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 grey 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 had 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 immobilised 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 Gat-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 o’ mine, chum.”
“Meet Sammy de Leg,” Hoppy said unnecessarily.
“What a grip,” Sammy yelled, extricating his paw from Simon’s palm and shaking it vigorously. “Come on in. Have a beer.”
With shouts and cries he fell upon Mr Uniatz and bore him beyond a beaded portière. 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 is the guy you want put away?” he asked. “Well, he don’t get none. 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 flavour 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. Since 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 towards 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 portière 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 well.”
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 levelling 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 travelling. For my health. But I never seen the King.”
He was telling the truth. Simon knew that; he was a connoisseur in such matters. Junior was obviously afraid of the King’s power, but he was more afraid of the Saint. After all, Simon Templar was only a few feet from him, and the King of the Beggars was not — at the moment.
Simon said, “I’d have been surprised if you’d said anything different, this early in the story. Still, there must be a few precious pearls of information nestling in your head. I’d love to hear them. Start where you first heard of the King.”
Junior was talking before the Saint had finished. He was, it seemed, a native of San Francisco. Travelling for his health a few months ago, he had landed in Chicago and naturally gravitated to the lower depths. There he had been approached by one of the King’s ambassadors, who had been intrigued by Junior’s obviously criminal appearance.
“But I never seen the King,” Junior repeated. “Frankie’s my contact.”
“Frankie who?”
“Frankie Weiss. I’m just a collector, that’s all. I make the rounds and collect the percentage off the beggars. I hand the dough over to Frankie an’ he pays me off. That’s all I got to do with it.”
“A beautiful, literate, well-motivated story,” the Saint said. “Except one point. You forgot to say why you took Miss Varing up an alley.”
“She was a new one. She hadn’t joined our... She told me to go to hell. People what don’t want to kick in, we sorta convince ’em.” Junior’s voice trailed off weakly.
“A beating usually does the trick, I imagine,” Simon said very lightly. “Did you by any chance help to convince a beggar named John Irvine?”
“I didn’t have nothing to do with that. Honest to God!”
“Then who did?”
Junior swallowed.
“It could have been Frankie.”
There was an almost inaudible ping, and Junior clapped a hand to his cheek with a startled expression, as if he had been sharply stung by some unsuspected insect.
“It should have been in de eye,” Hoppy Uniatz said enigmatically. “Ya lousy stool-pigeon.”
“Don’t discourage him yet,” said the Saint. “Tell me, Junior, what happens when a beggar does agree to kick in?”
“Well, then he joins the Society.”
“Society?”
“The Metropolitan Benevolent Society... Then I take him to Frankie. But that’s all I got to do with it. Frankie’s waiting somewhere in his car and drives off with the guy. It ain’t my business after that. I don’t ask questions.”
“Where do you meet Frankie?”
“It’s different all the time. I was to see him next Wednesday night, at eight o’clock — corner of State and Adams.”
“I hope he won’t be too disappointed when you don’t show up,” said the Saint gently.
Junior gulped.
“Now lissen,” he pleaded. “I told you everything. I run off at the mouth—”
“You certainly do,” Simon conceded. “What worries me is that it may be a habit with you. And I certainly don’t want you going to the King, or Frankie Weiss, and running off some more about this little tête-à-tête of ours. So while we decide whether we’re going to kill you, we’ll just have to keep you out of circulation... Can you get Samuel back, Hoppy?”
Mr Uniatz solved this problem by exposing his tonsils in a stentorian bellow which made the chandelier vibrate. In a few seconds Sammy the Leg came in, beaming hospitably.
“All through?” he shouted softly. “Oh — I forgot. This is Fingers Schultz. You remember Fingers, Hoppy?”
“Sure,” Hoppy said. “Where is he?”
Sammy stepped aside, revealing a small, colourless man who blinked blankly at the Saint. Hoppy said, “Hi, Fingers.”
Mr Schultz nodded and kept on blinking.
Sammy the Leg said, “Can’t run a joint like this alone. Fingers gives me a hand.” He looked startled. “Hey. I made a joke. Fingers — hand. It ain’t bad.”
Nobody laughed. Simon said, “Will you keep Junior on ice for a few days?”
“It’ll be a pleasure,” Sammy said. “At twenty-five a day, that’ll be one seventy-five. I always get a week in advance.” He kept his palm extended. “Board and room,” he explained. “Cut rate to you, though.”
Simon opened his wallet and laid several bills on the waiting paw.
“Thanks,” Sammy said. “If you want to stop keeping him, lemme know, an’ maybe we can take care of that, too.”
“I’ll let you know,” Simon assured him gravely. “Come along, Hoppy.”
He had a last glimpse of Junior’s white, staring face as they went out.