15 The Saint in New York

  15 The Saint in New York

  Leslie Charteris

  By Leslie Charteris

  FICTION PUBLISHING COMPANY • NEW YORK

  Copyright 1934, 1935 by Leslie Charteris. Published by arrangement with Doubleday and Company, Inc. Printed in U.S.A.

  AUTHOR'S FOREWORD

  I couldn't, even if I wanted to, pretend that this novel came of my typewriter yesterday. I am notoriously not a writer of historical stories, except those which have ac­quired that aura simply by being around so long; and the date of this one is implicit from the first pages of the first chapter.

  It was conceived, and worked out, during the latter days of Prohibition in America, that Noble Experiment which ended in 1933—which the most simple arithmetic shows to have been a fair while ago. And no revision, even if I wanted to attempt one, could possibly transfer it to a later day.

  So I can only hope that all those readers who were not even born when it happened will accept the background, which is actually about as authentic as any fictional back­ ground can be. I can vouch for this, because I was there, antique as I am. I don't say that the plot had any factual foundation, as many of my plots have. But the kind of activities, the places, and the people who frequented them, are not nearly as far-fetched as they may seem today. In fact, more than one of them really lived then, and might be recognized by a few old-timers through his thin disguise.

  Prologue

  The letter was delivered to the Correspondence Bureau in Centre Street. It passed, as a matter of routine, through the Criminal Identification Bureau, the Criminal Alien Investi­gation Bureau, and the Main Office Division. And in the end it was laid on the desk of Police Commissioner Arthur J. Quis­trom himself—it was a remarkable document by any standards, and even the studiously commonplace prose of its author could not make it uninteresting.

  METROPOLITAN POLICE, SPECIAL BRANCH,

  SCOTLAND HOUSE, LONDON, S.W.I.

  Police Commissioner, New York City.

  Dear Sir:

  We have to inform you that there are reasons to believe that SIMON TEMPLAR, known as "The Saint," is at present in the United States.

  No fingerprints are available; but a photograph, descrip­ tion, and record are enclosed.

  As you will see from the record, we have no grounds on which to institute extradition proceedings; but it would be advisable for you, in your own interests, to observe Templar's activities carefully if you are successful in locating him.

  Faithfully yours,

  C. E. Teal, Chief Inspector.

  The first enclosure came under the same letterhead: SIMON TEMPLAR ("The Saint").

  DESCRIPTION: Age 31. Height 6 ft. 2 ins. Weight 175 lbs. Eyes blue. Hair black, brushed straight back. Com­plexion tanned. Bullet scar through upper left shoulder; 8-in. scar right forearm.

  SPECIAL CHARACTERISTICS: Always immaculately dressed. Luxurious tastes. Lives in most expensive hotels and is connoisseur of food and wine. Carries firearms and is expert knife thrower. Licensed air pilot. Speaks several languages fluently. Known as "The Saint" from habit of leaving drawing of skeleton figure with halo on scenes of crimes (specimen reproduced below).

  RECORD:

  First came to our attention five years ago as unofficial agent concerned, with recovery of quantity of bullion stolen from Confederate Bank of Chicago and trans­ ported to this country. Was successful and claimed reward, leaving arrest of thieves to our own agent, Inspector Carn.

  For some time afterwards, with assistance of four accomplices, became self-appointed agent for terrorizing criminals against whom we had been unable to secure evidence justifying arrest. Real identity at this time re­mained a mystery. Activities chiefly directed against vice. Was instrumental in obtaining arrest and conviction of leaders of powerful drug ring. Believed to have instigated murder of Henri Chastel, white slave trafficker, in Athens, at same period. Admitted killing of Golter, an­archist, in frustrating attempted assassination of Crown Prince Rudolf during state visit to London, following year.

  Kidnapped Professor K. S. Vargan while War Office was considering purchase of Vargan's "electron cloud." Vargan was later killed by Norman Kent, member of Templar's gang, Kent himself being killed by Dr. Rayt Marius, foreign secret service agent also trying to secure Vargan's invention. Motive, established by Templar's sub­sequent letter published in the press, was alleged to be prevention of use in threatened war of what Templar thought to be inhuman method of slaughter. Both Tem­plar and Marius escaped and left England.

  Three months later Templar reappeared in England in connection with second plot organized by Marius to promote war, which was unknown to ourselves. Marius finally escaped again and is now believed to be dead; but intrigue was exposed and Templar received free pardon for frustrating attempt to wreck Royal train.

  Subsequently continued campaign of fighting crime by criminal methods. Obtained evidence in several cases and secured arrests; also believed, without proof, to have caused deaths of Francis Lemuel, vice trader, Jack Farn­berg , gunman, Ladek Kuzela, and others. Suspicion also exists in murder of Stephen Weald, alias Waldstein, and disappearance of Lord Essenden, during period when Templar was working to clear reputation of the late As sistant Commissioner Sir Francis Trelawney, under direct authority of present Chief Commissioner Sir Hamilton Dorn.

  Activities continued, until he left England again six months ago.

  Most of the exploits mentioned above, as well as many others of which for obvious reasons we have no defi­ nite knowledge, have also been financially profitable; and Templar's fortune, acquired by these means, has been credibly estimated at £500,000.

  Is also well known to police of France and Germany.

  The photograph followed; and at the end of the sheaf were clipped on the brief reports of the departments through which the information had already been passed:

  BUREAU OF CRIMINAL IDENTIFICATION: No record. Copies of photograph and description for­warded to Albany and Washington.

  BUREAU OF CRIMINAL ALIEN INVESTIGATION: Inquiries proceeding.

  MAIN OFFICE DIVISION: Inquiries proceeding.

  The commissioner put up a hand and scratched his grey head. He read the letter through a second time, with his bushy eyebrows drawn down in a frown that wrinkled the bridge of his nose. His faded grey-blue eyes had flabby pouches under them, like blisters that have been drained without breaking the skin; and his face was lined with the same weari­ness. A grim, embittered soul weariness that was his reward for forty years of the futile battle with lawlessness—a law­lessness that walked arm in arm with those who were supposed to uphold the law.

  "You think this may have something to do with the letter that was sent to Irboll?" he said, when he had finished the second reading.

  Inspector John Fernack pushed back his battered hat and nodded—a curt, phlegmatic jerk of his head. He stabbed at another paper on the commissioner's desk with a square stubby forefinger.

  "I'm guessing that way. See the monicker Scotland Yard says this guy goes under? The Saint, it says. Well, look at this drawing. I'm not much on art, and it looks to me like this guy Templar ain't so hot, either; but the idea's there. See that figger. The sort of thing kids draw when they first get hold of a pencil—just a circle for a head, and a straight line for the body and four more for the arms and legs, but you can see it's meant to be sumpn human. An' another circle floating on top of the head. When I was a kid I got took to a cathedral, once," said Fernack, as if he were confessing some dark blot on bis professional career, an' there were a lot of paintings of people with circles round their heads. They were saints, or sumpn; and those circles was supposed to be haloes." The com­missioner did not smile.

  "What's happen
ing about Irboll?" he asked.

  "He comes up in the General Sessions Court to get his case adjourned again this afternoon," said Fernack disgustedly. He spat, with a twisted mouth, missing the cuspidor. "You know how it is. I never had much of a head for figgers, but I make it this'll be the thirty-first or maybe the thirty-second time he's been adjourned. Considering it's only two years now since he plugged Ionetzki, we've still got a chance to seeing him on the hot seat before we die of old age. One hell of a chance!"

  Fernack's lips thinned into a hard, down-drawn line. He leaned forward across the desk, so that his big clenched fists crushed against the mahogany; and his eyes bored into Quis­trom's with a brightness like the simmer of burning acid.

  "There's times when I wish I knew a guy like this Saint was here in New York—doing things like it says in that dos­sier," he said. "There's times when for two cents I'd resign from the force and do 'em myself. I'd sleep better nights if I knew there was things like that going on in this city.

  "Ionetzki was my side kick, when I was a lieutenant in the Fifth Precinct—before they pushed me up here to headquar­ters. A square copper—and you know what that means. You've been through the works. You know what it's all about. Harness bull—gumshoe—precinct captain—you've been through it all, like the rest of us. Which makes you about the first commissioner that hasn't had to start learning what kinda uniform a cop wears. Don't get me wrong, Chief. I'm not handin' you any oil. But what I mean, you know how a guy feels—an' what it means to be able to say a guy was a square copper."

  Fernack's iron hands opened and closed again on the edge of the desk.

  "That's what Ionetski was," he said. "A square copper. Not very bright; but square. An' he walks square into a hold­up, where another copper might've decided to take a walk round the block and not hear anything. An' that yellow rat Irboll shoots him in the guts."

  Quistrom did not answer; neither did he move. His tired eyes rested quietly on the tensed face of the man standing over him—rested there with a queer sympathy for that un­expected outburst. But the weariness in the eyes was graven too deep for anything to sweep it away.

  "So we pull Irboll in," Fernack said, "and everybody knows he did it. And we beat him up. Yeah, we sweat him all right. But what the hell good does that do? A length of rubber hose ain't the same as a bullet in the guts. It doesn't make you die slowly, with your inside burning and your mouth chewed to rags so you won't scream out loud with the agony of it. It doesn't leave a good woman without her man, an' good kids without a father. But we sweat him. And then what?

  "There's some greasy politician bawling out some judge he's got in his pocket. There's a lawyer around with habeas corpus—bail—alibis—anything. There's trials—with a tame judge on the bench, an' a packed jury, an' somebody in the district attorney's office who's taking his cut from the same place as the rest of 'em. There's transfers and objections and extraditions and adjournments an' retrials and appeals. It drags on till nobody can scarcely remember who Ionetzki was or what happened to him. All they know is they're tired of talking about Irboll.

  "So maybe they acquit him. And maybe they send him to jail. Well, that suits him. He sits around and smokes cigars and listens to the radio; and after a few months, when the newspapers have got something else to talk about, the gover­nor of the jail slips him a free pardon, or the parole board gets together an' tells him to run along home and be a good boy or else . . . An' presently some other good guy gets a bullet in the guts from a yellow rat—an' who the hell cares?"

  Quistrom's gaze turned downwards to the blotter in front of him. The slope of bis broad shoulders was an acquiescence, a grim, tight-lipped acceptance of a set of facts which it was beyond his power to answer for. And Fernack's heavy-boned body bent forward, jutting a rocklike jaw that was in strange contrast to the harsh crack in his voice.

  "This guy, the Saint, sends Irboll a letter," Fernack said. "He says that whether the rap sticks or not, he's got a justice of his own that'll work where ours doesn't. He says that if Jack Irboll walks outa that court again this afternoon, with the other yellow rats crowding round him and slapping him on the back and looking sideways at us an' laughing out loud for us to hear—it'll be the last time it happens. That's all. A slug in the guts for another slug in the guts. An' maybe he'll do it. If half of what that letter you've got says is true, he will do it. He'll do just what I'd of done—just what I'd like to do. An' the papers'll scream it all over the sky, and make cracks about us being such bum policemen that we have to let some free-lance vigilante do a job for us that we haven't got the brains or the guts to do. An' then my job'll be to hunt that Saint guy down—take him into the back room of a station house and sweat a confession outa him with a base­ball bat—put him in court an' work like hell to send him to the chair—the guy who only did what you or me would of done if we weren't such lousy, white-livered four-flushers we think more about holding down a paycheck than getting on with the work we're paid to do!"

  The commissioner raised his eyes.

  "You'd do your duty, Fernack—that's all," he said. "What happens to the case afterwards—that case or any other—isn't your fault."

  "Yeah—I'd do my duty," Fernack jeered bitterly. "I'd do it like I've always done it—like we've all been doing it for years. I'd sweep the floor clean again, an' hand the pan right back to the slobs who're waitin' to throw all the dirt back again—and some more with it."

  Quistrom picked up the sheaf of papers and stared at them. There was a silence, in which Fernack's last words seemed to hum and strain through the room, building them­selves up like echo heaped on re-echo, till the air throbbed and thundered with their inaudible power. Fernack pulled out a handkerchief suddenly and wiped his face. He looked out of the window, out at the drab flat façade of the Police Academy and the grey haze that veiled the skyscrapers of upper New York. The pulse of the city beat into the room as he looked out, seeming to add itself to the deadened re­verberations of the savage denunciation that had hammered him out of his habitual restraint. The pulse of traffic ticking its way from block to block, the march of twelve million feet, the whirr of wheels and the mighty rhythm of pistons, the titter of lives being made and broken, the struggle and the majesty and the meanness and the splendour and the cor­ruption in which he had his place. . . .

  Quistrom cleared his throat. The sound was slight, muted down to a tone that was neither reproof nor concurrence; but it broke the tension as cleanly as a phrased speech. Quistrom spoke a moment afterwards:

  "You haven't found Templar yet?"

  "No." Fernack's voice was level, rough, prosaic in re­sponse as it had been before; only the wintry shift of bis eyes recalled the things he had been saying. "Kestry and Bonacci have been lookin' for him. They tried most of the big hotels yesterday."

  Quistrom nodded.

  "Come and see me the minute you get any information."

  Fernack went out, down the long bare stone corridor to his own office. At three-thirty that afternoon they fetched him to the courthouse to see how Jack Irboll died.

  The Saint had arrived.

  Chapter 1

  How Simon Templar Cleaned His Gun, and Wallis Nather Perspired

  The nun let herself into the tower suite of the Waldorf Astoria with a key which she produced from under the folds of her black robe—which even to the most kindly and broad-minded eye would have seemed somewhat odd. As she closed the door behind her she began to whistle—which even to the most kindly and broad-minded eye would have seemed still odder. And as she went into the sitting room she caught her toe in a rug, stumbled, and said "God damn!" in a distinctly masculine baritone, and laughed cheerfully an instant afterwards—which would doubtless have moved even the most kindly and broad-minded eye to blink rapidly and open itself wide.

  But there was no such inquiring and impressionable eye to perform these acrobatics. There was only a square-chinned white-haired man in rimless spectacles, sitting in an easy chair with a book on his lap, who
looked up with a nod and a quiet smile as the nun came in.

  He closed his book, marking the place methodically, and stood up—a spare, vigorous figure in grey homespun,

  "All right?" he queried.

  "Fine," said the nun.

  She pushed her veil back from a sleek black head, unbuttoned things and unhitched things, and threw off the long, stuffy draperies with a sigh of relief. She was revealed as a tall, wide-shouldered man in a blue silk shirt and the trousers of a light fresco suit—a man with gay blue eyes in a brown, piratical face, whose smile flashed a row of ivory teeth as he slapped his audience blithely on the back and sprawled into an armchair with a swing of lean athletic limbs.

  "You took a big chance, Simon," said the older man, look­ing down at him; and Simon Templar laughed softly.

  "And I had breakfast this morning," he said. He flipped a cigarette into his mouth, lighted it, and extinguished the match with a gesture of his hand that was an integral part of the smile. "My dear Bill, I've given up recording either of those earth-shaking events in my diary. They're things that we take for granted in this life of sin."

  The other shook his head.

  "You needn't have made it more dangerous."

  "By sending that note?" The Saint grinned. "Bill, that was an act of devotion. A tribute to some great old days. If I hadn't sent it, I'd have been cheating my reputation. I'd have been letting myself down."

  The Saint let a streak of smoke drift through his lips and gazed through the window at a square of blue sky.

  "It goes back to some grand times—of which you've heard," he said quietly. "The Saint was a law of his own in those days, and that little drawing stood for battle and sudden death and all manner of mayhem. Some of us lived for it—worked for it—fought for it. One of us died for it. ... There was a time when any man who received a note like I sent to Irboll, with that signature, knew that there was nothing more he could do. And since we're out on this picnic, I'd like things to be the same—even if it's only for a little while."