“Maybe,” Frankie said sceptically. “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—”
“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 licences. If you’re sharp enough to get away with anything, that’s fine — as long as you don’t try it with us.”
Simon was silent. Frankie slapped the Saint’s knee.
“That’s none of our business. There’s only one question we ask. How much?”
“Yeah,” the driver said, laughing again. “This guy’s gonna be a smart apple, though, ain’t he, Frankie?”
“Shut up,” Frankie said without rancour. “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 back-tracks the car took. He could only hope that they would not be confusing enough to shake off Hoppy in spite of the trained blood hound 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 the 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 recognise him if he were a spy for any opposition gang, or memorising his features in readiness for future shakedowns.
A voice began to speak, artificially through a crude public-address system.
“We welcome you to the Metropolitan Benevolent Society,” it said unctuously, “an organisation designed for the aid and protection we can give will be at your service...”
It was a formalised 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 honourable professions, that ancient monks had practised 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 Labour 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 loudspeaker 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 chiselling. 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 realised that he had not under-estimated 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 clinked 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.”