“Yes, of course.”
“I see. But he’ll be pacing up and down till you get home safely.”
“They say that walking’s wonderful exercise for men of his age—”
She broke off as another man materialised seemingly from nowhere beside their table. From being perplexed, she became dumbfounded as he sat down quietly in the vacant chair opposite her and proffered an open wallet that displayed a badge and an identity card.
“Police Department.” He took the cigarette from her fingers and stubbed it out in the ashtray. “I believe this contains marijuana, and that you have others like it in your possession. You are under arrest, and will be formally charged at Headquarters.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Carole exploded. “Do you know who I am?”
“You bet I do, lady. We’ve been watching you for quite some time. Now will you come quietly, or will I beckon up some help and we can all get our pictures in the papers?”
“This has got to be a mistake,” Simon protested. “I didn’t smell any marijuana when I lit that cigarette — and I know the smell. She’s got a right to call a lawyer—”
The look that Lieutenant Stacey turned on him was as cold as if they had never met.
“After we’ve booked her, smarty. Or you can do it for her as soon as we’ve left. Unless you’d rather come along too, and be charged with aiding, abetting, conspiring, and anything else we might think up.”
Carole turned to stare at the Saint in blank desperation.
“Don’t get yourself in dutch, Simon,” she said huskily. “This has got to be a frame-up. Get in touch with my father. He’ll know what to do.”
“Okay,” the Saint promised stonily, knowing precisely what that acquiescence would mean.
Chapter 10
Hyram Angelworth lounged in an armchair in his living-room idly scanning The Wall Street Journal to the accompaniment of soft music from the record player. He did not hear a sound beyond the strains of Guy Lombardo until a firm, resonant voice almost at his elbow said, “Good evening, Hyram.”
For a split second it seemed to him that the voice must have come from the radio, since he was alone in the apartment. But as his hands jerked the newspaper with surprise, and he looked up, he saw that he was not alone. Simon Templar stood next to him, tall and grim, but as relaxed as if they had just met by chance in the street.
“What are you doing in here?” Angelworth spluttered. “How did you get into my apartment?”
“Generally I walk through walls, but in this case it was simpler: I borrowed your daughter’s key for a few minutes and had a duplicate made. She didn’t know it of course. She’s too fond of you for that, poor misguided girl.”
Angelworth dropped the paper to the floor as he stood up. His voice was unsteady.
“Where is Carole? Isn’t she here? She said she was going to lunch with you.”
Angelworth was looking round as if someone else must surely have entered the room with Simon.
“Your daughter’s social life isn’t what I’ve come to talk to you about,” said the Saint. “I’ll let you have it very straight: I know this is the Supremo’s address, and I’m here to talk to the Supremo.”
“Supremo?” Hyram Angelworth said in a soft incredulous voice. He looked as Santa Claus might look if accused of being Beelzebub in disguise. “You mean the gangster?”
“That’s right,” Simon replied. “King Sin himself. I can’t say I’ve been dying to meet him, but I nearly did. As you damn well know.”
Hyram Angelworth raised both hands piously and backed away, shaking his head. Simon recognised a fellow actor. Angelworth was having trouble deciding between laughing at the absurdity of the accusation and flying into a rage because of it.
“There’s just no point carrying this on any further,” he protested. “You’re talking to the wrong man.”
Simon allowed himself a few dramatics of his own. He leaned forward and brought his fist down fiercely on the back of the chair Angelworth had just vacated.
“Now, look,” he shouted. “I haven’t got time to waste on those games! You’re not talking to one of your bootlicking ward-heelers. Listen to what I’m telling you, Angelworth: I come from West Coast Kelly. He’s twice as big as you’ll ever be, and he’s going to be bigger soon because he’s going to merge you into his business. While you’ve been sitting round getting fat, he’s been taking up your slack and buying up some of your boys. In other words, he’s taking over your operation, and if you’re willing to talk turkey and come to terms you won’t do too badly. We’re not greedy. We just want some co-operation.”
“How can I co-operate when I don’t even know what you’re talking about?” Angelworth argued. “I’d suggest you get out of here before I call the police.”
He went over to a table and placed his hand on the telephone there.
“I’d suggest you don’t bother,” Simon told him. “I know I’m in the right place — never mind how. So if you could cut the phoney theatricals we could get down to business.”
Suddenly Angelworth’s right hand dipped into the drawer of the table and came out holding a pistol.
The Saint made no effort to stop him or counter the move. He smiled happily.
“I’m very glad you did that,” he said. “You just told me I’m right.”
“I should have let the boys finish you when they had you last night,” Angelworth said.
All the innocence had vanished from his face and all the honey from his voice.
“You’ve really let yourself in for it now,” he snarled. “Breaking into my apartment with a stolen key — who could blame me for shooting in self-defence? And if that West Coast Mick has any ideas about butting into my affairs, what happens to you should be a good warning to him!”
“I’m disappointed in you, Hyram,” Simon murmured. “Maybe Richard Hamlin really is the brains behind this outfit. It looks like you couldn’t think your way across the street in the rush hour.”
Angelworth’s hand tightened on the automatic.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve forgotten about Carole. That’s why I didn’t bring her back with me.”
The older man was visibly staggered. The colour drained from his face.
“Carole,” he whispered. “You wouldn’t hurt her...”
“Why not? It’d only be taking a page from your book. There was a certain judge’s daughter, for example. I don’t think a splash of vitriol would improve Carole’s complexion any.”
“Don’t you know it was only because of her you were turned loose last night?”
“I guessed that. And so I wouldn’t want to hurt her — so long as you play ball.”
Even to an enemy the expression on Angelworth’s face was harrowing. He suddenly looked years older. The hand that held the automatic was slowly lowered until his arm hung limply at his side.
Then a new voice was heard: “It’s okay, Mr. Angelworth. I’ve got him covered.”
They both turned to see Richard Hamlin, with a pistol of his own, coming into the living-room from another door. Hamlin looked very pleased with himself. He was obviously more at home juggling account books than guns, but he liked the role of man of action.
“I’m afraid it won’t do any good,” Angelworth said heavily. “They have Carole. I’ve got to do whatever they want.”
He turned back to Simon.
“So what is it you want... to set her free, without hurting her?”
“I told you,” Simon said. “Your co-operation. You can start by proving your good faith — handing over your records, giving us a run-down on all your, ah, enterprises. Then West Coast Kelly will tell you how much he wants. There must be some very special files. A hidden safe, maybe?”