Saint on Guard (21 page)

But let’s pretend that we don’t have the clear and penetrating vision of Lieutenant Kinglake. Let’s just pretend that we are too dumb to believe that a man in the dying agonies of third degree burns cooked up that wonderful story about three men who did it to him, just because he was too modest to want to take the credit. Let’s pretend there might really have been three other men.

Men with names. Blatt, Weinbach, Maris. A nice trio of Herrenvolk.

Then we might go along with the gag and say, suppose Henry Stephen Matson was a traitor. Suppose he’d gotten into some sabotage organisation, and he’d been given a job to do in this explosives plant in Missouri. Suppose he’d even drawn payment in advance—just to account for what he was using for dough in Galveston.

Then suppose he welshed on the job—either from an attack of cold feet or a relapse of patriotism. He knew that the heat was on. He couldn’t stay in this country, because they might have turned him in to the FBI. If they didn’t do anything worse. He took it on the lain for here, hoping to get a passport, and hoping he’d shaken off his pals. But they were too good for him. They tracked him down, struck up an acquaintance with him, and gave him what he had coming. In a very nasty way, just to discourage imitators.

That’s my fairy-tale. And I like it.

Blatt, Weinbach, Maris. I have a description of two of those men, and I’ve got my own good ideas about the third. And I am hereby announcing that I shall now have to get them for you myself, since we must not disturb Lieutenant Kinglake in bis august meditations.

The city editor read it all through without a change of expres-sion. Then he tapped the last page with his forefinger and said; “It’s an ingenious theory, but what’s your basis for it?”

“Nothing but logic, which is all you can say for any theory. The, facts are there. If you can do better with them, you can join King-lake’s club.”

“This last statement of yours, about the three men—is that fact?”

“Some of it. But the main point of it is that that’s what you pay me with. If I can make them believe that I know more than I do, I may scare them into making some serious mistakes. That’s why I’m making you a present of all the rest of that luscious literature.”

The editor pulled at his under lip. He was a pear-shaped man with a long forbidding face that never smiled even when his eyes twinkled.

“It’s good copy, anyway, so I’ll print it,” he said. “But don’t blame me if you’re the next human torch. Or if Kinglake has you brought in again and beats hell out of you.”

“On the contrary, you’re my insurance against that,” said the Saint. “Going my own way, I might have had a lot more trouble with Kinglake at any moment. Now, he won’t dare to do anything funny, because it would look as if he was scared of me.”

“Kinglake’s a good officer. He wouldn’t do a thing like this unless there was a lot of pressure on him.”

Simon recalled the Lieutenant’s tight-lipped curtness, his harried and almost defensive belligerence.

“Maybe there was,” he said. “But whose was it?”

The editor put his fingertips together.

“Galveston,” he said, “has what is now called the commission form of government. Commissioner Number One—what other cities would call the mayor—is coming up for re-election soon. He appoints the Chief of Police. The Chief controls such men as Lieutenant Kinglake. Nobody wants any blemish on the record of the police department at this time. I’m quite confident that neither the Commissioner nor the Chief of Police is mixed up in inything crooked. It’s just best for everybody concerned to let sleeping dogs—in this case, dead dogs—lie.”

“And that is perfectly jake with you.”

“The Times-Tribune, Mr Templar, unlike yourself, is not addicted to sticking its neck out. We are not a political organ; and if we did start a crusade, it would not be on the basis of this one sensational but insignificant killing. But we do try to print the whole truth, as you’ll see by the fact that I’m ready to use your article.”

“Then you still haven’t told me where the pressure would come from.”

The city editor’s long equine face grew even more absorbed in the contemplation of his matched fingers.

“As a stranger in town, Mr Templar, it may surprise you to know that some of our most influential citizens sometimes go to the Blue Goose for their—er—relaxation. The Blue Goose is one of the leads in this story as you have it. So while none of these people, from the Commissioner down, might want to be a party to hushing up a crime, you can see that they might not be keen on too comprehensive an investigation of the Blue Goose. So that the management of the Blue Goose, which naturally doesn’t want the spot involved in a murder mystery, might find a lot of sympathetic ears if they were pointing out the advantages of forgetting the whole thing. I shall not allow you to print that in your next article, but it might help you personally.”

“It might,” said the Saint. “And thank you.”

He spent several hours after that on a conscientious job of verifying his background material that would have amazed some people who thought of him as a sort of intuitive comet, blazing with pyrotechnic violence and brilliance to ends and solutions that were only indicated to him by a guardian angel with a lot of spare time .and an incurable weakness for piloting irresponsible characters. His research involved visits to various public places, and ingenuous conversations with a large number of total strangers, each of them a cameo of personality projection that would have left Dale Carnegie egg-bound with awe. But the net yield was negatively and concisely nothing.

The Commissioner appeared to be a bona fide native of Galves-ton who had made his money in sulphur and still controlled an important business. There seemed to be no particularly musty bones in his family skeleton. He came of Texas stock from away back, and he was set solid with business and family ties.

The Sheriff of the county came out with the same sort of background and clean bill of health. Nobody seemed to know much about the type of deputies in his office, but there had never been any scandal about his administration. He was frankly a member of the same political machine as the Commissioner.

Nor were there any crevices in the armor of the Chief of Police. Kinglake was not too popular, very likely because of his personality; but his record was good. Quantry was negligible.

Which meant that the Times-Tribune editor’s analysis stood unshaken, and there was no evidence to brand the official eagerness to turn a blind eye on a murder as anything but a local issue of political expediency.

Except for the one thin thread that curled into a question mark and asked who it was at the Blue Goose who had turned the heat on even a complaisant political machine.

Olga Ivanovitch?

The Saint knew she was beautiful, he thought she was clever, and he suspected that she was dangerous. But how clever and how dangerous? He could learn nothing about her that sounded at all important. If she had any political connections, they weren’t common gossip. But he knew that she had a definite place in thr picture.

He made another call at the Ascot Hotel; but Mr Baker hadn’t remembered any more overnight, and could add nothing to his information about Blatt or Black.

“But I’m sure, Mr Titwillow, he wasn’t a local man. I’ve been here so long that I think I know all the important people in Galveston by sight.”

Blatt, Weinbach, Maris.

The names made no impression on anyone to whom he mentioned them. But he did find some representatives of their clans in the telephone directory, and studiously checked on each of them. Each of them had the kind of unimpeachable clearance that it would have been simply a waste of time to investigate any further.

It was a long and strenuous day, and dusk was creeping over the city as Simon headed back towards the Alamo House. He bought an evening paper and a bottle of Peter Dawson on the way.

The Times-Tribune carried his article on the front page, unabridged and unexpurgated, but with a box that gave a brief explanation of the Saint’s background for the benefit of the ignorant, and stated that Mr Templar’s theories were his own and did not necessarily represent the editorial opinion of the Times-Tribune.

There was special justification for that in a short column which ran alongside his, which reported succinctly that at an inquest held that afternoon the coroner’s jury had brought in a verdict of suicide.

Simon Templar crushed the newspaper in his hand with a grip that almost reverted it to its original pulp, and said several things which even our freedom of the press will not allow us to print.

So Kinglake hadn’t backed down. He had gone right out from their interview and helped to railroad that fantastic verdict through. Maybe he had a wife and children and just wanted to go on feeding them; but he had done it.

In his room at the Alamo House, Simon sent for ice and opened his bottle, and tried to simmer down again over a highball.

He only had one other clue to think about, and that was in another snatch of words that the dying man had managed to get out. He could hear them just as clearly now as when they had been dragged hoarsely through the charred tortured lips.

“Ostrich-skin—leather case—in gladstone lining … Get case —and send … send …”

Send where?

And why?

And anyhow, Black or Blatt had the gladstone now.

One of three practical killers, probably strangers to Galveston themselves, possibly from Chicago (he remembered the 606 Club match booklet) who had trailed Matson on their mission of venge-ance, carried out the assignment, and vanished.

He had another drink, and didn’t get any further on that one.

It was later still when the telephone rang.

He had an electric moment as he went to answer it. He knew that the call had to have some bearing on the case, since he had no personal friends in Galveston; but the exquisite suspense was in wondering—who? A soft-pedaling politician? A raging King-lake? Or the first nibble at his bait?

It was a voice that he knew, even if he had not known it long— a deep musical voice with appealing foreign inflections.

“You aren’t only handsome, but you have talent,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a writer too?”

“My union doesn’t allow it.”

“Am I going to see you again? I’d like to very much.”

He reached for a cigarette.

“I’m flattered. But I’ve only just paid one installment on the Blue Goose.”

“I don’t have to be there till ten. What are you doing for dinner?”

“Eating with you,” he said with abrupt decision. “I’ll meet you in the lobby here at eight o’clock.”

He hung up, and still wondered which category that belonged in. But anything would be better than waiting in idleness.

He washed and freshened himself and changed his shirt, and went downstairs a little before eight. There was a note in his box when he turned in his key.

“It was delivered by hand just a few minutes ago,” said the clerk.

Simon slit open the envelope. The letter inside was written in pencil on a cheap lined paper of an uncommon but typical pattern. There was no address; but Simon knew what that would be even without the clues in the context.

Dear Mr Templar,

I just read your piece in the paper, and I can tell you you sure have got it over these dumb bastards. I am getting a chap to take this out for me. I can tell you a lot more about this case and I will tell you if you can fix it to talk to me alone. You are right all the way and I can prove it, but I will not talk to anyone except you. After that you can do what you like with what I tell you but I will not give these dumb cops anything.

Yours truly, Nick Vaschetti.

Simon looked up from the note because someone was practically leaning on him and breathing in his face.

“Got a love-letter?” asked Detective Yard. “Or is it fan mail?”

Simon put the letter in his pocket.

“Yes,” he said. “But not for you. In fact, I hate to tell you, but my admirer calls you a dumb bastard.”

The detective’s face swelled as if he were being strangled.

“Listen, you,” he got out. “One of these days–-“

“You’re going to forget your orders and be unkind to me,” said the Saint. “So I’ll be kind to you while I can. In a few minutes I’ll be going out to dinner. I’ll try to pick a restaurant where they’ll let you in. And if I start to leave before you’ve finished, just yell at me and I’ll wait for you.”

Simon thought afterwards that it was criminal negligence on his part that he was so seduced by the frustration of Detective Yard that he didn’t even notice the thin gray-blond man and the fat red-haired man who occupied chairs in the farther reaches of the lobby. But there was an excuse for him; because while he had heard their names and heard their sketchy descriptions, he had never before laid eyes on Johan Blatt and Fritzie Weinbach.

6 He went back up to his room and phoned the city desk of the Times-Tribune.

“Could you work it for me to have a private chat with a pris-oner in the City Jail?”

“It might be done,” said the editor cautiously, “if nobody knew it was you. Why—have you had a bite?”

“I hope so,” said the Saint. “The guy’s name is Nick Vaschetti.” He spelt it out. “He says he won’t talk to anybody but me; but maybe the jail doesn’t have to know me. See what you can do, and I’ll call you back in about an hour.”

He sat on the bed in thought for a minute or two, and then he picked up the telephone again and asked for “Washington. He hardly had to wait at all, for although the hotel operator didn’t know it the number he asked for was its own automatic priority through all long distance exchanges.

“Hamilton,” said the phone. “I hear you’re a newspaper man now.”

“In self-defense,” said the Saint. “If you don’t like it, I can pack up. I never asked for this job, anyway.”

“I only hope you’re getting a good salary to credit against your expense account.”

The Saint grinned.

“On the contrary, you’ll probably be stuck for my union dues… . Listen, Ham: I’d rather lay it in your lap, but I think I’d better bother you. These three men–-“

“Blatt, Weinbach, and Maris?”