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 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 zig-zagging around the town — and we went back there later and did a small job of housebreaking. Unfortunately it didn’t pay off. It’s a vacant house. The electricity’s turned on, and there was that loudspeaker 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 a detective story. But such things have happened... I should like to have a talk with Brother Elliott in an official sort of way.” Monica wrinkled her brow. “Could I help?”
“I read in a society column this morning that Mrs Laura Wingate is giving a cocktail party for him today. Do you happen to know her?”
“No, but I’m sure to know somebody who does. Let me make a few phone calls.”
Simon called a waiter, and lighted a cigarette for her while a telephone was brought and plugged in. Then he went to a phone booth outside and made a call for himself. “Hoppy?” he said. “Did you get a report from that real-estate company yet?”
“No, boss.” Mr Uniatz’s voice, which had never been distinguished by any flutelike purity of tone, had a perturbed croak in it which registered on the Saint’s sensitive ear just a second before he blurted out its cause and explanation. “I got a cop here, boss. I dunno what goes on, but he wants to talk to ya. Only he ain’t got no warrant.”
“No warrant is required for that,” Simon said. “If he longs to hear my dulcet tones, we can accommodate him. Put him on. It’s all right, Hoppy.”
“I hope so,” Mr Uniatz muttered dubiously.
Then a cool, deep-pitched voice sounded in the Saint’s ear.
“Mr Templar?”
“Yes.”
“This is Detective Lieutenant Alvin Kearney. I’d like to see you about a matter.”
Simon drew a slow, careful breath.
“Are you selling subscriptions to the police fund?” he inquired genially. “If so, you can count on me. This business of taking out old policemen and shooting them has always struck me as unnecessarily cruel.”
“What?” Kearney said. “Look, Mr Templar. I want to see you.”
“So you said,” the Saint agreed. “About a Matter. But just at the moment I’m already seeing someone about a Matter. Perhaps if you told me the nature of this Matter of yours I’d be more co-operative. How do I know it’s important?”
“We’ve got a body down at the morgue, and we’d like you to look at it. That’s all.”
“Ah,” said the Saint, and was briefly silent while he lighted a thoughtful cigarette. “I’d love to, Lieutenant. I’ve always said that Chicago is one of the most hospitable cities in the world. But I’ve already seen the Art Institute and Marshall Field’s and the Natural History Museum, and I don’t think I need a corpse to increase my liking for your city. Unless it’s got two heads. Has it got two heads?”
Kearney said doggedly, “It’s only got one head and we want you to look at it. I’m being polite, Mr Templar. But I don’t have to be, you know.”
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 Kennedys. 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 proportion,” 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 parlour 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 dematerialise himself, drift like smoke towards the house near Wheaton, and ask Sammy questions.
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.