Call for the Saint by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online

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    “Well,” he said, “if you’ll consider this just between ourselves, and not for publication, I can tell you that I am engaged in a small crusade just at present.”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