The Saint Goes West s-23 Read online

  The Brown Derby on Vine Street-smarter offspring of the once famous hat-shaped edifice on Wilshire Boulevard-was unchanged since he had last been there. Even the customers looked exactly the same-the same identifiable people, even with different names and faces, labeled as plainly as if they .had worn badges. The actors and actresses, important and unimportant. The bunch of executives. The writers and diнrectors. The agent with the two sides of a possible deal. The radio clan. The film colony surgeon and the film colony attorney. The humdrum business men and the visiting firemen. The unmistakable tourists, working off this item of their itinнerary, trying hard to look like unimpressionable natives but betraying themselves by the greedy wandering of their eyes.

  In this clear-cut patchwork of types the Saint acquired a puzzling neutrality. He stood scanning the room with interest, but he was quite positively not a tourist. Yet the tourists and the non-tourists stared at him alike, as if he were someone they should have known and were trying to place. With the casual elegance of his clothes and his dark handsome face he could have been some kind of romantic actor, only that his good looks didn't seem to have any of the weaknesses of a romantic actor-they had a sinewy recklessness of fundaнmental structure that belonged more to the character that a romantic actor would try to play than to the character of the impersonator. But he was quite unactorishly unaware of attracting that sort of interest at all, and was satisfied when he caught the eye of a man who was waving frantically at him from a booth halfway down the room, who could only have been Mr. Byron Ufferlitz.

  For Mr. Ufferlitz looked just like his voice. He was rather overweight, and he wore a diamond ring, and he had a cigar in his mouth. The rest of him fitted those features in with the picture that Simon had constructed from Dick Halliday's comments. He had thick shoulders and thick black hair, and his face had a quality of actual physical toughness that was totally different from the thin-lipped affectation of a tough guy behind a mahogany desk.

  "Have a drink," said Mr. Ufferlitz, who had already been passing the time with a highball.

  "Cleopatra," said the Saint.

  "What's that?" asked Ufferlitz, as the waiter repeated it and moved away.

  "One of the best dry sherries."

  It was as if Ufferlitz opened a filing cabinet in his mind, punched a card, and put it away. But he did it without the flicker of a muscle in his face, and sat back to make a coldнblooded inventory of the Saint's features.

  "You're all right," he announced. "You're swell. I recogнnised you as soon as you came in. From your pictures, of course. But I couldn't tell from them whether they'd just-caught you at a good angle."

  "This is a great relief to me," Simon remarked mildly.

  A flash bulb popped at close quarters. Simon looked up, blinking, and saw the photographer retreating with an inнgratiating grin.

  "That's just a beginning," explained Mr. Ufferlitz complaнcently. "We'll get plenty more pictures later, of course. But there's no harm grabbing anything that comes along."

  "Would you mind," asked the Saint, "telling me just what this is all about?"

  "Your build-up. Of course I know you're a celebrity alнready, but a little extra publicity never hurt anyone. I've got the best press-agent in town working on you already. Want you to meet him this afternoon . . . We got you all fixed up for tonight, by the way."

  "You have?" Simon said respectfully.

  "Yep. It was in Louella Parsons this morning. I shot it in last night, soon as I knew you'd arrived. Didn't you see it?"

  "I'm afraid I was too busy reading the subsidiary part of the paper. You know-the part where there's a war going on."

  Mr. Ufferlitz thumbed through a bulging wallet and exнtracted a clipping. It had a sentence ringed in red pencil.

  ...Simon Templar ("The Saint", of course) will be in town today, and the glamor girls have a new feud on. But his first date is April Quest, whom he will squire to Ciro's tonight. They met in Yellowstone last summer ...

  "It's wonderful," said the Saint admiringly. "A whole new past opens behind me."

  "You'll be crazy about her," said Mr. Ufferlitz. "Face like a dream. Chassis like those girls in Esquire. And intelligent! She's been all through college and she reads books."

  "Does she remember Yellowstone too?"

  For the first time, a slight cloud passed over Mr. Ufferlitz's open features.

  "She'll cooperate. She's a real trouper. You gotta cooperнate too. Hell, I'm paying you six G a week, ain't I?"

  "Are you?" said the Saint interestedly. "I don't remember that we fixed it definitely. It might help if you told me what you wanted me to do."

  "All I want you to do," said Ufferlitz expansively, "is be yourself."

  "There's a catch in it," said the Saint. "I do that most of the time for free."

  "Well, there's a difference .. ."

  The revelation of the difference had to wait while they gave their lunch order. Then Mr. Ufferlitz put his elbows on the table and leaned forward.

  "This is the greatest idea there's ever been in pictures," he stated modestly. "They've done plenty of movies about modнern heroes-Edison-Rockne-Sergeant York-all the rest of 'em. But there's always something phony about it to me. I can't look at Spencer Tracy and think he's Edison, because I know he's Spencer Tracy. I can't see Tyrone Power building the Panama Canal or the Pyramids or whatever it was. Now when the Duke of Windsor walked out of Buckingham Palace I had a great idea. Let him play himself in his own story. It was a natural. I wrote to Sam Goldwyn about it-I was in business in Chicago then-but he was too dumb to see it. Would ya believe that?"

  "Amazing," said the Saint.

  "But this is even better," said Mr. Ufferlitz, cheering up. "You're plenty hot yourself, right now, and some ways you got more on the ball. Everything you've done was on your own. And you can still do it. Sergeant York couldn't play himself because he's an old man now, but you're just right. And are you photogenious? Hell, the fans'll go nuts about you!"

  Simon Templar took a long mouthful of Cleopatra.

  "Wait a minute," he said. "Do I get the idea that this earth-shaking idea of yours is a scheme to make a movie star out of me?"

  "Make a star?" echoed Mr. Ufferlitz indignantly. "You are a star! All I want you to do is help me out with one picнture. We'll make it a sort of composite of your life, ending up with that Pellman business in Palm Springs. I got a coupla writers working on it already-they'll have a first draft for me tomorrow. You'll play yourself in your own biography. I had the idea all worked out for a fiction character-Orlando Flane was going to do it for me-but this is ten times hotter. We can easily fix up the story."

  His face was bright with the autogenous energy of its own enthusiasm. And then, as if a switch had been flipped over, the theatrical lighting was gone. The professional illuнmination which he had picked up somewhere in his career went away from him, and there was only the heavy-boned face that had kicked an independent union together and made it stick.

  "Of course," he said, "there are plenty of people who'd hate to see me make a hit with this idea. One or two of 'em would go a long ways to wreck it. That's why I couldn't try it with anyone but you. I guess you can take care of yourself. But if you're scared, we can call it off and you won't get hurt."

  2

  SHE WAS EVERYTHING that her voice had promised. Beнyond that, she had golden-brown hair and gray eyes with a sense of humor. She looked as if she could take care of herself without hurting anyone else. She had a slim figure in a navy blue sweater that brought her out in the right places. She was taller than he had expected, incidentally. Long legs and neat ankles.

  Simon said: "By the way, what's your name?"

  "Peggy Warden," she told him. "What now?"

  "While the attorneys haggle over my epoch-making conнtract, you're supposed to introduce me to the writing talent."

  "The third door on the left down the passage," she said. "Don't let them get your goat."

  "My goat is in cold storage for
the duration," said the Saint. "See you later."

  He went to the third door down the passage and knocked on it. A voice like that of a hungry wolf bawled "Yeow?" The Saint accepted that as an invitation, and went in.

  Two men sat around the single battered desk. Both of them had their feet on it. The desk looked as if it had learned to think nothing of that sort of treatment. The men had an air of proposing that the desk should like it, or else.

  One of them was broad and stubby, with a down-turned mouth and hair turning gray. The other was taller and thinнner, with gold-rimmed glasses and a face that looked freshly scrubbed, like the greeting of a Fuller Brush Man. They inнspected the Saint critically while he closed the door behind him, and looked at each other as if their heads pivoted off the same master gear.

  "I thought he'd have a machine-gun stuck down his pants leg," said the gray-haired one.

  "They didn't put the chandelier back in time," countered the Fuller Brush Man, "or he could swing on it. Or am I thinking of somebody else?"

  "Excuse me," said the Saint gravely. "I'm supposed to be taking an inventory of this circus. Are you the performing seals?"

  They looked at each other again, grinned, and stood up to shake hands.

  "I'm Vic Lazaroff," said the gray-haired man. "This is Bob Kendricks. Consider yourself one of us. Sit down and make yourself unhappy."

  "How are you getting on with the epic?" Simon inquired.

  "Your life story? Fine. Of course, we've had a lot of pracнtice with it. It started off to be a costume piece about Dick Turpin. Then we had to make it fit a soldier of fortune in the International Brigade in Spain. That was when Orlando Flane was getting interested. Then we took it to South America when everyone was on the goodwill rampage. We worked in a lot of stuff that they threw out of one of the Thin Man picнtures, too."

  "Were you ever befriended by a Chinese laundryman when you were a starving orphan in Limehouse?" Kendricks asked.

  "I'm afraid not," Simon confessed. "You see--"

  "That's too bad; because it ties in with a terrific routine where you're flying for the Chinese Government and the Japs have captured one of the guerrilla chieftains and they're goнing to have a ceremonial execution, and you find out that this chieftain is the guy who once saved your life with chop suey, and you set out for practically certain death to try and save him. Flane thought it was swell."

  "I think it's swell too," said the Saint soothingly. "I was only mentioning that it didn't happen."

  "Look here," said Lazaroff suspiciously, "are you trying to set us right about your life?"

  "We've got to have some dramatic license," explained Kenнdricks. "But we'll do right by you. You'll see. We'll give you the best life story any guy ever had."

  "As Byron is always saying," insisted Lazaroff, "you gotta cooperate. Aren't you going to cooperate?"

  Simon added his feet to the collection on the desk, and lighted a cigarette.

  "Tell me more about the great Byron," he said.

  Lazaroff ruffled his untidy gray locks.

  "What, his life story? He changes it every time he tells it. Actually he's a retired racketeer. Well, not retired, but he's changed his racket. Now his strong-arm men don't walk in and say 'How about buyin' some protection, bud?' They say 'How about lendin' us your yacht for a coupla days for some location shots?'-in the same tone of voice."

  "Byron Ufferlitz is his real name, too," supplied Kendricks. "It's on his police record."

  "It's on our checks every Saturday," said Lazaroff, "and the bank honors it. That's all we have to worry about."

  "How do you get on with him?"

  "I get on fine with anyone who gives me a check every Saturday. In this town, you have to, if you want to eat. He isn't any more ignorant than a lot of other producers we've worked for who didn't have police records. We rib him plenty, and he doesn't get too sore. Just now and again he gets a look in his eye as if he's just ready to say 'Okay, wise guy, howja like to get taken for a ride?' Then we lay off him for a bit. But we don't have to steal anything more illegal than ideas, so what the hell? At that, I'd rather work with him than Jack Groom."

  "The trouble is," said Kendricks, "we don't have the choice. We have to work with both of 'em."

  "Who's Jack Groom?" Simon asked.

  "The genius who's going to condescend to direct this epic. Art with a capital F. You'll meet him."

  Simon did, a little later.

  Mr. Groom was tall and thin and stoop-shouldered. He had pale hollow cheeks and lank black hair that fell forward to meet his thick black brows. He had a rich deep voice that never seemed as if it could be produced by such a sepulchral creature.

  He inspected Simon with complete detachment, and said: "Could you grow a moustache in ten days?"

  "I should think so," said the Saint. "But what would I do with it? Is there a market for them?"

  "You should have a moustache in this picture. And your hair should be slicked down more. It'll give you a smoother appearance."

  "I used to slick it down once," said the Saint, "but I got tired of it. And I never have worn a moustache, except in character."

  Mr. Groom shook his head, and swept his forelock back with long tired fingers. It promptly fell down again.

  "The Saint would wear a moustache," he stated impregнnably. "I've got a feeling about it."

  "You remember me?" said the Saint, with a slight floating sensation. "I'm the Saint."

  "Yes," said Mr. Groom patiently. "I visualise you with a moustache. Get one started right away, won't you? Thanks."

  He waved a limp hand and drifted away, preoccupied with many responsibilities.

  Eventually Simon found his way back to Byron Ufferlitz's outer office, where Peggy Warden looked up from a clatter of typewriting with her fresh friendly smile.

  "Well," she said cheerfully, "did you meet everybody?"

  "I don't know," said the Saint. "But if there are any more of them, I'll wait till tomorrow. I don't want to spoil the flavor by being gluttonous. The Wardrobe Department will probнably want to check the cut of my jockstrap, and I expect the Prop Department will tell me what sort of gun I prefer."

  "We'll find out about that as soon as we make the breakнdowns."

  "That's a cheering thought," Simon murmured. "I'll be the easiest breakdown you ever saw."

  "Is there anything I could do to make you happy?"

  "Yes. Tell me what you're doing tonight?"

  "You're forgetting. You've got a date."

  "Have I?"

  "Miss Quest. You pick her up at her house at seven o'clock. Here's the address."

  "What would Byron and I do without you?" Simon pocketed the typewritten slip. "Let's go out and get a drink now, anyнway."

  "I'm sorry," she said, laughing. "I punch a time clock. And Mr. Ufferlitz mightn't like it if I just walked out . . . You'll come back, won't you? Mr. Ufferlitz wanted to see you again before you left. I think he wants to tell you how to act with Miss Quest. In case you can't find out for yourself."

  "You know," said the Saint, "I like you."

  "Don't commit yourself until after tonight," she said.

  Byron Ufferlitz, of course, as he had carefully explained to the Saint, was too smart to have fallen for a salaried proнducer's job at one of the major studios. What he had negotiнated for himself was a major release-he did his own financing, and saved the terrific standard mark-up for "overhead" of ordinary studio production. He had his offices and rented faнcilities at Liberty Studios, a new outfit on Beverly Boulevard which catered to independent producers. Opposite the enнtrance there was a cocktail lounge whimsically named The Front Office, which would unmistakably have suffered a major depression if a hole had opened across the street and Liberty Studios had dropped in. But ephemeral as its position may have been in the economic system, it fulfilled the Saint's imнmediate requisites of supply and demand, and he settled himнself appreciatively on a chrome-legged stool and relaxed into the glass-panelled decor with
out any active revulsion.

  He had a little difficulty in getting service, because the lone bartender, who looked like a retired stunt man and was acнtually exactly that, was having a little dialogue trouble with the only other customer at that intermediate hour, who had obviously been a customer with more enthusiasm than disнcretion.

  "He can't do that to me," declared the customer, propping his head in his hands and staring glassy-eyed between his fingers.

  "Of course not," said the bartender. "Take it easy."

  "You know what he said to me, Charlie?"

  "No. What did he say to you?"

  "He said 'You stink!' "

  "He did?"

  "Yeah."

  'Take it easy."

  "You know what I'm gonna do, Charlie?"

  "What you gonna do?"

  "I'm gonna tell that son of a bitch where he gets off."

  "Take it easy, now."'

  "He can't do that to me."

  "Of course not."

  "I'm gonna tell him right now."

  "Now take it easy. It's not that bad."

  "I'll kill the son of a bitch before he can get away with that."

  "Why don't you go out and get something to eat first? You'll feel better."

  "I'll show him where he gets off."

  "Take it easy."

  "I'm gonna show him right now." The customer lurched up, staggered, found his balance, and said: "Goo'bye."

  "Goodbye," said the bartender. "Take it easy."

  The customer navigated with careful determination to the door, and vanished-an almost ridiculously good-looking young man, with features so superficially perfect that he could easily have stepped straight out of a collar advertisement if he had been a little less dishevelled.

  "Yes, sir?" said the bartender, facing the Saint with the combination of complete aplomb, extravagant apology, comнradely amusement, genial discretion, and sophisticated depнrecation which is the heritage of all good bartenders.

  "A double Peter Dawson and plain water," said the Saint. "Is there something about the air around here which drives people to drink?"

  "It's too bad about him," said the bartender tolerantly, pouring meanwhile. "When he's sober, he's as nice a fellow as you could meet. Just like you'd think he would be from his pictures."