Wingate nodded several times with intense solemnity, as if she had heard the Pope affirm a historic dogma.
“Man does not live by bread alone,” she said. “Stephen is concerned with the bodies of the poor. My interest is in their souls. The unfortunates do have souls, you know. I try to bring something more than bread into their dark narrow lives. You should see… . Stephen! Do you think—”
“What, Laura?”
“I’m sure you’d be willing to help us, Mr. Templar. You’re notorious for your charities —”
Elliott said: “Notorious is perhaps the wrong word, Laura. And, if I may say so, the Saint’s charities are not exactly in line with what we’re trying to do.”
Mrs. Wingate plunged on excitedly, as if she had not even heard him.
“And you, Miss Varing-of course. You see, we try to make the unfortunates realize something of the higher things. It gives them incentive. We arrange to put on little entertainments for them sometimes. Now tomorrow night there’s one at the Elliott Hotel—”
“In the boiler room,” Elliott said with dry humor. “You mustn’t give the impression that it’s like the Drake.”
“But it’s an enormous room,” Mrs. Wingate went on, no whit dashed. “There’ll be songs and coffee and-and-speeches, and it would be simply wonderful if you both could drop in for just a few moments. If you could do a reading, Miss Varing, and Mr. Templar, if you could-ah—”
“Now just what could I do?” Simon asked thoughtfully. “A lecture on safe-cracking would hardly be quite the thing.”
“A speech, perhaps, showing that crime does not pay?” Elliott seemed in earnest, but the Saint could not be sure.
Mrs. Wingate clasped her hands in front of her bust.
“At eight-thirty? We would so appreciate it!”
“I’m afraid eight-thirty is my curtain time,” Monica said, with an excellent air of regret. “Otherwise I’d have loved it.”
Mrs. Wingate blinked.
“Oh, of course. I’d forgotten. I’m so sorry. Thank you, my dear.” She forgot Monica completely as she turned back to the Saint. “But you’ll be able to make it, won’t you, Mr. Templar?”
Simon only hesitated a moment.
“I’d be delighted,” he said. “I don’t think I can get much heart into the speech till I work myself into the right mood, but I’ll do my best. You see,” he added, beaming at Elliott, “it’s been my experience that crime pays very well indeed. But, as I said before—”
“Chacun ŕ son gout?” Elliott suggested unsmilingly.
“How true,” Mrs. Wingate said vaguely. “Another cocktail, perhaps?”
CHAPTER TEN
Simon left Monica at the theater and went back to his hotel to receive a purely negative report from a discouraged Hoppy Uniatz. Hoppy had spent the afternoon circulating among various pool halls and saloons where he had old acquaintances, and where Sammy the Leg was also known. That his peregrinations had done little to satisfy his chronic thirst for bourbon was understandable: the distilling industry had been trying in vain to cope with that prodigious appetite for years. But that his thirst for information had been unslaked by so much as one drop of news was a more baffling phenomenon.
Sammy the Leg had been seen in none of his usual haunts, and none of his dearest cronies had heard either of or from him. Nor had rumor any theories to advance. He had not been reported dead, sick, drunk, in love, in hiding, or departed from town. He had simply dropped out of the local scene, without a word or a hint to anyone.
“I don’t get it, boss,” Mr. Uniatz summed up, confirming his earlier conclusion.
Simon rescued the bottle from which Hoppy was endeavoring to fill some of the vacua which had defied the best efforts of Chicago’s bartenders, and poured himself a modest portion.
“We now have,” he said, “a certain problem.”
“Dat’s right, boss,” Hoppy agreed.
He waited hopefully for the solution, experience having taught him that it was no use
“Man does not live by bread alone,” she said. “Stephen is concerned with the bodies of the poor. My interest is in their souls. The unfortunates do have souls, you know. I try to bring something more than bread into their dark narrow lives. You should see… . Stephen! Do you think—”
“What, Laura?”
“I’m sure you’d be willing to help us, Mr. Templar. You’re notorious for your charities —”
Elliott said: “Notorious is perhaps the wrong word, Laura. And, if I may say so, the Saint’s charities are not exactly in line with what we’re trying to do.”
Mrs. Wingate plunged on excitedly, as if she had not even heard him.
“And you, Miss Varing-of course. You see, we try to make the unfortunates realize something of the higher things. It gives them incentive. We arrange to put on little entertainments for them sometimes. Now tomorrow night there’s one at the Elliott Hotel—”
“In the boiler room,” Elliott said with dry humor. “You mustn’t give the impression that it’s like the Drake.”
“But it’s an enormous room,” Mrs. Wingate went on, no whit dashed. “There’ll be songs and coffee and-and-speeches, and it would be simply wonderful if you both could drop in for just a few moments. If you could do a reading, Miss Varing, and Mr. Templar, if you could-ah—”
“Now just what could I do?” Simon asked thoughtfully. “A lecture on safe-cracking would hardly be quite the thing.”
“A speech, perhaps, showing that crime does not pay?” Elliott seemed in earnest, but the Saint could not be sure.
Mrs. Wingate clasped her hands in front of her bust.
“At eight-thirty? We would so appreciate it!”
“I’m afraid eight-thirty is my curtain time,” Monica said, with an excellent air of regret. “Otherwise I’d have loved it.”
Mrs. Wingate blinked.
“Oh, of course. I’d forgotten. I’m so sorry. Thank you, my dear.” She forgot Monica completely as she turned back to the Saint. “But you’ll be able to make it, won’t you, Mr. Templar?”
Simon only hesitated a moment.
“I’d be delighted,” he said. “I don’t think I can get much heart into the speech till I work myself into the right mood, but I’ll do my best. You see,” he added, beaming at Elliott, “it’s been my experience that crime pays very well indeed. But, as I said before—”
“Chacun ŕ son gout?” Elliott suggested unsmilingly.
“How true,” Mrs. Wingate said vaguely. “Another cocktail, perhaps?”
CHAPTER TEN
Simon left Monica at the theater and went back to his hotel to receive a purely negative report from a discouraged Hoppy Uniatz. Hoppy had spent the afternoon circulating among various pool halls and saloons where he had old acquaintances, and where Sammy the Leg was also known. That his peregrinations had done little to satisfy his chronic thirst for bourbon was understandable: the distilling industry had been trying in vain to cope with that prodigious appetite for years. But that his thirst for information had been unslaked by so much as one drop of news was a more baffling phenomenon.
Sammy the Leg had been seen in none of his usual haunts, and none of his dearest cronies had heard either of or from him. Nor had rumor any theories to advance. He had not been reported dead, sick, drunk, in love, in hiding, or departed from town. He had simply dropped out of the local scene, without a word or a hint to anyone.
“I don’t get it, boss,” Mr. Uniatz summed up, confirming his earlier conclusion.
Simon rescued the bottle from which Hoppy was endeavoring to fill some of the vacua which had defied the best efforts of Chicago’s bartenders, and poured himself a modest portion.
“We now have,” he said, “a certain problem.”
“Dat’s right, boss,” Hoppy agreed.
He waited hopefully for the solution, experience having taught him that it was no use
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