Then the blindfold was lifted from his eyes, and a painful intensity of light blazed directly into his face.
He did not wince, though the glare was brutal. The new blindness which it induced made little difference — he knew that it would have been impossible to see past those spotlights at any time. This was the police line-up, with a difference. He stood motionless, knowing that eyes were studying him from behind the lights, but that these were not the eyes of guardians of the law and peace. They belonged to brothers-in-arms of Junior, alert to recognise him if he were a spy for any opposition gang, or memorising his features in readiness for future shakedowns.
A voice began to speak, artificially through a crude public-address system.
“We welcome you to the Metropolitan Benevolent Society,” it said unctuously, “an organisation designed for the aid and protection we can give will be at your service...”
It was a formalised little speech, which might have been a phonograph recording for all Simon could tell; he guessed that it had been used often before and was a part of the regular routine. Again that flash of monstrous incongruity struck through him at the situation — ruthless killers making a Rotary Club speech, the Arabian Nights in Chicago. But his face showed nothing but a slightly vacuous listening intentness.
The speaker went on to observe that begging was one of the most ancient and honourable professions, that ancient monks had practised it respectably, as the Salvation Army did today, but that in these times the individual practitioner was in danger of all kinds of arbitrary persecution. And just as exploited Labour had been forced to band together to safeguard the rights which no lone individual could defend, so the professional mendicants had been obliged to band together and declare a closed shop for their fraternity — this same fraternity, of course, being the Metropolitan Benevolent Society.
It sounded good, the Saint admitted to himself. He was beginning to be able to see a little now, through the swimming spots and dazzles of his maltreated retinas, but there was not a great deal to see — only part of a bare cement-walled room with one door in it, and a portable loudspeaker on the floor to one side, with wires trailing from it and disappearing behind the lights.
The voice went on smoothly:
“In return for your protection,” it said paternally, “you will turn in one-half of your daily take to Big Hazel Green, manager of the Elliott Hotel, where you will be given lodgings at a nominal price. She will be your contact with headquarters, and will supply you with all information and assign you your territory. One thing more...” The voice became more greasily friendly than ever. “Don’t try any chiselling. You will be watched constantly, and any violation of our rules will be severely punished. If you have any questions now, Frankie will answer them.”
The Saint had many questions, but he knew that this was no time to ask them. He realised that he had not under-estimated the cautiousness of the King. Even if the King was actually there at all, which Simon now doubted more than ever. His Majesty or any of his privy council could have potted him like a sitting rabbit before he even got through the shield of lights.