Simon’s eyebrows were an angelic arch.
“Why not? Prosthetic devices are being improved all the time. You should be able to get along beautifully with an artificial leg. Maybe you’ll only need a foot, though. It’ll depend on how soon you start talking.”
Junior said frantically, “I’m talking right now. Keep that damn thing away from me. I’m talking, see? For God’s sake ask me some questions.”
“Hold it, Hoppy,” the Saint said. “You might leave the broiler plugged in, though. Our friend can look at it to cover awkward lulls in the conversation. There’s only one question you need to answer, though, Junior. Who’s the King?”
“Believe me,” Junior said earnestly, “I wish to God I knew. I’d spill it. After that I’d start travelling. For my health. But I never seen the King.”
He was telling the truth. Simon knew that; he was a connoisseur in such matters. Junior was obviously afraid of the King’s power, but he was more afraid of the Saint. After all, Simon Templar was only a few feet from him, and the King of the Beggars was not — at the moment.
Simon said, “I’d have been surprised if you’d said anything different, this early in the story. Still, there must be a few precious pearls of information nestling in your head. I’d love to hear them. Start where you first heard of the King.”
Junior was talking before the Saint had finished. He was, it seemed, a native of San Francisco. Travelling for his health a few months ago, he had landed in Chicago and naturally gravitated to the lower depths. There he had been approached by one of the King’s ambassadors, who had been intrigued by Junior’s obviously criminal appearance.
“But I never seen the King,” Junior repeated. “Frankie’s my contact.”
“Frankie who?”