Read Online Call for the Saint by Leslie Charteris - Free Book Online
Authors: Leslie Charteris
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sir. God bless you,” Simon said, and the florid man, who does not hereafter appear in this record, vanished into the Chicago evening.
The Saint stood in a broad high-ceilinged hall. There were doors and a drab carpet and merciless light bulbs overhead. Fresh paint could not disguise the essential squalor of the place. A few framed mottoes” told any interested unfortunates it might concern that there was no place like home, that it was more blessed to give than to receive, that every cloud had a silver lining, and that a fixed and rigid smile was, for some unexplained reason, an antidote to all ills. The effect of these bromides was to create a settled feeling of moroseness in the beholder, and Simon had no difficulty in maintaining his patiently resigned expression beneath the dark glasses.
Through an open door at the Saint’s left a radio was playing. At the back of the hall were closed doors, and facing Simon was the desk clerk’s cubbyhole, occupied now by an inordinately fat woman who belonged in a freak show, though not for her obesity. The Saint greatly admired the woman’s beard.
It was not so black as a skunk’s nor so long as Monty Woolley’s; but ‘twas enough, ‘twould serve.
The woman said: “Well?”
Simon said tremulously: “I’m looking for Miss Green. Miss Hazel Green?”
“Big Hazel Green?”
“Yes-yes, that’s right.”
“You’re talking to her,” the woman said, placing enormous forearms on the counter and leaning forward to stare at the Saint. “What is it?”
“I was advised to come here. A Mr. Weiss …” Simon let his voice die away.
Big Hazel Green rubbed her furry chin, “Yeah,” she said slowly. “Mr. Weiss, huh? I guess you want to move in here. Is that it?”
Simon nodded.
Big Hazel said: “Shouldn’t you have been here before?”
“I don’t know,” Simon said feebly. “Mr. Weiss did say something about … But I had my rent paid in advance at- at the place where I was staying. I couldn’t afford to waste it. I-I hope I haven’t done anything wrong.”
He could feel her eyes boring into him like gimlets.
“That isn’t for me to say. I just take reservations and see who checks in.”
The woman rang a bell. A thin meek little man came from somewhere and blinked inquiringly.
Big Hazel said: “Take over. Be back pretty soon.” She forced her bulk out of the cubbyhole and took Simon’s arm in strong fingers. “I’ll show you your room. Right up here.”
The Saint let her guide him toward the back of the hall, through a door, and up winding stairs. Behind the glasses, his blue eyes were busy-charting, noting, remembering. Like many old Chicago structures, this one was a warren. There was more than one staircase, he saw, which might prove useful later.
“How much higher is it?” he asked plaintively.
“Up top,” Big Hazel told him, wheezingly. “We’re crowded. But you’ve got a room all to yourself.”
It was not a large room, as the Saint found when Big Hazel conducted him into it. The single window overlooked a sheer drop into darkness. The furniture was clean but depressingly plain.
Big Hazel said: “Find your way around. I’ll register you later.”
She went out, Closing the door softly. Simon stood motionless, listening, and heard the lock snap.
The shadow of a smile touched his lips. In his pocket was a small instrument that would cope with any ordinary lock. The lock didn’t bother him-only the reason why it had been used. The vital point was whether it was merely a house custom, or a special courtesy. …
He felt his way methodically around the room. Literally felt it. There were such things as peepholes; there were creaking boards, and floors not soundproofed against footsteps. He was infinitely careful to make no movement that a blind man might not have made. He tapped and groped and fumbled from one landmark to another, performing all the laborious orientations of a blind man. And in fact those explorations told him
The Saint stood in a broad high-ceilinged hall. There were doors and a drab carpet and merciless light bulbs overhead. Fresh paint could not disguise the essential squalor of the place. A few framed mottoes” told any interested unfortunates it might concern that there was no place like home, that it was more blessed to give than to receive, that every cloud had a silver lining, and that a fixed and rigid smile was, for some unexplained reason, an antidote to all ills. The effect of these bromides was to create a settled feeling of moroseness in the beholder, and Simon had no difficulty in maintaining his patiently resigned expression beneath the dark glasses.
Through an open door at the Saint’s left a radio was playing. At the back of the hall were closed doors, and facing Simon was the desk clerk’s cubbyhole, occupied now by an inordinately fat woman who belonged in a freak show, though not for her obesity. The Saint greatly admired the woman’s beard.
It was not so black as a skunk’s nor so long as Monty Woolley’s; but ‘twas enough, ‘twould serve.
The woman said: “Well?”
Simon said tremulously: “I’m looking for Miss Green. Miss Hazel Green?”
“Big Hazel Green?”
“Yes-yes, that’s right.”
“You’re talking to her,” the woman said, placing enormous forearms on the counter and leaning forward to stare at the Saint. “What is it?”
“I was advised to come here. A Mr. Weiss …” Simon let his voice die away.
Big Hazel Green rubbed her furry chin, “Yeah,” she said slowly. “Mr. Weiss, huh? I guess you want to move in here. Is that it?”
Simon nodded.
Big Hazel said: “Shouldn’t you have been here before?”
“I don’t know,” Simon said feebly. “Mr. Weiss did say something about … But I had my rent paid in advance at- at the place where I was staying. I couldn’t afford to waste it. I-I hope I haven’t done anything wrong.”
He could feel her eyes boring into him like gimlets.
“That isn’t for me to say. I just take reservations and see who checks in.”
The woman rang a bell. A thin meek little man came from somewhere and blinked inquiringly.
Big Hazel said: “Take over. Be back pretty soon.” She forced her bulk out of the cubbyhole and took Simon’s arm in strong fingers. “I’ll show you your room. Right up here.”
The Saint let her guide him toward the back of the hall, through a door, and up winding stairs. Behind the glasses, his blue eyes were busy-charting, noting, remembering. Like many old Chicago structures, this one was a warren. There was more than one staircase, he saw, which might prove useful later.
“How much higher is it?” he asked plaintively.
“Up top,” Big Hazel told him, wheezingly. “We’re crowded. But you’ve got a room all to yourself.”
It was not a large room, as the Saint found when Big Hazel conducted him into it. The single window overlooked a sheer drop into darkness. The furniture was clean but depressingly plain.
Big Hazel said: “Find your way around. I’ll register you later.”
She went out, Closing the door softly. Simon stood motionless, listening, and heard the lock snap.
The shadow of a smile touched his lips. In his pocket was a small instrument that would cope with any ordinary lock. The lock didn’t bother him-only the reason why it had been used. The vital point was whether it was merely a house custom, or a special courtesy. …
He felt his way methodically around the room. Literally felt it. There were such things as peepholes; there were creaking boards, and floors not soundproofed against footsteps. He was infinitely careful to make no movement that a blind man might not have made. He tapped and groped and fumbled from one landmark to another, performing all the laborious orientations of a blind man. And in fact those explorations told him
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