Call for the Saint Read Free Page B

it vigorously. “Come on in. Have a beer. Hoppy, you lousy ol’ son of a bitch, you sure look like hell. Jesus!”
    With shouts and cries he fell upon Mr. Uniatz and bore him beyond a beaded portiere. The Saint followed at a discreet distance, propelling his Junior ahead of him.
    There was a huge white refrigerator set up in one corner of an old-fashioned living room, and Sammy the Leg was already extracting bottles and handing them around. He paused before Junior.
    “This the guy you want put away?” he asked. “Well, he don’t get no beer. Siddown an’ shaddup.”
    He thrust Junior violently into the depths of a chair and made faces at him.
    The Saint relaxed and drank beer. Its cold catnip flavor tingled pleasantly at the back of his throat. He felt agreeably at Home. Simon Templar had a feeling that he was going to like Sammy the Leg very much indeed. The man had a certain directness that was refreshing, once you decided to sidetrack Emily Post.
    “For a pal,” Sammy said, waving his bottle, “anything in the whole wide world, as far south as Indianapolis. You don’t need to say a word. When I bought this here place, I’m my own boss. Nobody bothers me. I can keep a guy under wraps here but indefinitely.”
    The Saint leaned back more comfortably. He nodded toward his prisoner.
    “Ever seen Junior before?”
    Sammy’s small eyes dug tiny holes in the specimen.
    “Uh-uh. He’s imported. Not one of the Chi boys. Though I could be wrong, at that, I guess. Where’d you blow from, bub?”
    “You go to hell,” Junior said unoriginally; but his voice cracked.
    Sammy the Leg bellowed with laughter.
    “Tells me to go to hell! What a joker. Ja hear him?”
    “A character,” the Saint said. “I’ve an idea he’s working for another character. Somebody called the King of the Beggars.”
    “Look, pal,” Sammy said cautiously, “I don’t know from nothin’. I just rent rooms. Now I’m gonna take a walk. When you want me, ring that bell over there by you, Saint. Then I’ll put your chum under wraps for you. There’s more beer in the icebox.”
    He grinned, and waddled out.
    Simon listened to the tinkling of the beaded portiere as it fell back into place. It jingled again as Sammy the Leg thrust his face back through it.
    “Get that there electric broiler down from that shelf an’ stick his feet in it,” he advised. “It works swell.”
    He vanished; and. the Saint gazed speculatively at the indicated shelf.
    “Not a bad idea,” he drawled. “Hoppy, what goes with Sammy?”
    “Huh?” Hoppy said. “He went out.”
    “Yes. I noticed. What I want to know is whether you’re sure Sammy the Leg is leveling with us.”
    “Lissen,” Hoppy said, almost indignantly, “Sammy an’ me was in Joliet togedder.”
    He made this statement more devastatingly than any Harvard graduate identifying a brother alumnus, and in the face of such credentials Simon relaxed.
    “In that case,” he said, “go ahead and plug in the broiler.”
    Junior jumped out of his chair. The Saint did not rise. His foot shot forward, and Junior sat down again abruptly.
    “My God,” Junior gasped. “You wouldn’t d-do—”
    Simon’s eyebrows were an angelic arch.
    “Why not? Prosthetic devices are being improved all the time. You should be able to get along beautifully with an artificial leg. Maybe you’ll only need a foot, though. It’ll depend on how soon you start talking.”
    Junior said frantically: “I’m talking right now. Keep that damn thing away from me. I’m talking, see? For God’s sake ask me some questions.”
    “Hold it, Hoppy,” the Saint said. “You might leave the broiler plugged in, though. Our friend can look at it to cover awkward lulls in the conversation. There’s only one question you need to answer, though, Junior. Who’s the King?”
    “Believe me,” Junior said earnestly. “I wish to God I knew. I’d spill it. After that I’d start traveling. For my health. But I never seen the