The Saint had expected Mrs Laura Wingate’s penthouse on Lake Shore Drive to be fairly palatial, but he was not quite prepared for the rococo perspectives that opened before him as he followed Monica Varing out of the elevator and the cocktail party exploded around them like a startled barnyard.
“My God,” he said in a dazed undertone, as he fought their way through the seething throngs. “Monica, are you sure this is the right place?”
“I think so. We could have crashed the gate without any trouble. Everybody’s here.”
This seemed fairly correct. Across the broad acres of terrace, tables were set up, beach umbrellas made gay patterns, and trays of cocktails were levitated towards thirsty throats. The Saint seized two passing Martinis and shared his loot with Monica.
“Let’s cruise around,” he suggested. “I don’t know exactly what we’re looking for, but there’s one way to find out. If you stumble on a clue, such as a rigid body with a knife-hilt protruding from its back, whistle three times.”
“I wouldn’t be too hopeful,” she said. “The servants must be too well trained to leave rubbish cluttering up the lawn. Still, there may be some rigid bodies around here before the day’s over,” Monica pondered, watching a sleek young socialite tossing off drink after drink with the desperation of a fire-breathing dragon trying to put itself out.
They drifted through the yammer of high-pitched voices, conveniently allowing an eddy among the other guests to cut them off from their sponsors, the Kennedys. The Saint’s casually roving eyes inventoried the crowd without finding in it anything to give direction to his unformed questions. It seemed to be composed of fairly standard ingredients — playboys old and young, business men, and politicians, blended with their wives, mistresses, and prospectives. He sought and failed exasperatingly to find a single sinister aroma in the brew.
Then through a gap in the crowd he glimpsed a white head that looked like Stephen Elliott, and started to steer Monica towards it. Before they had made much progress the throng parted in another quarter, spilling away like a bow wave before the onrush of a monumental figure that bore down upon them like an ocean liner. Simon had only a moment to hope that it could stop in time before it rammed them with its monstrous bosom. “I thought I recognised you,” Mrs Wingate cried, ignoring Simon to concentrate on his companion. “It must be Monica Varing. Imagine!”
Monica smiled and said, “I’m afraid I wasn’t invited, Mrs Wingate, but I was with the Kennedys this afternoon, and they insisted I come along with them. I do hope you won’t mind.”
She played the gracious lady with such perfect restraint and charm that even Simon was impressed, while Mrs Wingate almost swooned.
“I’m so glad. How could I possibly mind? I’ve admired your art for so long, my dear Miss Varing — oh! A cocktail?”
She beckoned urgently, and a servant came with his tray. He offered it to Simon last, and Mrs Wingate’s attention was directed to Monica’s escort.
“Oh, dear — I should know you, too,” she gushed — and giggled helplessly. “I’m sure I should. I have such a dreadful memory for names.”
“There’s no reason why you should know mine,” said the Saint amiably. “I’m uninvited, too. I came with Miss Varing. My name is Templar. Simon Templar.”
“Simon Templar,” Mrs Wingate echoed, looking at him along her nose, over a battery of chins. “It’s familiar, somehow. Oh, I know. The Senator from—”
Behind the Saint a deep, mild, slightly treacly voice said, “Not quite, Laura. Not quite.”
Stephen Elliott moved into the group with a sort of apologetic benevolence that reminded the Saint of an undertaker associating with the bereaved.
Seen without interference by the dark glasses through which Simon had observed him first, there was a fresh pink tint to his long, aristocratic features rather similar in contour to those of a well-bred horse, which suggested that he had arrived fresh from a facial. His skin strengthened the impression with a smooth softness which implied the same attention daily. Whatever his other philanthropies may have been, it was evident that he must have been a benison to his barber.
Simon admitted him to their circle with an easy geniality that contained no hint of recognition.
“I’m not in the public eye just now,” he said. “Though there was a time when I was, rather painfully.”
Mrs Wingate fixed him with a sharp stare.
“I can’t remember names, but I have a wonderful memory for faces. I — oh, no. Of course not.”
But her eyes were puzzled.
Stephen Elliott’s deprecating smile and unnaturally soothing voice implied that all was for the best as he said, “Mr Templar is the Saint, Laura. Surely you’ve heard of the Saint?”
“Oh, heavens,” Mrs Wingate said, losing her poise and clutching at a sapphire pendant sitting like a mahout on the elephantine bulge of her bosom.
“My dear Mrs Wingate,” Simon said lightly, “even if I were still actively pursuing my profession, I could never bring myself to swipe sapphires from such a charming throat.”
Mrs Wingate giggled, but she relinquished her grip on the pendant rather reluctantly.
“Surely you’re not — I mean—”
She glanced around apprehensively. Simon smiled at her.
“Even Jack the Ripper must have had his social hours,” he said. “Please consider me on my best behaviour. You need have no fears for your sapphires, your silver, or your honour, though the latter...” He beamed at Mrs Wingate, who snickered again, unaware that the sentence might have been finished in many more ways than one, and at least half of them unflattering.
Elliott introduced himself. “—since Laura is too flustered, I gather,” he said gravely. “Miss Varing? How do you do? Meeting two such notable figures is rather an event. I’ll celebrate it by joining you in a drink.”
He beckoned to a passing tray.
“To crime,” the Saint suggested, and they drank, though Mrs Wingate had a moment’s startled pause first.
“To crime,” Elliott repeated. “I’m surprised to hear that from you, Mr Templar. I thought the Saint changed sides a while ago.”
“There was a war on at the time,” Simon said casually, “and some of it seemed sort of important. But now I’m back to stirring up my own trouble. You might call it my private reconversion problem... As a matter of fact, I’m working on a case now, and I find I haven’t lost much of my knack.”
“A case?” Elliott asked.
“Yes. It should interest you, in view of the work you’ve been doing among Chicago’s poor. Have you ever heard of someone called the King of the Beggars?”
Simon threw out the phrase with perfect carelessness, and just as airily made no point of watching for a reaction.
It would have made little difference if he had. Stephen Elliott’s Santa Claus eyebrows merely drew together in a vaguely worried way; while Mrs Wingate bridled as if her position in the Social Register had been questioned, and then said, “It’s fantastic. Utterly fantastic. I’ve heard rumours, of course, but — Mr Templar, you must realise that such things are... are...”
“Fantastic?” the Saint prompted.
“Not too much so, in my opinion,” Stephen Elliott answered him. “There certainly is some sort of criminal organisation victimising the poor in Chicago. I’m not blind, Mr Templar. But just how widespread is it?”
Simon shrugged.
Elliott’s distinguished equine face worked uncomfortably.
“I know,” he said at last. “It’s a pernicious racket, no matter how small. It should be stamped out. And you say you’re going after it?”
The Saint flipped a mental coin, and decided to hold his course.
“Yes. I haven’t been able to find out much yet. I wonder if you could help me?”
Elliott pursed his lips.
“I’m afraid they don’t talk to me. Not about that. It’s hard to break down the wall of reticence a socially unfortunate man has had to build up. I can inquire, if that will help.”
“You haven’t been interested enough so far to ask questions?” Monica put in.
“It’s a police matter. I feel that I can do more good in my own way... Of course, if I could be of any use—”
Mrs Wingate said abruptly, “Why, you’re the blind beggar!”
This time the Saint was naturally watching Elliott. He saw blank startled astonishment leap into the man’s eyes. He held his own reflexes frozen under an unmoving mask of bronze and waited, while Mrs Laura Wingate babbled on.
“I don’t understand. I’m sure I can’t be mistaken. But... but... I never forget a face, Mr Templar. What in the world—”
Elliott’s hand moved towards the watch-chain stretched across his vest.
“What do you mean, Laura?”
“I’m sure I must be making a fool of myself. But, Stephen, you know I’ve got a photographic memory. I think you were with me, too... Yesterday! Mr Templar—”
The coin had come down and bedded itself flatly in hot solder. There wasn’t even a theoretical chance any more of its landing on its edge. Its verdict had been delivered with more finality even than the Saint had played for. But he had always been a sucker for the fast showdown, the cards on the table and the hell with complicated stratagems...
He relaxed with an infinitude of relaxation, and smiled at Laura Wingate with a complete happiness that could only stem from that.
“She’s perfectly right,” he said. “I often travel incognito. As a matter of fact, I was trying to get some information about the King’s organisation. To do that I had to pose as a beggar, I hope you’ll keep it confidential.”
“Oh, goodness,” Mrs Wingate said breathlessly. “How romantic!”
Stephen Elliott maintained his mildly worried expression.
“Since we’ve stumbled on something that’s apparently secret,” he said temperately, “I suspect we’d better not ask any more questions. If Mr Templar really has taken up the chase, and if his quarry should learn about it, it might be extremely dangerous for him. Perhaps even” — he shot the Saint a deliberate measuring glance — “fatal.”
“I wouldn’t dream of telling a soul,” Mrs Wingate protested. “I just wish I weren’t so curious!”
Elliott’s attention remained on the Saint.
“In fact,” he said, “I’m not at all sure that it’s wise for you to go on with this project, even now. From what little I have heard, the King of the Beggars protects his absolute sovereignty as ruthlessly as any despot. I have a great admiration for your exploits, and I should hate to see anything happen to you.”
“Thank you,” Simon said. “I’ve a great admiration for yours.”
Elliott hesitated, staring.
“Scarcely in the same category—”
“I mean your charities. The Elliott Hotel, for example.”
The philanthropist nodded.
“I am trying to follow a plan,” he said, a slightly fanatical glaze coming into his eyes. “I’ll admit that the several rooming-houses I own in Chicago aren’t in the same class as the Palmer House, but I think all told, I have more guests in my various establishments than any single Chicago hotel. The greatest good for the greatest number of the needy automatically means that one must supply bread, not éclairs.”
“Also,” said the Saint, holding his gaze directly, “the dispenser of bread can hardly stand by while some racketeer taxes the needy for the privilege of receiving it.”
“I can only work within my limitations and in my own way—”
Mrs Wingate was off on a tangent, figuratively clutching Elliott’s coat-tails and riding along.
“There must be roses, too,” she remarked, and everyone looked at her blankly.
Finally Simon said, “ Chacun à son goût ” in such a significant manner that Mrs Wingate nodded several times with intense solemnity, as if she had heard the Pope affirm a historic dogma.
“Man does not live by bread alone,” she said. “Stephen is concerned with the bodies of the poor. My interest is in their souls. The unfortunates do have souls, you know. I try to bring something more than bread into their dark, narrow lives. You should see... Stephen! Do you think—”
“What, Laura?”
“I’m sure you’d be willing to help us, Mr Templar. You’re notorious for your charities—”
Elliott said, “Notorious is perhaps the wrong word, Laura. And, if I may say so, the Saint’s charities are not exactly in line with what we’re trying to do.”
Mrs Wingate plunged on excitedly, as if she had not even heard him.
“And you, Miss Varing — of course. You see, we try to make the unfortunates realise something of the higher things. It gives them incentive. We arrange to put on little entertainments for them sometimes. Now tomorrow night there’s one at the Elliott Hotel—”
“In the boiler-room,” Elliott said with dry humour. “You mustn’t give the impression that it’s like the Drake.”
“But it’s an enormous room,” Mrs Wingate went on, no whit dashed. “There’ll be songs and coffee and... and... speeches, and it would be simply wonderful if you both could drop in for just a few moments. If you could do a reading, Miss Varing, and Mr Templar, if you, could... ah...”
“Now, just what could I do?” Simon asked thoughtfully. “A lecture on safe-cracking would hardly be quite the thing.”
“A speech, perhaps, showing that crime does not pay?” Elliott seemed in earnest, but the Saint could not be sure.
Mrs Wingate clasped her hands in front of her bust.
“At eight-thirty? We would so appreciate it!”
“I’m afraid eight-thirty is my curtain time,” Monica said, with an excellent air of regret. “Otherwise I’d have loved it.”
Mrs Wingate blinked.
“Oh, of course. I’d forgotten. I’m so sorry. Thank you, my dear.” She forgot Monica completely as she turned back to the Saint. “But you’ll be able to make it, won’t you, Mr Templar?”
Simon only hesitated a moment.
“I’d be delighted,” he said. “I don’t think I can get much heart into the speech till I work myself into the right mood, but I’ll do my best. You see,” he added, beaming at Elliott, “it’s been my experience that crime pays very well indeed. But, as I said before—”
“Chacun à son goût?” Elliott suggested unsmilingly.
“How true,” Mrs Wingate said vaguely. “Another cocktail, perhaps?”