Call for the Saint Read Free Page A

I’m going to play the role of a beggar. After all, I can be bait just as well as Monica Varing… . First, though, we’d better put Junior on ice.”
    “Dat’s gonna be tough, boss,” Hoppy said dubiously. “Won’t de cement stores be shut?”
    “Then we’ll have to try something else,” said the Saint cheerfully. “Do you know where we can park Junior till they open? A warm, cozy oubliette?”
    Hoppy considered.
    “Lemme see. I useta know a guy called Sammy de Leg.”
    “Then by all means pick up the phone and call Samuel. Ask him if he’d like to have a house guest.”
    “Listen!” Junior burst out. “I don’t know nothing about this beggar racket! That dame chased me up the alley—”
    “With your gun in her back,” Simon agreed. “I saw it. You need protection. If beggar women keep chasing you up alleys, you won’t be safe till you’re locked up where they can’t get at you. Hoppy and I feel we must take care of you.”
    He finished his drink contentedly while Mr. Uniatz completed a cryptic conversation.
    “It’s all set, boss,” Hoppy announced finally. “We can go dere right now.”
    “I ain’t goin’ nowhere!” Junior cried desperately.
    “How you do talk,” said the Saint.
    CHAPTER FOUR
Two miles north of Wheaton, Simon Templar turned his car, at Hoppy’s direction, into a driveway bordered by high hedges.
    Even the Saint’s fortitude was slightly shaken by the rambling lunatic monstrosity of a house that squatted like Tom o’ Bedlam in the midst of well-kept lawns. Simon was no great authority on architecture, but he felt that the man who had designed this excrescence should have been shot, preferably in the cradle. It had once been a mansion; there was a carriage house, converted into a garage, and servants’ quarters hung precariously on the structure’s gray scaling back, like a laggard extra hump on a camel. Gambrels, cupolas, balconies, railings, warts, wens, and minor scrofulous scraps were all over the house. It was a fine example of the corniest period in unfunctional design.
    “Dis is it,” Hoppy said proudly. “De classiest jernt in de county, when Capone has it.”
    Simon brought the car to a halt, and smiled encouragingly upon the troubled passenger beside him.
    “Don’t let the rococo touch scare you, Junior,” he said. “I’ve seen mortuaries that looked like night clubs, too… . Unpack him, Hoppy.”
    Mr. Uniatz, the other half of the sandwich whose ham was Junior, had already emerged. He jerked the rug from Junior’s knees and deftly unbuckled the strap that had immobilized the gunman’s ankles.
    “C’mon,” he said. “I seen lotsa better guys dan you walk in here, even if dey was carried out.”
    The rickety front porch creaked under them. Hoppy rang the bell and almost instantly something resembling a beer barrel covered with a thick pelt of black fur rolled out and began beating Hoppy violently about the ears. Simon watched in amazement. Yells, curses, and jovial threats curdled the air. Mr. Uniatz, a horrible grin splitting his anthropoid face, locked in a death struggle with his opponent, and in this manner they revolved across the threshold and vanished into the house, A muffled bellowing leaked out behind them.
    “Don’t leave us,” the Saint said, reaching out to collar Junior. “You wouldn’t get anywhere.”
    He lugged his burden through the doorway, where he found that the brawl had broken up, and Hoppy and the beer barrel were lumbering around each other, cursing furiously.
    “Is this Queensberry rules, or would anyone like a knife?” Simon asked interestedly.
    A voice boomed from the beer barrel.
    “I be Gah-damned,” it said. “So you’re this here Saint character? What kinda mob you runnin’ round with now, Uniatz ? Hey, mitt me, bud. Any friend o’ Hoppy’s a pal of mine, chum.”
    “Meet Sammy de Leg,” Hoppy said unnecessarily.
    “What a grip,” Sammy yelled, extricating his paw from Simon’s palm and shaking