Leslie Charteris - Call for the Saint

“Chees, boss, dat’s great,” said Mr Uniatz. “What did I do?”

“You’ve given me an idea,” said the Saint. “In your own words — if the ungodly can’t figure where it’s coming from, it might break up the act.”

“Sure,” Hoppy agreed sagely. “But who is dis guy Gordian?”

Simon Templar had always lived by inspiration, even by hunches, but his recklessness had no relation to any unconsciousness of danger. On the contrary, he was never more watchful and calculating than in his rashest moves. He diced with fate like a seasoned gambler, taking mathematical risks with every shade of odds coldly tabulated in his head. It was simply that once his bet was down he gave himself up to the unalloyed delight of seeing how it would turn out. After that there was only the excitement of riding with them, and the taut invigoration of waiting poised like a fencer to respond to the next flick of steel.

“Which is a nice trick if you can do it,” he mused, blinking through his dark glasses as he tapped his way along the sidewalk towards the Elliott Hotel a couple of hours later.

He looked interestedly at the huge ramshackle structure, which, despite its new coat of brown paint, could scarcely have brought much inspiration to the souls of the poor unfortunates who inhabited it. The building had been constructed after the Chicago fire, but not much later; and it had an air of rather desperately sterile cheer, like an asthmatic alderman wheezing out Christmas carols.

The front door yawned, more rudely than invitingly, Simon decided. He made pleading gestures at a passing pedestrian.

“Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for the Elliott Hotel. Can you tell me—”

“Right here,” said the florid man Simon had accosted. “Want to go in?” He took the Saint’s arm and guided him up the steps to the door. “Okay now?”

“Thank you, sir. God bless you,” Simon said, and the florid man, who does not hereafter appear in this record, vanished into the Chicago evening.

The Saint stood in a broad, high-ceilinged hall. There were doors and a drab carpet and merciless light bulbs overhead. Fresh paint could not disguise the essential squalor of the place. A few framed mottoes told any interested unfortunates it might concern that there was no place like home, that it was more blessed to give than to receive, that every cloud had a silver lining, and that a fixed and rigid smile was, for some unexplained reason, an antidote to all ills. The effect of these bromides was to create a settled feeling of moroseness in the beholder, and Simon had no difficulty in maintaining his patiently resigned expression beneath the dark glasses.

Through an open door at the Saint’s left a radio was playing. At the back of the hall were closed doors, and facing Simon was the desk clerk’s cubby-hole, occupied now by an inordinately fat woman who belonged in a freak show, though not for her obesity. The Saint greatly admired the woman’s beard. It was not so black as a skunk’s nor so long as Monty Woolley’s, but ’twas enough, ’twould serve.

The woman said, “Well?”

Simon said tremulously, “I’m looking for Miss Green. Miss Hazel Green.”

“Big Hazel Green?”

“Yes — yes, that’s right.”

“You’re talking to her,” the woman said, placing enormous forearms on the counter and leaning forward to stare at the Saint. “What is it?”

“I was advised to come here. A Mr Weiss...” Simon let his voice die away.

Big Hazel Green rubbed her furry chin. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “Mr Weiss, huh? I guess you want to move in here. Is that it?”

Simon nodded.

Big Hazel said, “Shouldn’t you have been here before?”

“I don’t know,” Simon said feebly. “Mr Weiss did say something about... But I had my rent paid in advance at... at the place where I was staying. I couldn’t afford to waste it. I... I hope I haven’t done anything wrong.”

He could feel her eyes boring into him like gimlets.

“That isn’t for me to say. I just take reservations and see who checks in.”

The woman rang a bell. A thin meek little man came from somewhere and blinked inquiringly.

Big Hazel said, “Take over. Be back pretty soon.” She forced her bulk out of the cubby-hole and took Simon’s arm in strong fingers. “I’ll show you your room. Right up here.”

The Saint let her guide him towards the back of the hall, through a door, and up winding stairs. Behind the glasses, his blue eyes were busy — charting, noting, remembering. Like many old Chicago structures, this one was a warren. There was more than one staircase, he saw, which might prove useful later.

“How much higher is it?” he asked plaintively.

“Up top,” Big Hazel told him, wheezingly. “We’re crowded. But you’ve got a room all to yourself.”

It was not a large room, as the Saint found when Big Hazel conducted him into it. The single window overlooked a sheer drop into darkness. The furniture was clean but depressingly plain.

Big Hazel said, “Find your way around. I’ll register you later.”

She went out, closing the door softly. Simon stood motionless, listening, and heard the lock snap.

The shadow of a smile touched his lips. In his pocket was a small instrument that would cope with any ordinary lock. The lock didn’t bother him — only the reason why it had been used. The vital point was whether it was merely a house custom, or a special courtesy...

He felt his way methodically around the room. Literally felt it. There were such things as peepholes: there were creaking boards, and floors not soundproofed against footsteps. He was infinitely careful to make no movement that a blind man might not have made. He tapped and groped and fumbled from one landmark to another, performing all the laborious orientations of a blind man. And in fact those explorations told him almost as much as his eyes.

There was an iron bedstead, a chair, a lavatory basin, a battered bureau — all confined within a space of about seventy square feet. The walls were dun-painted plaster, relieved only by a framed printing of Kipling’s “If.” There was the one little window, of the sash variety, which he was able to open about six inches. He stood in front of it, as if sniffing the grimy air, and noted that the glass panes had wire mesh fused into them.

After a while he took off some of his clothes and lay down on the bed. He did not switch off the one dim light that Big Hazel had left him. He might have been unaware of its existence.

He dozed. That was literally true. The Saint had an animal capacity for rest and self-refreshment. But not for an instant was he any more stupefied than a prize watchdog, and he heard Big Hazel’s cautious steps outside long before she unlatched the door.

He didn’t know how much time had gone by, but it must have been about three hours.

He was wide awake, instantly, and alert as a strung bow, but without the least movement.

“Who is it?” he mumbled grumpily, and even then he could see her clearly in the doorway.

“It’s Hazel Green. I didn’t mean to disturb you. Some people came in late and held me up.”

“That’s all right,” he said, and sat up.

She came in and shut the door behind her, and stood looking down at him.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes, thank you, ma’am.”

“What’s your name?”

He remembered that she had never asked him before.

“Smith,” he said. “Tom Smith.”

“Like all the rest of ’em,” she observed, without rancour. “You been in town long?”

“No, not long.”

“How’s it going?”

“Not bad.”

“You’re not a bad-looking guy to end up in a dump like this.”

“That’s how it goes.” He took a chance, keeping his eyes averted. “You’ve got a nice voice, to be running a dump like this.”