“Why... yes, sir. But I’d like to know a little more about this... this business.”
Frankie grasped the Saint’s arm with bony fingers that dug deliberately into the flesh.
“Come on,” he said, and the Saint had only time to assure himself that Hoppy Uniatz was at his post half a block away before he was in the back of the sedan, the clash of the closing door committing him irrevocably to this chapter of the adventure.
The chauffeur’s unkempt neckline confirmed his opinion that the man was a subordinate. Simon had little chance to study his subject, for as the car slid smoothly into gear Frankie lifted the dark-lensed glasses from the Saint’s nose, dropped them casually into Simon’s lap, and replaced them with a totally opaque elastic bandage. Simon slipped the spectacles into a pocket and put up a mildly protesting hand.
“What’s that? I don’t need a blindfold.”
The driver laughed shortly. But Frankie’s tone held no amusement as he said, “Maybe. And maybe not.”
“But—”
“Forget it,” Frankie said. “Save it for the cops. What the hell do you think we care whether you’re blind or not? A guy’s got a right to make a living.” Unpleasant mockery sounded in his voice now. “That’s where we don’t hold with the authorities. We don’t make any stink about handing out begging licences. If you’re sharp enough to get away with anything, that’s fine — as long as you don’t try it with us.”
Simon was silent. Frankie slapped the Saint’s knee.
“That’s none of our business. There’s only one question we ask. How much?”