“But it’s only people who don’t co-operate who ever stop rats like Kalki and Fowler,” Simon said. “On the other hand, as I’m sure you must have said to yourself, who wants to be a dead hero? How much did they pay you?”
Abdul Haroon’s eyes grew extraordinarily round and whitely large.
“They paid me nothing! They paid me nothing! They threatened to frighten away my customers... to kill me! Ali tried to go against them and you know what happened to him!”
“All right, calm down,” the Saint said in a not especially soothing voice. “Let’s go on back.”
Haroon stalled when he reached the passageway which led through from the dining room to the kitchen.
“But you haven’t told me anything,” he protested. “Who is there? What do you want with me?”
“I’ve told you: I have an undernourished friend, and a good dose of your curry will do him worlds of good. Let’s go bring him in.”
Simon prodded Haroon’s overflowing waistline with a stiff finger, which set him in motion again through the kitchen and into the back room where Mahmud had writhed on the floor in mock agony the night before. It was dark because there were no windows, until Haroon switched on a light, and the place smelled as fragrant of spices as it had the first time Simon had entered it. The perfumes of exotic gastronomy had an ineradicable way of permeating the premises of their preparation around and beyond all human tumult.
“Open up,” Simon insisted, and Haroon finally fumbled a large key from a nail on the wall and unfastened the back door with it.
The Pakistani blinked at the morning sunlight, and then blinked again with shock as he seemingly recognised the car which was parked outside.
“Where did you get that?” he blurted.
“All things will be revealed to you in the day of their ripeness,” the Saint said poetically. “I suppose you could classify this little buggy as the spoils of war.”
He left Haroon gaping from the doorway and opened the car to greet a highly relieved Tammy Rowan. She caught his hands and let herself be helped out of the car.
“I’m so glad to see you!” she gasped. “He was starting to thump around back there something frightful...” She stared dubiously at the bulky form of Abdul Haroon for the first time. “Oh...”
“This is our ally, at least for the moment,” the Saint said. “Mr. Haroon meet Mademoiselle X.”
Haroon automatically half-formed a smile before abandoning the effort for a sickly droop.
“I have met the lady,” he said disconsolately. “She writes for a newspaper.”
“But she isn’t the special guest I was referring to,” the Saint went on with unflappable good cheer. “Would you mind lending your useful waistline to block the view from the end of the alley while I unload the guest of honour. Tammy, you could add your own svelte silhouette over there, just in case any early bird waddles by with his eyes open enough to notice anything.”
Tammy Rowan complied with the most pleasing competence, and herself shoved Haroon into quivering cooperation, while Simon opened the trunk of the car.
“What is it?” Haroon croaked, seeing the blanket-covered shape.
The Saint grabbed Shortwave’s feet and pulled him half out of the car. The ex-jockey’s scuffed brown shoes were all of him that showed from underneath the covering.
“You might ask who is it,” Simon said, “but on second thought what probably is more appropriate. How about lending me a hand.”
Haroon, feet attached by some invisible force to the threshold, tried to flap the whole situation away with both hands.
“A dead man?” he twittered. “A body? In heaven’s name, take it away!”
“It’s not dead yet,” Simon said. “Observe.”
He kicked one of Shortwave’s invisible shins, bringing forth a definitely animate squawk from the opposite end of the blanket.
“No, no!” Haroon cried. “I have nothing to do with this. I’m only a poor man trying to—”
“Trying to straddle the fence till he sees which side is safest to jump on.” The Saint’s arm suddenly shot out and his fingers encircled one of Haroon’s wrists like steel clamps and rearranged him in screening position. “So let’s get it straight, Humpty Dumpty,” he said, firing the words at point blank range into the fat man’s frightened face. “You’re going to jump on to my side or you’re going to have a great fall that’ll splash you halfway across Leicester Square. Now stand still while I lug in this new delicacy for your menu.”
Abdul Haroon stood back while Simon lifted the blanket-swaddled shape effortlessly under one arm and carted it through the back door, and then followed with an alacrity that would have made a gazelle stare with admiration. He grabbed Shortwave’s ankles, which happened to be colour ully adorned with bright purple socks, and took off in reverse while Tammy ran after them.
“Whoa!” Simon said when they were halfway through the kitchen, and ungently dropped his major share of the load. “Let’s stop and unwrap him. Lock that door, please, Tammy.”
While she was taking care of the outside door the Saint pulled the blanket off Shortwave, so that Haroon was able to identify him for the first time and gave a memorable imitation of a man discovering a scorpion in his cornflakes.
“Take him away!” he finally managed to gasp.
“I’m afraid he’s yours to have and to hold for the duration, Abdul,” the Saint said.
Shortwave’s venomous eyes darted from Simon’s to Haroon’s face, Haroon avoided meeting them with his own almost tearful orbs.
“The duration?” he quavered.
“The duration of this little caper — until I’ve got Shortwave’s friends bundled up as comfortably as he is.” Simon looked down at his robe-swathed captive. His tone changed to one of reasonable persuasion. “And now, Shortwave, I want you to cleanse your black little soul a bit by telling us exactly what your friends Kalki and Fowler will be up to this evening — and exactly where. I’m going to take the gag out of your mouth and let the truth flow unimpeded into our grateful ears.”
He stooped down and with one hand jerked the knot out of the necktie and whipped it and the handkerchief from between Shortwave’s teeth.
Shortwave then delivered himself of a single terse phrase which turned Tammy’s cheeks red and made coarsely clear his total disinterest in co-operating with the Saint.
“In that case,” Simon said, imperturbably, “we’ll have to try to win your heart through kindness.” He straightened up. “Do you like curry?”
“No,” snarled Shortwave.
“Good,” the Saint rejoined genially. “Abdul, how about warming up a nice mess of your native pottage for our guest?”
Haroon looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“I do not understand.”
“I want you to make some curry for Shortwave so hot that it will sear the soot off his insides, to borrow a figure of speech from his boss. I want you to concoct something so impeccably fiery that his tongue will thaw and babble like a mountain stream. I’m sure you have some leftovers we can fix up especially for the occasion?”
Haroon turned up his palms, turned down the corners of his mouth, and nodded. He was already on his way to the refrigerator when he thought again and stopped.
“Everything is made fresh every day,” he claimed.
“I’m sure you could violate your high standards as a special favour to our friend. There must be a few tidbits lying around from last night.”
Haroon turned expressionlessly to the refrigerator, opened it, and brought out a large metal pot which he set on the stove. He lifted the lid and looked inside.
“Lime-pickle sauce,” he said.
“But probably not curried enough for Shortwave’s taste,” Simon said. “He likes it absolutely molten.”