Saint Errant (The Saint Series) Page 5

  “And heard him.” She was trying to keep the anxiety out of her voice but he still felt it. “What on earth did you do it for?”

  “It was the only thing I could do, baby. I couldn’t run down this character who’s impersonating me if Alvin had me in the hoosegow, and if I don’t run him down I can’t clear myself. It’s a stock situation straight out of any pulp detective story, but it can happen.”

  “But what’s this now about Vincent Maxted?”

  “Well, apparently my alter ego is expanding his business.”

  “Can’t I meet you somewhere?” she said.

  “Darling, it’s a sure bet that Kearney’ll have you followed, hoping for just that.”

  “Then you don’t really think any of the tricks you’ve taught me for losing a shadow are any good.”

  The Saint sighed.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the Delphian theater.”

  There was a perceptible pause before she said, “Have you gone out of your mind?”

  “No,” said the Saint. “But I was invited to a rehearsal, and I happened to remember that Iris Freeman was once Mrs Vincent Maxted.”

  He took a taxi to the theater and turned on the radio. He found a local news broadcast, and had the ambiguous satisfaction of hearing his own name on a last-minute flash just before the commercial.

  “Must be quite a guy, that Saint,” said the driver chattily.

  “He’d better be,” Simon agreed.

  There was no janitor at the stage door, and he found his way unchallenged to the stage. Voices grew louder as he approached it, and presently he stopped in the shadow of some stacked scenery and listened.

  The rehearsal seemed to be justifying some of Stratford Keane’s gloomy prognostications. The voice of Macbeth, declaiming, did not even have the lush rotundity of Keane’s:

  “Is this a dagger which I see before me,

  The handle toward my hand?

  Come, let me clutch thee.

  I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.

  Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible

  To feeling as to sight—”

  There was a soft footfall behind him, and he turned and saw Patricia at his shoulder.

  “Hullo,” she whispered. “What’s going on?”

  “Hush,” he said. “This is what Stratford was weeping about.”

  “…Now o’er the one-half world

  Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse

  The curtain’d sleep; now witchcraft celebrates

  Pale Hecate’s offerings, and withered murder,

  Alarum’d by his sentinel—”

  “No, no, no!” moaned the anguished voice of Stratford Keane, further off in the hollow of the empty auditorium. “I can’t stand it! Belden, you’re beating those lines with a club! A bludgeon!”

  “Oh, dry up,” Iris Freeman said, from the stage. “I think Mark is doing wonderfully.”

  Stratford Keane’s groan reverberated like the plaint of a wounded bull.

  “You think! Ye gods, what have I done to deserve this? I, Stratford Keane, who have striven all my life to learn understanding and patience! Even Job was at last tried too far, and I am not Job…You think Belden is doing wonderfully.

  “That is too much. You may direct this play, Miss Freeman.” His voice was louder but still further off. “I resign. I’m through!”

  In the distance a door slammed.

  There was an uneasy silence on the stage for a few moments, and then Iris Freeman said with weary disgust, “Oh, for crying out loud! Again?”

  “Exit Stratford, pursued by a bear,” Belden said sepulchrally.

  And then suddenly the voice of Stratford Keane boomed out again with remarkable verisimilitude. “Ye gods, what have I done to deserve this? I, Stratford Keane, who have striven all my life to learn understanding and patience!”

  There was a general chorus of laughter.

  Patricia’s fingers tightened on the Saint’s arm.

  “Simon! Did you notice—”

  “Stratford didn’t really do him justice,” said the Saint.

  On the stage, Iris Freeman was saying, “Better run along kids. You’ll probably be called back as usual after Mr Keane cools off.”

  In a little while the footsteps and voices of the rest of the cast died away and the theater was silent again. The Saint held Patricia motionless in the shadows. Then Iris Freeman spoke again with a rather tired relaxation.

  “You know, Mark, this sometimes seems like doing it the hard way.”

  “Don’t worry, honey,” Belden said. “As soon as I collect a few more touches with the dope you’re giving me about the people who’ve used Rick in their various operations—why, I’ll be all set to back the show myself. Then you can divorce him and we can be married.”

  “But suppose something goes wrong. And if Rick ever finds out—”

  “How can he? And if anything ever does go wrong, the Saint gets it in the neck. Don’t forget we’ve got that piece of paper now with his signature and his fingerprints all over it. We can type anything we like over his name and plant it where it’ll do the most good.”

  Simon Templar gently released Patricia and strolled out onto the stage. He was cool and unhurried, putting a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it as he moved, so easy and natural that the shock of his entrance only held the other two in a kind of misty trance.

  “That’s a great idea, children,” he murmured, “only it doesn’t solve any of my problems.” His voice sharpened suddenly as Belden started to come out of his freeze. “Don’t try anything, Mark. I want you to be able to talk when Lieutenant Kearney gets here. Pat, do you think you could find a phone?”

  “Don’t bother,” Kearney said.

  His angular figure emerged from the shadows on the other side of the stage, and Mark Belden watched him approach in a new and even deeper trance from which even the click of a handcuff on his wrist did not arouse him.

  Iris Freeman was less ready to give up. She struggled furiously for one hectic moment before Kearney snapped the other cuff on her wrist, where it made a tasteful contrast with her jewel bracelets.

  “You can’t do this to me,” she panted.

  “I can try my best,” said the detective. “From what I heard, it sounds like a clear case of conspiracy to me.”

  “Don’t let it get you down, darling,” said the Saint. “Cross your legs on the witness stand, and the jury will probably see everything your way. On the other hand, I’m afraid Rick may not be so easy.”

  What Iris Freeman said cannot be printed without grave risk to the publisher.

  Simon and Patricia strolled south on Michigan Avenue in a rather noticeable silence.

  “Kearney was pretty nice about you, wasn’t he?” said Patricia at last.

  “He’s not a bad guy,” Simon agreed. “And he’s got something to thank me for. Getting the real blackmailers ought to be worth more to him than trying to hang a shaky rap on me…Of course, it started to be obvious as soon as Iris showed up as a connecting link. It would have been too much for her to imitate my voice, but the only thing left was to identify her stooge. It occurred to me at once that we couldn’t rely on Stratford Keane’s definition of Belden. A ham like Keane wouldn’t know the difference between one vaudeville performer and another, but I’ll bet Belden wasn’t a hoofer. I’ll bet he was one of those dreadful acts which start, ‘I would like to give you my impression of…’ I always wanted to see something unpleasant happen to that kind of artist, but I never hoped I should have the chance to arrange it.”

  There was a further silence.

  “Now,” said Patricia with difficulty, “I suppose you’re only waiting to tell me that you knew all along I wouldn’t shake Kearney off.”

  “I was betting on it,” said the Saint blandly. “And I owe you a lot for your co-operation.” He turned and hailed a passing taxi. “However, I shall let Rick the Barber contribute to your reward. Things may not be too happy for him
when Iris blows her top, as she probably will, and I think Rick ought to pay us quite well for a tip-off.”

  LIDA

  The moon was a paste-up job. True, it had come up dripping out of the sea two hours before, but now it hung in the Florida sky like a cut-out from golden paper, and looked down with a bland open countenance on the denizens of Miami Beach and all the visiting firemen therein.

  Including wives whose husbands were busy in their offices from Chicago to Boston providing the wherewithal for their helpmeets to fritter around; certain characters who went around with thousand-dollar bills in their pockets but never paid any income tax; touts, pimps, and prostitutes; hopeful gents and girls who felt that one more throw of the dice would get them even with the board again, and Simon Templar and Patricia Holm.

  Simon, known as the Saint in varying degrees of love, hate, and envy, lounged behind the wheel of a long low convertible, and pushed that rented job up Collins Avenue at ten miles more than the law allowed. Patricia, her golden head making the moon look like a polished penny, sat easily beside him.

  “Simon,” she said, “look at that moon. It can’t be real.”

  “Strictly a prop, Pat,” the Saint said. “The president of the Chamber of Commerce hangs it up each night.”

  “If you had any romance in what you call your soul,” Patricia complained, “you’d admit it was pretty lush.”

  “And when we get to the Quarterdeck Club, the atmosphere will be even lusher.”

  After a contemplative silence, the girl said, “There must be something beyond that, Simon—something that scared Lida Verity half out of her mind. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been so desperate on the phone.”

  “You know her better than I do. Is she the hysterical type?”

  “Not even in the Greek meaning of the word,” Pat said. “She’s a swell gal. Nice family, nice husband in the Navy, plenty of money, and she has her head screwed on tight. She’s in trouble, all right.”

  “Then why didn’t she call Sheriff Haskins?…Ah, I see things.”

  “Things” were a neon sign which read “The Quarterdeck” and a driveway which led through an avenue of royal palms, past a doorway labeled “Gangplank,” to a vista of macadam which could have served as the flight deck of an aircraft carrier, but appeared to be used as a parking lot. On this bit of real-estate development were parked Cadillacs, Chryslers, Chevrolets, and cars further along in the alphabet, all with gleaming paint jobs and, as far as could be seen in the advertisable moonlight, good tires.

  In case any patron might be arriving without a perfectly clean conception of the atmospheric motif of the joint, the requisite keynote was struck immediately by the resplendent personage who advanced to greet them as they pulled up alongside the “gangplank.”

  “Get a load of the Admiral,” Simon observed, as he set the hand brake.

  The “Admiral” was one to arouse exclamations. He had more gold braid than an Arabian-nights tapestry, his epaulets raised his shoulder height three inches, his cocked hat probably had John Paul Jones spinning in his grave, and the boots were masterpieces of dully gleaming leather. His face was square, and hearty and red as fresh beefsteak.

  He eyed the Saint and Patricia, resplendent in evening dress, with limited approbation.

  “Ahoy there!” he hailed them, in a restrained bellow. “Have you arranged for your moorings?”

  “If by that corny seagoing salutation you mean do we have reservations,” the Saint replied, “no. We do not.”

  “Then I’m sorry, skipper,” the admiral boomed. “You can’t drop anchor.”

  “But, Admiral,” Pat said, “we drove all the way from—”

  “Very sorry, miss. But the harbor’s overcrowded already.”

  “This is Patricia Holm,” the Saint said, “and I am Simon Templar.”

  “Sorry, sir, but it doesn’t matter if—” The man gulped, and peered at them more closely. “Templar, did you say?”

  “Yes, Simon Templar.”

  The Admiral removed his hat, mopped at his pink forehead.

  “Whew! That was a shot across the bow. I’ve heard about you, Mr…er…Sss…”

  “Call him Saint,” said Patricia. “He likes it.”

  “But I still can’t let you in the Quarterdeck, sir.”

  “You aren’t letting us,” the Saint said gently. “But you aren’t stopping us, either.”

  “I wouldn’t want to cause any unpleasantness, sir, but—”

  “No,” the Saint agreed, not so gently. “I wouldn’t, if I were you. It might be more unpleasant for you than you’d bargained for. Now if you’ll just slip anchor and drift to the northwest a trifle—”

  “For another thing,” Pat put in, “we were invited here.”

  The Admiral removed his uneasy eyes from the Saint’s blue stare. His face broke into a mass of uplifting wrinkles.

  “Invited?” he said genially. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “You didn’t ask,” the Saint said. “Mrs Verity asked us to join her.”

  This name impressed the Admiral. His eyes widened.

  “Mrs Verity? Then come aboard!”

  “We intended to,” the Saint said. “Ready, Pat?”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Boarding party, forward.”

  The Admiral fawned on the Saint more than befitted his dignified dress.

  “I hope you’ll pardon me, sir, for—Oh!” Somehow, his hand was convenient for the Saint to reach. His white glove closed around what the Saint put there. “Thank you, sir!”

  Simon took the girl’s arm and steered her along a short companionway, brass-railed on either side, to a doorway which bore a small brass plate: “Lounge.”

  The big room fanned out to impressive dimensions in three directions, but it was stocked with enough tables and patrons to avert any impression of bleakness.

  On the tables were numbers in patterns, pertaining to dice, roulette, and faro. On the feminine patrons were the fewest glittering scraps permitted by current conventions. Bare backs and white ties made a milling chiaroscuro backgrounded by hushed murmurs and the plastic chink of chips.

  The cash customers, in fact, were the only discrepancy in an otherwise desperately consistent decor. The roulette wheels were set in a frame intended to be a ship’s wheel. The crap table was a lifeboat, its deck the playing surface. Everywhere was the motif of the sea, polished and brazen. Waiters were dressed as stewards, with “Quarterdeck” embroidered on their gleaming jackets. The cigarette girl was dressed in white shorts, a sailor’s cap, and two narrow straps that crossed over her pneumatic bosom. The croupiers wore three-cornered hats emblazoned, aptly, with the Jolly Roger.

  Patricia’s blue eyes took in the big room one customer at a time.

  “I don’t see Lida,” she said presently. “She said she’d be waiting.”

  “Probably she’s just late,” Simon answered. “It has happened to women before.” He ignored the daggered glance which his lady launched at him. “Shall we mingle with the elite, and lose a fortune in the well-bred fashion of wealthy suckers?”

  “The next time I have to wait for you—” Patricia began, and then Simon stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  “Don’t look now,” he said in a low voice, “but something tall, dark, and rancid is coming up on our starboard quarter.”

  The newcomer wasn’t really tall. He stood several inches below the Saint’s seventy-four, but he gave the impression of height by his manner: suave, completely poised.

  “Good evening,” he said, his dark eyes flickering up and down Pat in appreciation. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Esteban. Welcome to the Quarterdeck.”

  “How do you do, Esteban?” said the Saint. “Quite well, I guess, from the looks of things.”

  Esteban smiled, and made a comprehensive gesture at the crowd.

  “Always there are many people at the Quarterdeck Club. We conduct honest games. But what will you play? Roulette, faro, blackjack?”

  “No
ne but the brave chemin de fer,” murmured the Saint. “It’s nice of you to give us a choice of weapons. But as a matter of fact, we’re looking for a friend. A Mrs Verity.”

  The dark eyes went flat.

  “Ah,” Esteban said without expression. “Mrs Verity.”

  Pat said, “You know her?”

  “Who does not, señorita? Of course.”

  “She’s here, isn’t she?”

  “I am afraid you are to be disappointed. I think Mrs Verity has gone.”

  “You think?” Simon repeated pointedly. “Did you see her go?”

  Esteban shrugged, his face still blank and brown.

  “There are so many. It is hard to say.”

  Simon’s stare could have been fashioned in bronze. “You wouldn’t be stalling, would you, Esteban?” he asked with gentle deadliness.

  “She told us she’d wait for us,” Pat said. “When did she leave?”

  Esteban smiled suddenly, the accommodating host.

  “I try to find out for you. Mrs Verity like to play the big, big stake, take the big risk. Maybe she hit too many times wrong at the blackjack; perhaps she went for more money…Please, will you have a drink on the promenade deck while I make inquiries? Out here…”

  He ushered them towards French doors that opened on one side of the gaming room, and bowed himself away. The patio was dappled with moonlight and the shadows of palm fronds, but it seemed to have no appeal for the other customers. Simon lighted a cigarette, while Patricia walked to a rail trimmed with unnecessary life belts, and gazed out at the vista of landscaped ground sloping gently to the moongladed sea.

  She caught her breath at the scene, and then shivered slightly.

  “It’s so beautiful it hurts,” she said. “And yet it seems every time we find a romantic spot like this, there’s something…I don’t know, but this place gives me the creeps.”

  “Inside,” the Saint said, “the creeps are giving to Esteban. I don’t know if you’d call that a fair exchange.”

  He looked up as a waiter arrived.

  “Esteban’s compliments, sir. Would you and the lady care for anything?”

  “Very handsome of Esteban,” the Saint said. “We’ll have double Manhattans made with a good bourbon, and—”