Kalki the Conqueror was, of course, pure evil. While his wholesome opponent remained calm in adversity, patient with every provocation, and obedient to the referee’s commands, Kalki brutally raked his foe’s neck over the ropes, twisted his ears, hit him in the lumbar region with his fist, tried to smother him by lying on his face and indulged in a multitude of other illegal atrocities. But even the most minute successful use of force on Cleancut’s part was enough to throw Kalki into titanic tantrums of lunatic rage.
The crowd adored hating him, and when suddenly Robin Goodfellow appeared to lose his temper and grabbed Kalki by his grandiose side-whiskers and hurled him over the ropes and out of the ring, the plebs went wild with delight. One righteous but emotional lady leapt from her seat and indignantly smote Kalki about the back and shoulders with her handbag as he crawled back onto the platform.
“You were going to tackle that with your 007 gas ring?” Simon asked, as the giant roared and shook his mighty fists at the audience.
“He’s all hot air,” Tammy said contemptuously. “Anyway, I knew he was on television tonight.”
“Three hundred pounds of hot air is a lot of hot air,” the Saint said. “A couple of hours ago I saw what it could do to a man’s right arm.”
She turned her head to look at him.
“How? What do you mean?”
“I didn’t finish telling you what happened after I saw Kalki and his pal outside the restaurant this evening. Do you know anything about a waiter at the Golden Crescent named Mahmud?”
“No,” said Tammy.
She got out of her chair and turned off the TV set, at the same time keeping her eyes intently on Simon as he went on with his story.
“Apparently he incurred the displeasure of the gang because one minute he was serving me a Peter Dawson and the next minute he was lying in the back room of the restaurant with a broken arm.”
“Good grief!” Tammy exclaimed, and grabbed for the telephone at the end of the sofa.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling my paper, of course. You haven’t told anybody else, have you?”
Simon jumped up and clamped his hand over the telephone dial before she could spin it more than once.
“No, I haven’t,” he said, “and you’re not telling anybody, either.”
She was aghast.
“Why not? They killed one man last night and broke another one’s arm this evening. That’s news, boyo!”
“I’m sure that with big enough headlines it could be made to look like news, but if you implied that Mahmud had run into anything more malignant than an unbalanced crate of beans you’d be letting yourself in for a lawsuit.”
Tammy gave up her efforts to pry the phone from the Saint’s immovable grasp.
“Who’d sue me?” she asked. “I’d only be reporting what happened.”
Simon lifted his hand from the telephone.
“If you think that a waiter getting his arm fractured by a crate of beans falling off a shelf is news, go right ahead and call it in.”
“You’re kidding me. What really happened?”
“What really happened, I’m sure, is just what you think happened. But the waiter and the other lads from the scullery ain’t seen nothing. They’re as chatty as mourners at a Mafia funeral. And Kalki the Purveyor had scooted out the back of the storeroom and was well on his way to metamorphosing into Kalki the Conqueror by the time I got on to the scene.”
The girl flopped back into her chair.
“Curse!” she said. “That’s just what I’ve run into every time I think I’m getting somewhere on this thing. I wish...”
Whether in express-delivery answer to her wish or not, there were three cautious knocks at her door.
“Gad,” she whispered. “Who could that be? You didn’t bring any friends, did you?”
Simon shook his head. Both he and Tammy were on their feet.
“Maybe it’s the little delegation you were expecting when I walked in,” he suggested. “Ask who it is.”
He stood aside while she leaned close to the door.
“Who’s there?” she called.
“A friend,” came frightened, foreign-accented words from the other side, “please, let me in quickly!”
Simon recognized the voice.
“Let him in,” he murmured. “Keep well back, and I’ll be right here to make sure nothing goes wrong.”
Tammy looked at him searchingly, bit her lower lip, and turned the handle of the door.
There, pressed against the door frame like a sheep huddling for shelter against a blizzard, was Mahmud with his arm in a sling. He slipped inside with an anxious glance over his shoulder. Then he saw Simon and reacted first with sharp surprise and then with relief.
“Mr. Templar!” was all he seemed able to gasp for the moment.
Tammy locked the door and stood away.
“I thought you two hadn’t met,” Simon said.
“We haven’t,” she answered. “Is this...”
“Mahmud,” Simon confirmed. “I’m afraid I don’t know the last name.”
“Dehlavi,” the Pakistani said. “Mahmud Dehlavi.” His forehead was glistening with sweat and he was hugging his wounded arm close against him. “I came to see madame to tell... to tell things I know, because she writes in the paper.”
“Sit down here,” Tammy said, pushing a chair towards him. “You shouldn’t be running around like that.”
Mahmud Dehlavi lowered himself gingerly into the chair, clutching Simon’s arm with his left hand for support.
“Did the doctor fix you up all right?” Simon asked. “Is it badly broken?”
Mahmud looked grimly at his white-swathed right arm, which was now in splints.
“It is fractured,” he said, “but the bone was not separated.”
“Still, that’s a pretty fair job for a wooden crate to do,” the Saint said without a trace of levity.
The slender Pakistani’s dark eyes glowed like coals under a sudden blast of air.
“Mr. Templar, Miss Rowan, can I trust you?” he asked.
“Of course,” Tammy said.
She had settled on a chair facing her new guest. Simon still stood, looking down on both of them.
“You can trust us to do what’s right, if that’s what you mean,” he stipulated.
“I must trust you,” the waiter said. “I would not go to the police for... for various reasons, but everyone knows that the lady — Miss Rowan — has been asking many questions and writing in the papers. It is known you protect the names of those who speak to you, miss, so that is why — tonight — I decided to come and see you.” He looked up at Simon. “Of course I did not know you would be here.”
The Saint acknowledged the statement with a noncommittal nod.
“I’m very grateful that you’ve come,” Tammy said. “Go ahead.”
Mahmud’s youthful face reflected all the impotent shame and rage of a man crushed by arrogant forces hopelessly stronger than himself.
“It was not an accident that broke my arm,” he said in a voice that shook with emotion. “They broke it. They broke it on purpose. They threw me on the floor, and with his foot...” Mahmud stopped, his head hanging, and took new control of himself. When he started talking again it was directly to Tammy. “I know people have spoken to you about the man that calls himself Kalki, the big one that wrestles. He did this to me.”
Simon and Tammy exchanged glances of controlled triumph.
“Why did they pick on you this time?” the Saint asked quietly.
“I was a friend of Ali’s. Not a close friend. He had no close friends. But they did not know how close we might be. They killed Ali because he was going to tell all about them to the police. They... did this to me as a warning, and because I had argued when they last wanted me to pay them.”