Call for the Saint Read Free

Something about a mysterious character called the King of the Beggars.”
    “The beggars have to pay off a percentage of their earnings to His Majesty,” Monica said bitterly. “Or else they’re beaten up. The gang made an example of Irvine. To frighten the others. It just happened to be him; it might have been any beggar. The police-well, why should they make a big thing of it?”
    “Why should you?” Simon asked.
    She met his impersonal gaze no less directly.
    “You may think I’m crazy, but it meant something to me. I knew the cops should have taken care of it, but I knew just as well they wouldn’t. There weren’t any headlines in it, and no civic committees were going to raise hell if they let it drop… . I’m a damned good actress, and I know make-up- the kind that’ll even get by in daylight. I thought I might get a lead on something. I’d rather catch that King of the Beggars than star in another hit on Broadway.”
    “Me too,” said the Saint. “Not that anyone ever offered me Broadway.”
    But there it was-the Robin Hood touch that would undoubtedly be the death of him someday … but literally. The whisper of a new racket which couldn’t help reaching his hypersensitive ears, tuned as they were to every fresh stirring in the endless ferment of ungodliness. Something big and ugly, but preying on small and helpless people … A penny-ante racket, until there were enough pennies … So you wanna be a beggar, pal? Okay, but you gotta pay off, pal. You gotta have protection, pal. We can make sure you don’t have no competition on your beat, see? But you gotta join the Protective Association, pal. You gotta kick in your dues. Otherwise you dunno what might happen. You might get run off the streets; you might even get hurt bad, pal. We’re all for you, but you gotta play ball. . , . And somewhere at the top, as always some smooth and bloated spider grew fat on the leachings from the little unco-ordinated jerks who paid their tax to Fear.
    The Saint said: “That’s why I’ve been sitting in this joint for days. That’s why I watched you, until Junior hustled you into the alley. I’m just trying to move a step up the ladder.”
    Monica Varing said: “I’m going to find out —”
    “You’ve got courage,” Simon told her. “We know that. But this job needs more than that. Let’s say-a certain skill in unusual fields. For example, the trick of getting people to confide in you.” He turned to his silent guest. “Who’s the King, Junior?”
    Junior said rude things.
    “You see?” said the Saint. “The atmosphere isn’t right. But just wait till I have a heart-to-heart talk with him. I’ll even bribe him, if necessary. I’ll introduce him to a good dentist. I know he can’t enjoy being mistaken for a rat every time he passes an exterminator service. Besides, I’m sure he can’t chew his food properly. Bad indigestion probably soured his temper in youth and led him into a life of crime. We can fix that. We take him to a dentist, and just ask him whether he’ll have it with or without novocain. Now if you call me tomorrow—”
    Monica Varing, to her astonishment, found that she was at the door.
    “Wait a minute!” she protested. “I started this—”
    “And a nice job you did,” said the Saint sincerely. “But Junior’s vocabulary may shock you when we really go to work on him. And I promised you wouldn’t be late for your curtain. But I’ll report progress-do you get up for lunch?”
    He closed the door after her, and came back to stand thoughtfully over Junior.
    “Chees,” said Hoppy, giving voice to a profound conclusion. “Who’d ever tink dat old sack was an actress?”
    “She may surprise you next time you see her,” said the Saint, “even if she doesn’t use fans in her act… . She’s given me an idea, too. Hoppy, I feel Thespian urges.”
    Mr. Uniatz appeared shocked. Luckily, before he could speak, Simon set his mind at ease.
    “I’m going to be an actor.