“When I dropped the coin,” he concluded, “it was the signal to Hoppy that everything was under control and that was the joint he had to get the address of. He got it all right — they hadn’t shaken him off with their zig-zagging around the town — and we went back there later and did a small job of housebreaking. Unfortunately it didn’t pay off. It’s a vacant house. The electricity’s turned on, and there was that loudspeaker and a mike in the basement room, but nothing else except the spotlights.”
“Who owns the house?” Monica asked, and the Saint shrugged.
“I’m trying to find out. Meanwhile, we have another lead. There’s this Big Hazel Green, manageress of the Elliott Hotel. And you know who that joint belongs to? Stephen Elliott.”
“Stephen Elliott? The philanthropist?”
“It says here. At any rate, the Elliott Hotel is more or less a charity, according to the inquiries I’ve made. The point is, does Elliott know that his manageress is a liaison officer for the King of the Beggars?”
“Or,” she said slowly, “could Elliott be the King?” The Saint nodded.
“Just like a detective story. But such things have happened... I should like to have a talk with Brother Elliott in an official sort of way.” Monica wrinkled her brow. “Could I help?”
“I read in a society column this morning that Mrs Laura Wingate is giving a cocktail party for him today. Do you happen to know her?”
“No, but I’m sure to know somebody who does. Let me make a few phone calls.”
Simon called a waiter, and lighted a cigarette for her while a telephone was brought and plugged in. Then he went to a phone booth outside and made a call for himself. “Hoppy?” he said. “Did you get a report from that real-estate company yet?”