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Authors: Leslie Charteris
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“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.”
“Pay them for what?” Tammy asked.
Mahmud adjusted his position and for a moment his face twisted with pain.
“Many people pay them,” he said. “For nothing.” He directed his next few words to Tammy again. “You have written about this. You know. They bring Pakistani people into England and promise them good papers and jobs, and then when such people are here they are told they will be reported to the police and sent to jail if they do not pay.”
“That’s not a very accurate interpretation of the illegal entry laws,” Simon said.
“Many people do not know the law. They do not know English. They do not care about what the law says-they are just frightened. Very scared.” He shook his head. “And it does not matter about the law anyway. The ones who want the money will take it no matter what you know about the law. I was not afraid of the immigration authorities, but these men took a part of my money each week. After what had happened to Ali-and me-nobody will have courage not to pay them.”
“Besides the two characters from that delivery van, who else is in on the collecting side of this operation?” the Saint asked.
Mahmud’s English, or his nerve, failed him briefly at that point
“I am not sure what you mean,” he said with a puzzled expression.
“Who runs the gang?” Simon said. “Who’s the boss?”
The Pakistani’s mouth twitched with spasmic tension before he finally answered.
“I do not know for sure who is the highest man,” he said hesitantly. “But I know one higher than Kalki.”
Mahmud bogged down again, so Simon urged him on.
“And who is that?”
“Someone you know: Abdul Haroon, the man who owns the Golden Crescent.”
4
The Saint had known enough evildoers of improbable shapes, sizes, temperaments, and professions to
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.”
“Pay them for what?” Tammy asked.
Mahmud adjusted his position and for a moment his face twisted with pain.
“Many people pay them,” he said. “For nothing.” He directed his next few words to Tammy again. “You have written about this. You know. They bring Pakistani people into England and promise them good papers and jobs, and then when such people are here they are told they will be reported to the police and sent to jail if they do not pay.”
“That’s not a very accurate interpretation of the illegal entry laws,” Simon said.
“Many people do not know the law. They do not know English. They do not care about what the law says-they are just frightened. Very scared.” He shook his head. “And it does not matter about the law anyway. The ones who want the money will take it no matter what you know about the law. I was not afraid of the immigration authorities, but these men took a part of my money each week. After what had happened to Ali-and me-nobody will have courage not to pay them.”
“Besides the two characters from that delivery van, who else is in on the collecting side of this operation?” the Saint asked.
Mahmud’s English, or his nerve, failed him briefly at that point
“I am not sure what you mean,” he said with a puzzled expression.
“Who runs the gang?” Simon said. “Who’s the boss?”
The Pakistani’s mouth twitched with spasmic tension before he finally answered.
“I do not know for sure who is the highest man,” he said hesitantly. “But I know one higher than Kalki.”
Mahmud bogged down again, so Simon urged him on.
“And who is that?”
“Someone you know: Abdul Haroon, the man who owns the Golden Crescent.”
4
The Saint had known enough evildoers of improbable shapes, sizes, temperaments, and professions to
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