Leslie Charteris - Saint Errant

“I appreciate the compliment,” said the Saint. “But there’s one hitch.”

“What’s that?”

“I wasn’t the guy who tried to blackmail you.”

A slight scowl settled over Lansing’s black eyes.

“I told you before — the comedy belongs outside.”

“I don’t doubt the show could use it,” said the Saint. “Only whether you like it or not, the comedy is right here. Because I give you my word that I’ve never spoken to you on the phone in my life, and I don’t have the least idea how to start proving that Jake was helped out of his window.”

Lansing stared at him for several seconds.

“Is that on the level?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then who is this guy who’s pretending to be you?”

“That,” said the Saint, “is what I’d like to know. I’ll have to try and find out.” He took the hand out of his left side pocket. “Now that we understand each other, I guess you won’t mind if I leave.”

Rick the Barber stood up and came around the desk. He opened the door.

The first gunman, reinforced by two others, stood watchfully in the corridor outside.

“It’s okay,” Lansing said. “The Saint is okay.”

Simon strolled through the goon squad, and Lansing followed him out to the bar.

“Will you let me know if you find out anything, Saint?”

“I will if you will,” Simon agreed. “By the way, how was this dough to be paid?”

“In an envelope addressed to Cleve Wentz at the Canal Street Post Office, general delivery. I can have the boys keep an eye on the window.”

“It might take a long time,” said the Saint. “And it still wouldn’t be easy to spot the pickup. But there’s no harm trying... I’ll be seeing you, Rick. Give my regards to Lady Macbeth.”

Nevertheless, he had no more brilliant ideas himself, and even the nest morning found him without inspiration. The problem of locating an anonymous impersonator who had just spoken to somebody once on the telephone made the proverbial needle in the haystack look simple.

He was brooding over the impasse after a late breakfast when there was a knock on the door, and when he opened it he was confronted by a pair of rather prominent eyes in a lean dyspeptic face which he recognized instantly. Taken in conjunction with the recent trend of his thoughts, the recognition gave him a premonitory qualm which no one could have guessed from the cordiality with which he renewed an old acquaintance.

“Why, Alvin!” he exclaimed. “This is a pleasant surprise. Come in and tell me about your latest triumphs.”

Lieutenant Alvin Kearney came in without a responding smile, but there was a certain amount of smugness in the lines of his normally unhappy countenance.

“I don’t know what sort of a triumph you’d call it,” he said. “But this time I’ve really got the goods on you, my friend.”

The Saint looked puzzled.

“The goods, Alvin?”

“Yeah,” Kearney said grimly. “Although frankly I never thought I’d get you for common blackmail.”

Simon realized that he had been unduly despondent. He didn’t think for a moment that Rick the Barber would have gone to the police, but what he had overlooked was that the impostor was not likely to stop with one victim.

“A lot of people seem to be going nuts these days,” he remarked almost cheerfully. “Who says I’m blackmailing him now?”

“Vincent Maxted.”

“The meat packer?”

“You ought to know,” Kearney said. “You claim to be able to prove that he made a nice piece of change during the war out of black-market steaks.”

Simon lighted a cigarette.

“I keep being amazed by the things I know,” he said. “It’s a little startling to be credited with clairvoyance all of a sudden. The embarrassing thing is that I don’t really deserve it. I assure you, Alvin, this is the first I’ve heard about Maxted’s illegal butchery.”

“Is that so?” Kearney was unimpressed. “Then I guess you’d figured he’d just be scared enough to pay up rather than go through an investigation. It doesn’t make any difference. You made the threat anyhow, and he’ll be able to identify your voice.”

“My voice? On the telephone?” Simon scoffed.

“That’s for your lawyer to fight about. It’s good enough for me to hold you. Let’s go, Saint. I’ve got a nice cozy room reserved for you at headquarters.”

Simon thought for a few moments.

“Okay,” he said at last. “If you want to stick your neck out I suppose I can’t stop you. Do you mind if I throw a few things in a bag?”

“Make it snappy,” Kearney said.

He followed Simon into the bedroom. The Saint pulled out a suitcase and opened it. He took out a crumpled piece of paper, glanced at it, and gave a guilty start. Rather clumsily, he tried to get rid of it under the bed. “What’s that?” Kearney snapped.

“Nothing,” said the Saint unconvincingly. “Just an old bill.”

“Let me see it.”

Simon hesitated, without moving.

Kearney came around the bed, pushed the Saint aside, and went down on his knees to grope underneath.

Simon stepped out of the bedroom, closed the door, and turned the key in the lock, in one fluid sweep of co-ordinated movements. He was out of the suite so quickly that he did not even hear the detective’s roar of rage.

By day, the Blue Paradise had an uninviting drabness which contrasted significantly with its neon-lighted nocturnal glitter. The doors were inhospitably closed and locked, but Simon found a bell to ring, and after a while a beady eye peered out through a two-inch opening and was sufficiently satisfied to let him in.

“Greetings, Sonny Boy,” said the Saint. “Is Rick around yet?”

“I guess he’ll see you,” conceded the gunsel gloomily, and Simon went through the dim deserted bar and down the back corridor to Lansing’s office.

“I’ve got news for you, Rick,” he said. “You’re in good company.”

Lansing looked up from the accounts he was studying. “What does that mean?”

“Someone else I don’t have anything on is being blackmailed by the Saint.”

“Who’s that?”

Simon skipped the question for a moment. “Did you buy any black-market meat during the war?”

“Maybe you really want a job in the floor show,” Lansing said. “I’ll buy the gag. So I had to stay in business. So what?”

“Did you get anything through Vincent Maxted?”

Lansing’s eyelids flickered. “What about him?”

“Only this,” said the Saint. “The first job of blackmail that we met over referred to something which only you or someone very close to you should have known. Maybe the same can be said about this new job. I’ve got an idea it can. And if that’s true, we may be getting somewhere. We don’t want to miss something that might be right under our nose.”

Lansing’s eyes were flat and hard like jet. “I can only think of one guy who might be liable to know as much as I know myself, including about what happened to Jake,” he said. “But don’t ask me how he’d know. I just say I could believe it because I know the kind of guy he is. This guy always seems to know too much about everything that goes on.”

“And who’s that?”

“Some people call him the Saint.” Simon smiled.

“You give me too much credit, Rick. As a matter of fact, I never suspected anything about Jake Hardy until you practically told me yourself. I’d never even given it a thought. From what I hear, he was no great loss to the community, so why should I worry about how he was moved on? I couldn’t have cared less if it had been the other way around, and when somebody does get you one of these days, as they probably will, it still won’t bother me.”