Read Online The Saint and the People Importers by Leslie Charteris - Free Book Online
Authors: Leslie Charteris
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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.
“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.
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