Call for the Saint Read Online Free PDF

we’re moving at last. Frankie is going to initiate me into the Metropolitan Benevolent Society, and it’s just possible that I might get an introduction to the King.”
    “An’ den we give him de woiks, huh?”
    “You know, Hoppy, I’ve never committed regicide.” For a brief second the blind-beggar face showed the same lawless grin that had heralded the end of more than one particularly obnoxious career. “It might be a new sensation… . But it’s not going to be so easy.”
    “If I get next to him wit’ my Betsy”
    “The trouble is, you weren’t invited. And it might look strange if I showed up with an escort. This time, anyway, your job is going to be to lurk.”
    He gave more detailed instructions.
    By ten o’clock the Saint’s profit for the day amounted to four dollars, twenty-seven cents, and a Los Angeles streetcar token, which he evaluated at six and a quarter cents. Since he expected to be searched, he carried no lethal weapon, not even the ivory-hilted throwing knife which in his hands was as fast and deadly as any gun. This trip would be an, advanced reconnaissance, and nothing would have been more foolish than to count on turning it extemporaneously into a frontal assault.
    At ten o’clock he carefully ignored the unobtrusive dark sedan that rolled silently to a stop at the curb a few feet away. The driver’s features were in shadow under a low-pulled hat, but the hands that lay on the steering wheel were not those of a King. The nails, Simon decided, were too septic to belong to royalty, even a racket royalty. Besides, when did royalty ever drive its own cars, except such rare cases as ex-King Alfonso. And look what happened to him, the Saint told himself, as he stared at nothing through his dark glasses and apparently did not see Frankie Weiss get out of the car and move toward him.
    The blond man looked no more sunny and warmhearted than he had before dinner. His shark’s mouth had presumably just grabbed for a tasty mackerel and got hold of an old boot instead. Working this organ slightly, Mr. Weiss paused before the Saint and stared down.
    Simon jingled his cup.
    “Help a blind man, sir?”
    “Lay off the act,” Frankie said. “You remember me.”
    The Saint hesitated.
    “Oh. Oh, yes. You’re the man who … I know your voice. But I’m blind—”
    “Maybe,” Frankie said skeptically. “Let’s get going.”
    “Why … yes, sir. But I’d like to know a little more about this … this business.”
    Frankie grasped the Saint’s arm with bony fingers that dug deliberately into the flesh.
    “Come on,” he said, and the Saint had only time to assure himself that Hoppy Uniatz was at his post half a block away before he was in the back of the sedan, the clash of the closing door committing him irrevocably to this chapter of the adventure.
    The chauffeur’s unkempt neckline confirmed his opinion that the man was a subordinate. Simon had little chance to study his subject, for as the car slid smoothly into gear Frankie lifted the dark-lensed glasses from the Saint’s nose, dropped them casually into Simon’s lap, and replaced them with a totally opaque elastic bandage. Simon slipped the spectacles into a pocket and put up a mildly protesting hand.
    “What’s that? I don’t need a blindfold.”
    The driver laughed shortly. But Frankie’s tone held no amusement as he said: “Maybe. And maybe not.”
    “But—”
    “Forget it,” Frankie said. “Save it for the cops. What the hell do you think we care whether you’re blind or not? A guy’s got a right to make a living.” Unpleasant mockery sounded in his voice now. “That’s where we don’t hold with the authorities. We don’t make any stink about handing out begging licenses. If you’re sharp enough to get away with anything, that’s fine-as long as you don’t try it with us.”
    “Yeah,” the driver said, laughing again. “This guy’s gonna be a smart apple, though, ain’t he, Frankie?”
    “Shut up,”