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 check-up, 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 sympathise 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 favour some time.”
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 towards 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.