Leslie Charteris - The Saint 49 Count On The Saint

Simon surveyed him coldly.

“You’re going on.” He consulted his watch. “In about ten minutes, if we can make you look like something resembling the kiddies’ favourite and not a reject from a doss house.”

The man jumped angrily to his feet as the words penetrated the congeners numbing his senses. It was not a wise move. His face twisted in pain and he collapsed back onto the day bed and sat holding his head in his hands.

“Me brain’s breaking up,” he whined, but the Saint had no pity.

“Chantek, brew some coffee,” he said as he hoisted the man back to a vertical position and shoved him towards the sink. “And as for you, start cleaning yourself up.”

The man scowled at him but slowly set about doing as he was told. Chantek put the kettle on the hot plate. She turned back to the Saint and opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Simon followed her eyes and glanced over his shoulder. Framed in the doorway, staring at the scene with undisguised disapproval, stood two men.

“What is going on here?”

It was the larger of the pair who spoke, and the way the other man followed him into the room stamped them immediately as employer and employee.

Both Chantek and the drunk stood as if frozen and were obviously too stunned or too nervous to answer. As an outsider the Saint had no such inhibitions, and for no logical reason other than that he did not like his attitude or his appearance he took an immediate dislike to the man who had spoken.

He smiled benignly.

“We’re rehearsing the firm’s panto,” he said agreeably. “I’m Prince Charming, Chantek is Cinderella, this specimen is Buttons — or will be when we’ve done him up. If you’d like a part, we still have to cast the Ugly Sisters.”

The bigger man’s cheeks burned and he appeared to be about to have a seizure. He wore a pin-striped three-piece which, despite the quality of its tailoring, could not hide a spreading paunch which was the result of too many dinners and an equally expansive rear that was the legacy of spending too much time sitting in a chair telling other people what to do.

“Who the devil are you?” he spluttered, and the Saint’s smile broadened.

“Not a devil, a saint. My name is Templar. And who are you?”

The thin, lanky, and extremely ill-at-ease individual who stood at the big man’s right hand answered. His tone conveyed as much surprise at the Saint’s ignorance as if someone at a Buckingham Palace garden party had asked him to identify the Queen.

“This is Mr. Wakeforth. Mr. Stanton Wakeforth.”

The Saint considered the revelation and appeared duly impressed.

“Not the Mr. Stanton Wakeforth?”

The lanky man continued to look surprised.

“Of course.”

The Saint slowly shook his head.

“Sorry, I never heard of him.”

It was, in fact, an outright lie but the Saint could never resist the chance to prick the balloon of pomposity whenever it blew across his path. Mr. Stanton Wakeforth, he knew from his reading of the daily papers, was founder and autocratic ruler of the chain of department stores which bore his name. Mr. Stanton Wakeforth was very rich. Mr. Stanton Wakeforth was a self-made man, and Mr. Stanton Wakeforth’s greatest pleasure in life was telling people so.

The said Mr. Stanton Wakeforth glared at him.

“Are you an employee of this organisation?”

“No, sir, he isn’t,” answered his companion, with the look of a man who wishes he had died thirty seconds previously.

“Well, I don’t know why you are here and I don’t care.” Wakeforth’s voice trembled with barely suppressed rage. “This is a staff-only area and unless you leave immediately I’ll have Security throw you out.”

Before the Saint could say anything, Wakeforth turned on the others: “I heard everything you said from the corridor. I will not tolerate such behaviour in my stores. Collect your cards and get out. You are both dismissed.”

Simon looked steadily at the store boss and resisted a strong urge to make his fat lips even fatter. He had been presented with a virtual invitation to deflate the man’s ego and he had accepted it heartily without first considering where his action might lead. Now he felt sorry — not for what he had done, but for the consequences for Chantek and the elderly Santa. He accepted the responsibility of trying to repair the damage he had unintentionally caused.

“Look, Mr. Wakeforth, you’re absolutely right, I shouldn’t be here and I’ll go,” he said. “But there’s no cause to lay the heavy hand on these two, especially Chantek. After all, she was only trying to help. Where would you have been this morning without a Santa Claus? And as for Ted here, surely everyone is permitted one lapse, especially at this festive season.”

But his pleas were useless. His first impudence had infuriated the magnate beyond the point where he might have listened to rational argument.

Wakeforth turned on him savagely.

“How dare you try and tell me how to run my business, young man! Just get out of here now, all three of you.”

The loudspeaker on the wall above the door crackled:

“Calling Mr. Wakeforth. Please contact your office. Mr. Wakeforth, please.”

Wakeforth glared at the intercom as if he wished it possessed a neck he could wring. He grabbed the transceiver from the internal phone on the wall, dialled a couple of numbers, and bellowed his name into the mouthpiece.

His face went a shade darker as he listened.

“The stock room? Why?”

The answer clearly did nothing to ease his temper. He banged the handset back into its cradle and addressed his aide.

“Apparently there’s some flap on. Stock control want me down there straight away, personally.” He wagged an accusing finger under the man’s nose. “I tell you, Parsons, I don’t like the way this store is being run. I don’t like it at all”

Parsons blanched.

“Shall I come to the stock room with you, sir?” he suggested timorously, and only just managed to conceal his relief when the offer was refused.

“No, I’ll deal with it. Though God knows why I should have to. You just get these people out of my store before I return. I’ll talk to you later.”

An uneasy silence followed the slamming of the door behind Mr. Stanton Wakeforth. Parsons looked apologetically at Chantek and the now abruptly sobered Santa.

“You had better come to my office straight away. I’ll make your money up to the end of the week. I’m sorry, but that’s the best I can do.”

Simon attempted a final appeal.

“Couldn’t you get him to reconsider?” he asked hopefully. “Perhaps when he’s cooled down a bit.”

Parsons sighed, and his regret seemed genuine.

“There is no chance of that, I’m afraid. Mr. Wakeforth doesn’t cool down. He’s always like that, and this has been one of those days when nothing has been right for him. I have to do what he tells me. Would you come this way, please?”

He led the dispirited trio out of the rest room, and they filed without speaking up to his office on the top floor and waited while he contacted the accounts department and arranged for the cards and wages to be sent up.

“Tida apa,” the Saint said to Chantek consolingly. “There must be plenty of other jobs going at this time of year. And if I can’t find ’em for you, I’ll have you both myself, as my personal Santas. I always wanted to feel like the Man Who Has Everything.”

Her eyes had sparkled with happy surprise at the first phrase he used.

“First, you will have to tell me how you learned to speak Malay.”

“It’s a long story,” said the Saint wickedly, “and may involve several evenings.”

Parsons sat behind his desk gazing awkwardly into space. The man called Ted sat, head down, staring at the carpet. Chantek stood looking out of the window over the snow-brushed rooftops. The Saint eyed the safe in the corner and considered whether the almighty Mr. Stanton Wakeforth should be taught a lesson where it would hurt him most — in his pocket.