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Authors: Leslie Charteris
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be surprised at almost nothing, but Tam Rowan’s journalistic endeavours had apparently not given her quite as much sophistication.
“You mean that nervous little fat man?” she gasped.
“Yes, miss,” replied Mahmud.
Having revealed Abdul Haroon’s darker nature, the slim waiter now looked like a man who had uttered some unforgivable blasphemy and was expecting violent and noisy electrical disturbances of the atmosphere directly above his head.
“He’s the one who gives the orders to the people who collect the money?” Tammy asked.
“Yes. Higher than him is an Englishman, I think, but I do not know his name or anything about him.”
Simon was completely intrigued by the whole situation now, and began to think better of the whim that had led him to become involved. He folded his arms and faced the Pakistani.
“Tell us everything else you know about the way they work,” he told Mahmud. “How do you know Mr. Haroon is one of the gang leaders? Is there any kind of concrete evidence?”
Mahmud’s eyes flashed again, and his voice was shrill with emotion.
“They have broken my arm!” he said. “They have killed Ali. Do you need more evidence than that?”
“I think Mr. Templar means the kind of evidence we could show to the police or use in court,” Tammy intervened soothingly.
Mahmud began struggling with his unbroken arm to heave himself to his feet.
“I should not have come here,” he winced. “I do not want to see police and go in courts! I …”
Simon stepped forward and placed a strong hand on the waiter’s shoulder, easing him back in the chair.
“You don’t have to see the police,” he said. “We could all be fossils before Scotland Yard and the lawyers and the judges and unrestricted-immigration left wing and every bovine bureaucrat in the country got through gnawing on a case like this. Miss Rowan and I are great believers in independent action. Tell us everything you know and we’ll do the rest.”
“I have told you almost everything,” Mahmud responded. “Mr. Haroon and Kalki and the others, they scare Pakistani people to make them pay money, and if they do not pay they are beaten. Kalki and the little American called Shortwave collect the money.”
Simon was looking at him intently.
“Do you know anybody else who could give us information?” he asked.
Mahmud shook his head despondently.
“Nobody will tell anything.” He paused, then looked up. “I have one more information. It might be very important. Just before you came into the restaurant this evening, Mr. Templar, I heard something that Kalki and Mr. Haroon said. Mr. Haroon is going-tonight-to meet with the Englishman who is also high in the gang.”
Tammy leaned forward, brushing her blonde hair away from her face.
“Where?”
“At the Grey Goose-a pub near Datchet.” Mahmud tapped his forehead. “I made certain that I remembered it.”
He began to give directions for driving to the pub which he had heard Kalki relay to Abdul Haroon, but the Saint cut him short.
“It just happens that I know it. I collect pubs for a hobby, and I probably know every one in the Thames Valley. The Grey Goose is a real old-fashioned country ‘local,’ right off the beaten track-I don’t suppose they sell two pints a week to anyone from beyond walking distance. If they were looking for a place where they wouldn’t stand one chance in a million of being seen by anyone who knew them, they couldn’t have picked a better one.”
“If Haroon needs directions it obviously isn’t a regular meeting place,” Tammy objected.
“Maybe they never meet in the same place twice.”
“I think that they do not often meet,” Mahmud put in. “Two-maybe three times I have heard Mr. Haroon speak on the telephone to a man who must be the Englishman … but I do not know any more.”
“What did they talk about?” Simon asked.
The waiter made a vague gesture.
“When will people be coming in on the boat … how much money
“You mean that nervous little fat man?” she gasped.
“Yes, miss,” replied Mahmud.
Having revealed Abdul Haroon’s darker nature, the slim waiter now looked like a man who had uttered some unforgivable blasphemy and was expecting violent and noisy electrical disturbances of the atmosphere directly above his head.
“He’s the one who gives the orders to the people who collect the money?” Tammy asked.
“Yes. Higher than him is an Englishman, I think, but I do not know his name or anything about him.”
Simon was completely intrigued by the whole situation now, and began to think better of the whim that had led him to become involved. He folded his arms and faced the Pakistani.
“Tell us everything else you know about the way they work,” he told Mahmud. “How do you know Mr. Haroon is one of the gang leaders? Is there any kind of concrete evidence?”
Mahmud’s eyes flashed again, and his voice was shrill with emotion.
“They have broken my arm!” he said. “They have killed Ali. Do you need more evidence than that?”
“I think Mr. Templar means the kind of evidence we could show to the police or use in court,” Tammy intervened soothingly.
Mahmud began struggling with his unbroken arm to heave himself to his feet.
“I should not have come here,” he winced. “I do not want to see police and go in courts! I …”
Simon stepped forward and placed a strong hand on the waiter’s shoulder, easing him back in the chair.
“You don’t have to see the police,” he said. “We could all be fossils before Scotland Yard and the lawyers and the judges and unrestricted-immigration left wing and every bovine bureaucrat in the country got through gnawing on a case like this. Miss Rowan and I are great believers in independent action. Tell us everything you know and we’ll do the rest.”
“I have told you almost everything,” Mahmud responded. “Mr. Haroon and Kalki and the others, they scare Pakistani people to make them pay money, and if they do not pay they are beaten. Kalki and the little American called Shortwave collect the money.”
Simon was looking at him intently.
“Do you know anybody else who could give us information?” he asked.
Mahmud shook his head despondently.
“Nobody will tell anything.” He paused, then looked up. “I have one more information. It might be very important. Just before you came into the restaurant this evening, Mr. Templar, I heard something that Kalki and Mr. Haroon said. Mr. Haroon is going-tonight-to meet with the Englishman who is also high in the gang.”
Tammy leaned forward, brushing her blonde hair away from her face.
“Where?”
“At the Grey Goose-a pub near Datchet.” Mahmud tapped his forehead. “I made certain that I remembered it.”
He began to give directions for driving to the pub which he had heard Kalki relay to Abdul Haroon, but the Saint cut him short.
“It just happens that I know it. I collect pubs for a hobby, and I probably know every one in the Thames Valley. The Grey Goose is a real old-fashioned country ‘local,’ right off the beaten track-I don’t suppose they sell two pints a week to anyone from beyond walking distance. If they were looking for a place where they wouldn’t stand one chance in a million of being seen by anyone who knew them, they couldn’t have picked a better one.”
“If Haroon needs directions it obviously isn’t a regular meeting place,” Tammy objected.
“Maybe they never meet in the same place twice.”
“I think that they do not often meet,” Mahmud put in. “Two-maybe three times I have heard Mr. Haroon speak on the telephone to a man who must be the Englishman … but I do not know any more.”
“What did they talk about?” Simon asked.
The waiter made a vague gesture.
“When will people be coming in on the boat … how much money
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