Call for the Saint (5 page)

Simon knew it. He had heard that tone of voice before. And he was very definitely curious.

“I know,” he murmured. “It’s just your better nature. Well, I’d do almost anything to make you happy. When and where do you want me to ogle this cadaver?”

“If you could come on down to the morgue right now, I could meet you there. It would help.”

“Fine,” Simon said. “In about twenty minutes?”

“That’ll suit me. Thanks, Mr. Templar.”

“Not at all,” said the Saint, and went more soberly back to the table.

Monica had finished her calls. The dark richness of her hair tossed like a wave of night as she looked up at him.

“It’s all set,” she said cheerfully. “We’re going with the Kirklands. I didn’t tell them about you. You’ll be a surprise.”

Simon said, “I hope I can make it. Somehow the police seldom see things my way.” He sat down. “There’s been a corpse found, and it seems they want me to identify it. Why anyone should think I might supply the clue is something else again. It isn’t my corpse or yours or Hoppy’s-we know that.”

Her face was only a shade paler-or that might have been a change of lighting on her camellia skin.

“Then-who could it be?”

“As a betting proposition,” said the Saint, “I’ll take three guesses. And Stephen Elliott is not one of them.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
The last time Simon Templar had seen the man who lay on the morgue slab was in the parlor of Sammy the Leg. Junior’s rat face was as unattractive in death as in life -less so, in view of the small blue-rimmed hole that marred his forehead. As the Saint looked at it, he was conscious of a curious urgency to dematerialize himself, drift like smoke toward the house near Wheaton, and ask Sammy questions. Apparently Hoppy had similar thoughts, but the articulation of them seemed to elude him.

Lieutenant Alvin Kearney was a very tall, very thin man with protruding brown eyes and a bobbing Adam’s apple. He seemed to be mainly fascinated by the body, in a sort of dull desperate way.

“Know him?” he asked.

“What makes you think I would?” Simon countered cautiously.

“Ever seen him before?” Kearney insisted.

The Saint said plaintively: “I very seldom meet people with bullet holes in their foreheads. They’re so taciturn they bore me.”

Kearney closed his mouth and juggled his Adam’s apple. His cheeks darkened a trifle.

“You’re funny as a crutch,” he said. “I want a straight answer.”

Simon’s innocent blue gaze met Kearney’s squarely.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t help you. I can’t even tell you the man’s name. Who is he?”

“Dunno,” Kearney said. “Unidentified, so far.”

“Oh. Did he have a note in his hand directing that his remains be sent to me?”

“Not quite,” Kearney said. “There was a sort of tie-up, though. We found him in a house just north of Wheaton. Ever been there?”

The Saint took out a cigarette and turned it between his fingers, correcting minute flaws in its roundness. His face wore no more reaction than a slight thoughtful frown; but a prescient vacuum had suddenly created itself just below his ribs. It had always been obvious that Kearney hadn’t called him out of sheer civic hospitality. Now the showing of cards, led up to with almost Oriental obliquity, was starting to uncork a Sunday punch. But it was starting from such a fantastic direction that the Saint’s footwork felt stiff and stumbling.

He said: “Wait a minute, Lieutenant. You found this man in the house, you say?”

“Not me personally. But he was in a basement room there, yes.”

“Does the local patrolman’s beat include the inside of houses?”

Kearney said: “I get it. No, there was a phone call. An anonymous tip. The usual thing. We gave it a routine checkup, and there was this house with this guy in it.”

“No clues?” Simon said.

“Clues!” Kearney chewed the word. “Well-maybe one. We checked up to see who the house belongs to.”

He was staring at the Saint. Simon merely nodded and looked brightly interested.

Kearney said: “It belonged to an ex-con called Sammy the Leg, up to yesterday. Then a deed of gift was filed. Now it belongs to Mr. Simon Templar.”

So that was it. … The hollow space under the Saint’s wishbone filled up abruptly with fast-setting cement.

It was nightmarish, absurd, impossible; it was something that not only shouldn’t but happily couldn’t happen to a dog. He could only theoretically sympathize with the emotions of this hypothetical hound upon watching some rival pooch dig up a treasured bone miles away from its established burial ground-and upon discerning that the bone had also been booby-trapped in transit.

Somehow he managed to strike a match and set it to his cigarette without a quiver.

“Somebody should have told me,” he murmured. “I always wanted to be a real-estate tycoon.”

“You didn’t know about it, huh?” Kearney said. “I kind of thought you didn’t. You ever meet Sammy the Leg?”

The Saint shook his head.

“Of course not. I didn’t sign any deed of gift, either.”

“Uh-huh. We’re checking. We got plenty of records on Sammy.” Kearney produced a pad and pen. “Mind signing this ? I want to compare a few signatures.”

Simon obligingly scribbled his name.

“If you’d show the deed to me, I could tell you right away if it was a forgery. In fact, I can tell you that now.”

“Can’t take your word for it,” Kearney said flatly. “I admit it looks like a frame, and a lousy one. On the other hand, we’ve got to be sure. You got a certain reputation, Saint.”

“So they tell me,” Simon said. “I’m surprised you don’t lock me up.”

Kearney suddenly grinned.

“We thought of it. But the Commissioner said no. You must have done him a favor sometime.”

Which happened to be true. But Simon didn’t answer the implied question. He was staring thoughtfully at Junior’s corpse.

“That house at Wheaton-isn’t anyone living there?”

“Nobody’s shown up there since we got the call.”

“With this housing shortage, too,” Simon drawled. “You’d think they’d have been around it like ants as soon as a dead body was taken out… . Well, it seems as if someone’s adopted me for an heir. I’m only sorry I can’t help you. If I do run across anything, I’ll let you know, though. All right?”

Kearney said: “Sure, that’s all right. Of course, if this is a frame, it might mean you’re mixed up in something. It might mean somebody’s gunning for you. You wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

Simon’s attitude changed. He leaned forward confidentially.

“Well,” he said, “if you’ll consider this just between ourselves, and not for publication, I can tell you that I am engaged in a small crusade just at present.”

Kearney’s eyes opened.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Simon said, and brought his mouth close to the detective’s ear. “Don’t breathe a word of it, but I’ve decided to kill everyone in Chicago.”

He went back to the hotel and told Hoppy the story; and Mr. Uniatz’s jaw sagged lower and lower as it proceeded.

“I don’t get it,” Mr. Uniatz said finally, making a great confession.

“Neither do I, to put it mildly,” said the Saint. “And fortunately, neither does Kearney. But he’s no fool. I didn’t want him to start asking me the wrong questions. He was on the right track, you know.”

“Yeah?” Hoppy said.

“He knows I’m mixed up in something. And I can’t let the police in on this yet. If I did, the King would simply go underground. As long as I keep His Majesty thinking there’s only one man on his track, he won’t be frightened into a strategic retreat. Ever try to scrape a sea anemone off a rock?”

“What would I wanna do a t’ing like dat for?” Hoppy inquired aggrievedly.

The Saint considered the question solemnly.

“Let’s say the anemone had murdered a great-aunt of yours, if you must have a motive. The aunt’s name was Abigail. She used to eke out a precarious living by blackmailing anemones. Got that straight?”

“Sure,” said Hoppy, satisfied.

“If you scoop fast, you can scrape up the anemone. But if you aren’t quite fast enough, it’ll retract and fold up into such a tight knot that you can’t pry it loose. I don’t want the King to retract.”

Hoppy said: “Sure.”

“The King doesn’t know I’m the blind beggar-I hope. That’s something. And I don’t think his murder frame has a chance to stick.” Simon frowned. “Or … perhaps he’s smarter than I thought. We’ll have to wait and see. At worst, you can get an anemone to reopen by feeding it.”

“Hey,” Hoppy said suddenly. “What’s an anemone?”

Simon decided it would be more discreet to leave this alone.

“What we want to know,” he said grimly, “is how this all happened. Who did what to who? Did Junior dig through a wall and escape? Then who bumped him off and called the cops? Is something wrong about that stooge-what was his name?-Fingers Schultz? Who talked too much to who-and brought my name into it? And how much too much has been said? Most important of all, what made Sammy run?”

“It couldn’t of been Sammy,” Hoppy said miserably. “I’d trust Sammy wit’ my right eye. If he signs a receipt, dat is.”

“We didn’t get a receipt,” Simon pointed out.

CHAPTER NINE
The Saint had expected Mrs. Laura Wingate’s penthouse on Lake Shore Drive to be fairly palatial, but he was not quite prepared for the rococo perspectives that opened before him as he followed Monica Varing out of the elevator and the cocktail party exploded around them like a startled barnyard.

“My God,” he said in a dazed undertone, as he fought their way through the seething throngs. “Monica, are you sure this is the right place?”

“I think so. We could have crashed the gate without any trouble. Everybody’s here.”

This seemed fairly correct. Across the broad acres of terrace, tables were set up, beach umbrellas made gay patterns, and trays of cocktails were levitated toward thirsty throats. The Saint seized two passing Martinis and shared his loot with Monica.

“Let’s cruise around,” he suggested. “I don’t know exactly what we’re looking for, but there’s one way to find out. If you stumble on a clue, such as a rigid body with a knife hilt protruding from its back, whistle three times.”

“I wouldn’t be too hopeful,” she said. “The servants must be too well trained to leave rubbish cluttering up the lawn. Still, there may be some rigid bodies around here before the day’s over,” Monica pondered, watching a sleek young socialite tossing off drink after drink with the desperation of a fire-breathing dragon trying to put itself out.

They drifted through the yammer of high-pitched voices, conveniently allowing an eddy among the other guests to cut them off from their sponsors the Kirklands. The Saint’s casually roving eyes inventoried the crowd without finding in it anything to give direction to his unformed questions. It seemed to be composed of fairly standard ingredients-playboys old and young, businessmen, and politicians, blended with their wives, concubines, and prospectives. He sought and failed exasperatingly to find a single sinister aroma in the brew.

Then through a gap in the crowd he glimpsed a white head that looked like Stephen Elliott, and started to steer Monica towards it. But before they had made much progress the throng parted in another quarter, spilling away like a bow wave before the onrush of a monumental figure that bore down upon them like an ocean liner. Simon only had a moment to hope that it could stop in time, before it rammed them with its monstrous bosom.

“I thought I recognized you,” Mrs. Wingate cried, ignoring Simon to concentrate on his companion. “It must be Monica Varing. Imagine!”

Monica smiled and said: “I’m afraid I wasn’t invited, Mrs. Wingate, but I was with the Kirklands this afternoon and they insisted I come along with them. I do hope you won’t mind.”

She played the gracious lady with such perfect restraint and charm that even Simon was impressed, while Mrs. Wingate almost swooned.

“I’m so glad. How could I possibly mind? I’ve admired your art for so long, my dear Miss Varing-oh! A cocktail?”

She beckoned urgently, and a servant came with his tray. He offered it to Simon last, and Mrs. Wingate’s attention was directed to Monica’s escort.

“Oh, dear-I should know you too,” she gushed-and giggled helplessly. “I’m sure I should. I have such a dreadful memory for names.”

“There’s no reason why you should know mine,” said the Saint amiably. “I’m uninvited too. I came with Miss Varing. My name is Templar. Simon Templar.”

“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.”