Call for the Saint by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online Page B

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.”
    Mrs. Wingate giggled; but she relinquished her grip on the pendant rather reluctantly.
    “Surely you’re not-I mean —”
    She glanced around apprehensively. Simon smiled at her.
    “Even Jack the Ripper must have had his social hours,” he said. “Please consider me on my best behavior. You need have no fears for your sapphires, your silver, or your honor, though the latter …” He beamed at Mrs. Wingate, who snickered again, unaware that the sentence might have been finished in many more ways than one, and at least half of them unflattering.
    Elliott introduced himself, “-since Laura is too flustered, I gather,” he said gravely. “Miss Varing? How do you do? Meeting two such notable figures is rather an event. I’ll celebrate it by joining you in a drink.”
    He beckoned to a passing tray.
    “To crime,” the Saint suggested, and they drank, though Mrs. Wingate had a moment’s startled pause first.
    “To crime,” Elliott repeated. “I’m surprised to hear that from you, Mr. Templar. I thought the Saint changed sides a while ago.”
    “There was a war on at the time,” Simon said casually, “and some of it seemed sort of important. But now I’m back to stirring up my own trouble. You might call it my private reconversion problem. … As a matter of fact, I’m working on a case now, and I find I haven’t lost much of my knack.”
    “A case?” Elliott asked.
    “Yes. It should interest you, in view of the work you’ve been doing among Chicago’s poor. Have you ever heard of someone called the King of the Beggars?”
    Simon threw out the phrase with perfect carelessness, and just as airily made no point of watching for a reaction.
    It would have made little difference if he had. Stephen Elliott’s Santa Claus eyebrows merely drew together in a vaguely worried way; while Mrs. Wingate bridled as if her position in the Social Register had been questioned, and then said: “It’s fantastic. Utterly fantastic. I’ve heard rumors, of course, but-Mr. Templar, you must realize that such things are-are—”
    “Fantastic?” the Saint prompted.
    “Not too much so in my opinion,” Stephen Elliott answered him. “There certainly is some sort of, criminal organization victimizing the poor in Chicago. I’m not blind, Mr. Templar. But just how widespread is it?.”
    Simon shrugged.
    Elliott’s distinguished equine face worked uncomfortably.
    “I know,” he said at last. “It’s a pernicious racket, no matter how small. It should be stamped out. And you say you’re going after it?”
    The Saint flipped a mental coin, and decided to hold his course.
    “Yes. I haven’t been able to find out much yet. I wonder if you could