Monica Varing said, “I never thought this would happen. I set a trap, with myself as the bait—”
“Start at the beginning,” Simon interrupted. “With your predecessor, say. What happened to him?”
Monica said, “John Irvine. He was blind. He was a stage manager in vaudeville — where a lot of us started. He was blinded ten years ago, and got a begging permit. Whenever I played Chicago, I’d look him up and put something in his cup. It was a — well, a libation, in the classic sense. But it wasn’t only that. No matter how long it would be between runs, John would always recognise my footsteps. He’d say hello and wish me luck. On opening night I always gave him a hundred dollars. I wasn’t the only one, either. Plenty of other troupers were big enough to remember.”
“Last Wednesday,” Simon went on for her, “a bum named John Irvine was found shot to death in that alley where we met. He’d been beaten up first... He left a widow and children, didn’t he?”
“Three children,” Monica said.
The Saint looked at Junior, and his face was not friendly.
“Quite a few beggars have been beaten up in Chicago in the last few weeks. The ones who were able to talk said the same thing. Something about a mysterious character called the King of the Beggars.”
“The beggars have to pay off a percentage of their earnings to His Majesty,” Monica said bitterly. “Or else they’re beaten up.
The gang made an example of Irvine. To frighten the others. It just happened to be him; it might have been any beggar. The police — well, why should they make a big thing of it?”
“Why should you?” Simon asked.