Frankie said: 'Stay where you are.'

The Saint stood still, and in the hushed pause that followed he was aware of tiny scuffs and rustles of movement, such as would come from a small group of people waiting in conscious silence.

Then the blindfold was lifted from his eyes, and a painful intensity of light blazed directly into his face.

He did not wince, though the glare was brutal. The new blindness which it induced made little difference-he knew that it would have been impossible to see past those spotlights at any time. This was the police line-up, with a difference. He stood motionless, knowing that eyes were studying him from behind the lights, but that these were not the eyes of guardians of the law and peace. They belonged to brothers-in-arms of Junior, alert to recognize him if he were a spy for any opposi­tion gang, or memorizing his features in readiness for future shakedowns.

A voice began to speak, artificially distorted through a crude public-address system..

'We welcome you to the Metropolitan Benevolent Society,' it said unctuously-'an organization designed for all the aid and protection we can give will be at your service . . .'

It was a formalized little speech, which might have been a phonograph recording for all Simon could tell; he guessed that it had been used often before and was a part of the regu­lar routine. Again that flash of monstrous incongruity struck through him at the situation-ruthless killers making a Rotary Club speech, the Arabian Nights in Chicago. But his face showed nothing but a slightly vacuous, listening intentness.

The speaker went on to observe that begging was one of the most ancient and honorable professions, that ancient monks had practiced it respectably, as the Salvation Army did today, but that in these times the individual practitioner was in dan­ger of all kinds of arbitrary persecution. And just as exploited Labor had been forced to band together to safeguard the rights which no lone individual could defend, so the professional mendicants had been obliged to band together and declare a closed shop for their fraternity-this same fraternity, of course, being the Metropolitan Benevolent Society.

It sounded good, the Saint admitted to himself. He was be­ginning to be able to see a little now, through the swimming spots and dazzles of his maltreated retinas; but there was not a great deal to see-only part of a bare cement-walled room with one door in it, and a portable loud-speaker on the floor to one side, with wires trailing from it and disappearing be­hind the lights.

The voice went on smoothly.

'In return for your protection,' it said paternally, 'you will turn in one half of your daily take to Big Hazel Green, mana­ger of the Elliott Hotel, where you will be given lodgings at a nominal price. She will be your contact with headquarters, and will supply you with all information and assign you your ter­ritory. One thing more. . . .' The voice became more greasily friendly than ever. 'Don't try any chiseling. You will be watched constantly, and any violation of our rules will be severely punished. If you have any questions now, Frankie will answer them.'

The Saint had many questions, but he knew that this was no time to ask them. He realized that he had not underestimated the cautiousness of the King. Even if the King was actually there at all, which Simon now doubted more than ever, His Majesty or any of his privy council could have potted him like a sitting rabbit before he even got through the shield of lights.

There was going to be no quick checkmate. This was not even the time to give check.

'No, sir,' he said weakly. 'No questions now.'

'Let's go,' Frankie said.

He replaced the elastic bandage and gripped the Saint's arm. Again the latch clicked, and they went up the stairs. Again there was a cool wind and concrete underfoot.

Something chinked in the Saint's pocket and rattled on the pavement. Simon stopped and bent over, groping hesitantly, but Frankie's hand jerked him upright again. Suspicion rasped in the man's voice.-- 'Hey, what's the idea?'

Then the chauffeur: 'It's only half a buck the guy dropped. Here it is.'

'I'm sorry,' Simon stammered. 'I guess I'm . . . kind of nervous.'

That carried conviction, and both men laughed briefly.

'You won't get rich that way,' the chauffeur said, and put the coin in the Saint's hand. 'Come on. We're taking another little ride.'

'Where to?'

'Around,' Frankie said. 'Just around. And back where we picked you up. Just so you won't come back without being in­vited. The King don't like visitors.'

CHAPTER SEVEN

Simon had cocktails already ordered when Monica Varing came into the Buttery at noon the next day. She was the most punctual woman he had ever met. He had discovered that you could set a clock by her; and it amused him to have the drinks arriving, freshly chilled, at the very moment when she walked in.

'Well,' he said, as she sat down while their hands still held, 'I am fraternally yours as of last night.'

Her beautifully drawn eyebrows rose.

'What have I done?'

'A figure of speech,' he explained hastily. 'I don't feel at all fraternal. But I am now an accredited member of your fraternity of beggars. I even had an audience with the King.'

'Tell me everything.'

The Saint told her.

'When I dropped the coin,' he concluded, 'it was the sig­nal to Hoppy that everything was under control and that was the joint he had to get the address of. He got it all right- they hadn't shaken him off with their zigzagging around town -and we went back there later and did a small job of house-breaking. Unfortunately it didn't pay off. It's a vacant house. The electricity's turned on, and there was that loud-speaker and a mike in the basement room, but nothing else except the spotlights.'

'Who owns the house?' Monica asked, and the Saint shrugged.

'I'm trying to find out. Meanwhile we have another lead. There's this Big Hazel Green, manageress of the Elliott Hotel. And you know who that joint belongs to? Stephen Elliott.'

'Stephen Elliott? The philanthropist?'

'It says here. At any rate, the Elliott Hotel is more or less a charity, according to the inquiries I've made. The point is, does Elliott know that his manageress is a liaison officer for the King of the Beggars?'

'Or,' she.said slowly, 'could Elliott be the King?'

The Saint nodded.

'Just like in a detective story. But such things have hap­pened. ... I should like to have a talk with Brother Elliott, in an unofficial sort of way.'