Call for the Saint by Leslie Charteris

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 toward 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 it 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 organization. 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 eclairs.”
    “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 coattails and riding along.
    “There must be roses too,” she remarked, and everyone looked at her blankly.
    Finally Simon said: “Chacun ŕ son gout,” in such a significant manner that Mrs.