“So where are you an ambassador from?”
“West Coast Kelly.”
The name West Coast Kelly did not, at that time, require further explanation. To the California-Nevada kingdom of high crimes and misdemeanors, West Coast Kelly was as Stalin to Russia or Peron to Argentina. Once a lover of publicity, fond of grinning newspaper photographs of his moustachioed self arm-in-arm with rapturous movie starlets, he had been taught, by a couple of all-expense-paid vacations in Alcatraz and three generous but noisy attempts to send him into peaceful retirement at Elysian Fields Cemetery, the value of privacy and seclusion. He still ran the rackets, still commanded felonious armies, still manipulated vast wealth, but had become almost as aloof as Philadelphia’s Supremo. He did his business through subalterns; and it had been rumoured recently that he was yearning for new worlds to conquer, sending out feelers to areas beyond his long conceded territory. So there was nothing too fantastic in the Saint’s suggestion that he might pose as one of West Coast Kelly’s emissaries. Brad Ryner and Lieutenant Stacey acknowledged that much without question.
“But what news does the ambassador bring?” Stacey enquired.
“That West Coast Kelly has big plans of his own for Philly. To put it bluntly, Kelly wants a big slice of the pie here, or he threatens to take over the whole show.”
“Not very subtle, but it might get the Supremo to listen,” Stacey granted. “You might even arrange it so Kelly’s instructed you not to speak to anybody but the top man himself.”
“Easy enough,” Simon said, “since I’m giving my own orders.”
“Easy!” Ryner snorted. “You’ll see how easy it is to get your head blown off. Don’t you think they’ll check out on the West Coast to see if you’re for real?”
“Whom do they check with? They’d have to get on to Kelly himself to prove that his personal ambassador wasn’t really sent by him.” Simon was moving restlessly round the room. “Anyway, my idea isn’t to become a permanent fixture round the place. All I want to do is barge straight in and see how close I can get to the Supreme Stinko. I think he could feel so threatened that he’ll at least have to listen.”
Stacey rubbed his chin.
“But what happens then? The Supremo’s still going to keep his identity a secret, or do something to cover up his tracks.”
Simon came to a halt again beside the bed.
“I’ll just have to play it by ear from there,” he said. “You don’t try to predict a chess match before you’ve seen the opening.”
“I dunno,” Ryner finally admitted. “I guess any plan is better than none. And if you’ve stayed alive this long, you might stay alive through this, but I doubt it.”
“With those cheering words, off I go into the fray.”
Stacey stood up.
“What can I say? There’s nothing I want worse than the Supremo. Or even just to know his initials, or where he gets his hair cut, or what shaving lotion he uses. But how can I authorise...”
“You don’t need to,” said the Saint. “Just give me a telephone number where I can reach you. I’m going to visit The Pear Tree tonight and see what kind of partridges are roosting in it.”
Only after he got back to the New Sylvania after lunch did he remember that he had promised Carole Angelworth that he would phone her. He had no lack of reminders: According to notes in his box, she had already called him three times.
He settled down in an armchair in his room, had the switchboard dial her number, and after one ring heard her voice saying breathlessly: “Hullo?”
“Hullo. This is Simon. How are things?”
“Oh, I was so worried about you! I thought you’d be calling me earlier, and when I tried getting you a couple of hours ago and you weren’t there, and nobody knew where you were, I was sure you’d gotten yourself killed.”
“I thought you’d be catching up on your beauty sleep and I didn’t want to disturb it, so I went out and made a sort of duty call on a sick friend.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s already half-past two, and I was hoping I could show you round a little today. I hope you haven’t gone and made other plans.”
One thing that Simon had decided was not to give Carole even a hint of what he was up to in connection with the Supremo. The way she was behaving now satisfied him that he had been right: Even if he could have trusted her completely not to babble to anyone, she would have driven him crazy with hysterical concern for his safety.
“I do have some business to attend to this evening,” he confessed.
“This evening? Why in the world do you have to work at night?”
“I carry on all kinds of mysterious activities at all sorts of strange hours. It’s one of the things about me that makes me so fatally attractive to innocent young girls.”
Her pout was audible.
“This afternoon then? You won’t be in town for ever. Can’t you spare a couple of hours?”
Simon could have used a couple of hours’ rest, having had very little the night before, and anticipating very little for the night to come, but he found himself saying: “All right; I’ll meet you in half an hour.”
“Wonderful!” Carole bubbled. “Half an hour. In the garage — this time we’ll take my car.”
When he had hung up, Simon wondered why he had surrendered so easily. He discovered, in scanning his feelings, that it was not only that he did not want to disappoint her, but also — a little disconcertingly — that he would have been disappointed if he had not seen her.
Chapter 5
At seven o’clock, Simon and Carole were in a midtown cocktail lounge whose soft leather, velvet draperies, and impressionistic nudes were, in considerable contrast to the hospitality of Sammy’s Booze & Billiards. A “couple of hours” had stretched quite painlessly into four.
“I have to admit,” Simon remarked, “that this is the first time I’ve ever had a whirlwind tour of an orphanage, a clinic for retarded children, and the offices of a vigilance committee, all in the same day.
Carole sat closer to him that even the limits of their banquette required, sipping a frozen Daiquiri.
“I suppose it’s not what you’d call light entertainment,” she said. “Were you bored?”
“No. Your father’s good works are very impressive, and you could make a visit to Independence Hall seem like more fun than a trip to the Folies Bergères.”
“I’m glad I could show you round instead of Dick Hamlin. I bet he’d have taken over, the next time he met you.”
“How does he get on with the Law Enforcement watchdogs?”
“Why, he’s their prize exhibit... Let’s forget him!”
She slipped her arm round his. Throughout the afternoon, Simon had become more and more conscious that the effervescent, happily chattering girl beside him was much more emotionally involved with him than would have seemed possible in such a short time.
The Saint was accustomed to the admiration of women. Nature had endowed him with that almost unbelievably handsome face which, combined with his other attributes of mind and body, made him as irresistible to the female sex as a fox to a pack of hounds. But in this case he was dealing with a very susceptible girl who was obviously looking for something much more serious than a few days of fun. As much as Simon was also attracted to her, and tempting as it was to give free rein to his hormones, he felt an obligation to avoid doing or saying anything that would draw her more deeply into the pit of disappointment she was digging for herself.
Now she was snuggling against him, and when he glanced at her, her eyes had that same poignant, misty, searching look that had disturbed him more than once during the afternoon. It was as if the real Carole, vulnerable and love-seeking, was for just a moment breaking through the razzle-dazzle of words and laughs that normally fluttered gaily between her and the rest of the world.