“And who’s that?”
“Some people call him the Saint.” Simon smiled.
“You give me too much credit, Rick. As a matter of fact, I never suspected anything about Jake Hardy until you practically told me yourself. I’d never even given it a thought. From what I hear, he was no great loss to the community, so why should I worry about how he was moved on? I couldn’t have cared less if it had been the other way around, and when somebody does get you one of these days, as they probably will, it still won’t bother me.”
“Then what are you wasting your time here for?”
“Because I hate people taking my name in vain, and because I’m beginning to think it’s someone quite close to you. Someone who knows much more about your affairs than I do,” said the Saint thoughtfully. He went to the door. “Think it over, chum.”
There was a drugstore on the corner of the block, and he stopped there to phone Patricia.
“No doubt you’ve seen Kearney,” he said.
“And heard him.” She was trying to keep the anxiety out of her voice but he still felt it. “What on earth did you do it for?”
“It was the only thing I could do, baby. I couldn’t run down this character who’s impersonating me if Alvin had me in the hoosegow, and if I don’t run him down I can’t clear myself. It’s a stock situation straight out of any pulp detective story, but it can happen.”
“But what’s this now about Vincent Maxted?”
“Well, apparently my alter ego is expanding his business.”
“Can’t I meet you somewhere?” she said.
“Darling, it’s a sure bet that Kearney’ll have you followed, hoping for just that.”
“Then you don’t really think any of the tricks you’ve taught me for losing a shadow are any good.”
The Saint sighed.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the Delphian theater.”
There was a perceptible pause before she said, “Have you gone out of your mind?”
“No,” said the Saint. “But I was invited to a rehearsal, and I happened to remember that Iris Freeman was once Mrs Vincent Maxted.”
He took a taxi to the theater and turned on the radio. He found a local news broadcast, and had the ambiguous satisfaction of hearing his own name on a last-minute flash just before the commercial.
“Must be quite a guy, that Saint,” said the driver chattily.
“He’d better be,” Simon agreed.
There was no janitor at the stage door, and he found his way unchallenged to the stage. Voices grew louder as he approached it, and presently he stopped in the shadow of some stacked scenery and listened.
The rehearsal seemed to be justifying some of Stratford Keane’s gloomy prognostications. The voice of Macbeth, declaiming, did not even have the lush rotundity of Keane’s:
There was a soft footfall behind him, and he turned and saw Patricia at his shoulder.
“Hullo,” she whispered. “What’s going on?”
“Hush,” he said. “This is what Stratford was weeping about.”
“No, no, no!” moaned the anguished voice of Stratford Keane, further off in the hollow of the empty auditorium. “I can’t stand it! Belden, you’re beating those lines with a club! A bludgeon!”
“Oh, dry up,” Iris Freeman said, from the stage. “I think Mark is doing wonderfully.”
Stratford Keane’s groan reverberated like the plaint of a wounded bull.
“You think! Ye gods, what have I done to deserve this? I, Stratford Keane, who have striven all my life to learn understanding and patience! Even Job was at last tried too far, and I am not Job... You think Belden is doing wonderfully.
“That is too much. You may direct this play, Miss Freeman.” His voice was louder but still further off. “I resign. I’m through!”
In the distance a door slammed.
There was an uneasy silence on the stage for a few moments, and then Iris Freeman said with weary disgust, “Oh, for crying out loud! Again?”
“Exit Stratford, pursued by a bear,” Belden said sepulchrally.
And then suddenly the voice of Stratford Keane boomed out again with remarkable verisimilitude. “Ye gods, what have I done to deserve this? I, Stratford Keane, who have striven all my life to learn understanding and patience!”
There was a general chorus of laughter.
Patricia’s fingers tightened on the Saint’s arm.
“Simon! Did you notice—”
“Stratford didn’t really do him justice,” said the Saint.
On the stage, Iris Freeman was saying, “Better run along kids. You’ll probably be called back as usual after Mr Keane cools off.”
In a little while the footsteps and voices of the rest of the cast died away and the theater was silent again. The Saint held Patricia motionless in the shadows. Then Iris Freeman spoke again with a rather tired relaxation.
“You know, Mark, this sometimes seems like doing it the hard way.”
“Don’t worry, honey,” Belden said. “As soon as I collect a few more touches with the dope you’re giving me about the people who’ve used Rick in their various operations — why, I’ll be all set to back the show myself. Then you can divorce him and we can be married.”
“But suppose something goes wrong. And if Rick ever finds out—”
“How can he? And if anything ever does go wrong, the Saint gets it in the neck. Don’t forget we’ve got that piece of paper now with his signature and his fingerprints all over it. We can type anything we like over his name and plant it where it’ll do the most good.”
Simon Templar gently released Patricia and strolled out onto the stage. He was cool and unhurried, putting a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it as he moved, so easy and natural that the shock of his entrance only held the other two in a kind of misty trance.
“That’s a great idea, children,” he murmured, “only it doesn’t solve any of my problems.” His voice sharpened suddenly as Belden started to come out of his freeze. “Don’t try anything, Mark. I want you to be able to talk when Lieutenant Kearney gets here. Pat, do you think you could find a phone?”
“Don’t bother,” Kearney said.
His angular figure emerged from the shadows on the other side of the stage, and Mark Belden watched him approach in a new and even deeper trance from which even the click of a handcuff on his wrist did not arouse him.
Iris Freeman was less ready to give up. She struggled furiously for one hectic moment before Kearney snapped the other cuff on her wrist, where it made a tasteful contrast with her jewel bracelets.
“You can’t do this to me,” she panted.
“I can try my best,” said the detective. “From what I heard, it sounds like a clear case of conspiracy to me.”
“Don’t let it get you down, darling,” said the Saint. “Cross your legs on the witness stand, and the jury will probably see everything your way. On the other hand, I’m afraid Rick may not be so easy.”
What Iris Freeman said cannot be printed without grave risk to the publisher.
Simon and Patricia strolled south on Michigan Avenue in a rather noticeable silence.