Whitey moaned and opened his eyes.
"Saint!" he mumbled feverishly.
Simon pocketed his automatic and bent over him.
"Take it easy, Whitey. It's okay." He went on without turning his head: "Doc, I'll bet you a case of Old Forester that Karl doesn't live to draw that gun he's trying to sneak out of his pocket."
"Eh?" Spangler grunted blankly.
Hoppy's attention flashed back to the danger on hand, swiveling his gun to the thug's belly. One of Karl's hairy paws had already dipped halfway into a coat pocket.
"Reach!" Mr. Uniatz rasped.
"Hands empty, please," Simon smiled pleasantly over his shoulder.
The squat gunman slowly dragged his hand out of his pocket and raised both arms over his head.
Simon stepped over to him and extracted a Colt automatic from his pocket. Then he proceeded to run his hands with expert deftness down Karl's sides, under his arms, inside his thighs, and along his back. He patted his sleeves, paused, and plucked another gun from inside one of the gunman's cuffs. It looked like a toy, no larger than a magnified watch charm, but it held a .22-caliber shell in its chamber.
"Forgive me for underestimating you, comrade," he said. "You're a walking arsenal, aren't you?"
He pulled what seemed to be a fountain pen from Karl's breast pocket and examined it briefly. He chuckled, pushing Karl so that he stumbled backwards. Simultaneously, Simon exploded a capsule of tear gas from one end of the "fountain pen" squarely into the gangster's nose. Karl clutched his face with both hands and reeled halfway across the room, tripping over a chair and crashing to the floor.
"That stuff spreads!" Spangler gasped. "We'll all get it--"
"Take it easy," said the Saint. "The windows are open, and there isn't enough in one of those pills to do much harm unless it's shot straight at you."
"What do you want?" Spangler demanded, a glister of panic in his eyes. "Why did you come here?" He looked down at Whitey as the trainer gripped the edge of the desk for support and pulled himself to his feet with Hoppy's quick aid. Spangler pointed at him, his eyes narrowing. "I understand. You're working for him now!"
Simon lighted a cigarette.
"Don't confuse yourself, Doc. Hoppy and I represent our own business only-the Happy Dreams Shroud and Casket Company. I'm sorry we weren't able to accommodate your boy Karl last night. We'd have liked to give him a fitting, but he was in such a hurry ..."
He glanced at Karl, who, on all fours, was crawling blindly toward the door.
A leer of gargoyle delight transfigured Hoppy's features as he observed the proffered target. He took three steps across the room and, with somewhat better form than the previous night, launched a thunderous drop kick that caught the unfortunate thug squarely, lifting his entire body off the floor in a soaring ballotade, and dropped him sprawling in a corner.
Spangler stared fascinated at his limp cohort, and then again at Hoppy. His gaze swung uncertainly back to the Saint. He cleared his throat.
"I fail to comprehend," he began, with an attempt to regain his habitual pomposity, "why you should--"
"I'm quite sure you do comprehend," the Saint broke in suavely, "why I should resent your sending that goon over to my apartment last night to kill me."
Spangler opened and shut his mouth like a frog.
"I sent him to your apartment?" he said in shocked tones.
"You hoid him!" Hoppy growled.
"But my dear boy, I did no such thing!" Doc Spangler plucked a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his shining pink brow. He frowned at Karl, who was beginning to stir again in the corner. "If he took it upon himself to- uh-visit you last night, it must have been a matter of personal inspiration. I had nothing to do with it, believe me."
"Strangely enough," said the Saint surprisingly, "I do."
"He's lyin'," Whitey grated fiercely. "He was gonna knock me off if you hadn't come when ya did."
"That's entirely untrue," Spangler said. "Mullins forced his way in here; he was abusive and threatening, and when he tried to attack me physically Karl had to fire a shot in my defense."
"However," the Saint continued, "a repeat performance was staged less than an hour ago near Sixth Avenue, with three characters and a black sedan taking the chief roles in another attempt to reunite Hoppy and me with our illustrious ancestors."
"I assure you, sir, that I--"
"Excuse me," the Saint interrupted. "I'm willing to believe that Karl might attempt a solo mission on account of the kicking around we gave him in the dressing room, but there were three men in the second try. I'm rather certain the driver was Karl. He might have done that to grind a private axe, but the other two must have had other inducements, Doc, old boy. Inducements supplied by you, perhaps."
Spangler shook his head bewilderedly.
"But-you're entirely off the track, dear boy. Karl has been here in the house for the past three hours."
"Then he must have a twin running around loose gunning for me. ... As for the other two-I'd lay some odds that one of them was your new butler, Jeeves Mancini, the demon majordomo, who seemed to be sort of lying down on the job when I saw him. The third man," said the Saint dispassionately, "may very well have been you."
Spangler's expression of outraged innocence would have done credit to a cardinal accused of committing bigamy.
"But that's simply preposterous. I haven't left the house yet today. As a matter of fact, Karl and Slim and I were about to leave for the gym to meet the Angel when you arrived." He spread his hands. "Surely you're not serious when you say you actually expected to find three anonymous snipers-men who tried to shoot you from a car like movie gangsters-here in my house?"
"I don't say I had that idea all along," Simon admitted. "It just kind of grew on me when I found their car parked in front of this house. Your Stanley Steamer, I presume, Dr. Livingstone?"
"What!" Spangler"s eyes were round with appalled amazement. "My dear boy, are you sure you're not feeling the heat? My car has been parked there all day."
"I did feel the heat," said the Saint gently, "of your car's engine. For a jalopy that hadn't been moved all day, it was awfully feverish."
"Standing out there in the sun--"
"It might get the chill off. But I hardly think the sun was quite hot enough to burn those holes through the rear window and the windshield."
Spangler sank back into his chair, shaking his head helplessly.
"I don't know what you're trying to prove," he protested earnestly. "But if you mean those bullet holes, they've been there for nearly a month now. One of the boys became a little exuberant one night and--"
"Skip it," said the Saint amiably. "I didn't come here to torment you by putting the stretch on your imaginative powers. Any time a good story is needed, I'm sure you can come up with one. I just wanted to make one point for the record. The next time any uncomfortable passes are made at me or any of my friends-among whom I am going to include Steve Nelson -I am just automatically going to drop by and beat the bejesus out of you and any of your teammates who happen to be around. It may seem rather arbitrary of me, Doc; but an expert like you should be able to allow for my psychopathic fixations. . . . Let's go, Whitey."
Whitey, let go the desk unsteadily.
"Okay. I can make it," he said, and waved away Hoppy's helpfully offered hand. He followed Simon, spitting contemptuously on the floor as he passed Karl's cowed figure huddled in the corner.
As they sped northward up Fifth Avenue, Mullins explained the predicament in which the Saint had found him.
"I guess I was nuts," he said, "goin' into that den of thieves alone, but I went off my chump just thinkin' of that lousy fink sendin' his stooge to proposition my boy."
"You shoulda gone heeled, pal," Hoppy said.
"I did." Whitey slapped his right hip. "But I just figured on bawling Spangler out, not killin' him; and then I get blasted from behind."
"How long were you there?" Simon asked.
" 'B
out half an hour. Say!" Whitey's voice lifted as though remembering. "It couldn'a been Karl who was with those mugs what you said tried to gun you. He was in that room with Spangler most of the time I was cussin' the Doc." His pale eyes' brightened with thought. "Y' know, there's a coupla heist guys with the Scarponi mob who Spangler hires sometimes for jobs. They look a lot like Karl."
The Saint shrugged.
"He still might have made it. I figure that Karl got some of his pals together in a hurry after he left Steve's place, and followed Hoppy and me when we left. I wouldn't give him an alibi unless he punched a time clock. You certainly weren't in shape to time everything to the minute." He glanced at Whitey. "We'd better drop you off at a doctor's so you can get that fixed up. How do you feel?"
"Oh, I'm okay, Saint," Whitey minimized. He felt his blood-clotted head gingerly. "The slug took a li'l hair off, that's all. Just drop me off at Kayo Jackson's gym. I'll wash up there."
"It's your noodle." Simon swung the wheel to his left and cut westward toward Sixth Avenue.
"Did you mean it," Whitey asked after a moment, "when you said you'd work with the Champ?"
The Saint fished a cigarette from his breast pocket and punched the dashboard lighter.
"You're the trainer, Whitey."
Whitey found a match in his pocket and struck it with his thumb, cupping the flame as he held it to the Saint's cigarette.
"Kayo'll go nuts when I tell him," he grinned. "Wit' you and the Champ workin' out there together, we'll pack 'em in."
"At two bits a head," Mr. Uniatz mentioned, rather quickly for him. "So whaddas de boss get out of it?"
"I'll see that Kayo shells out with the Saint's cut of the gymnasium gate, don't worry."
"Hoppy is my agent," said the Saint.
He was thinking more about the slug he carried in his pocket -the slug he had dug out of the pawnshop doorframe. He had to ponder the fact that neither Karl's guns nor Slim Mancini's were of the same caliber-and in spite of what he had said, he couldn't really visualize Doc Spangler doing his own torpedo work. There was at least negative support for Whitey's evidence that Karl had been in the house during the time the Saint thought he'd seen him at the wheel of the gunmen's car. Yet Simon found it impossible to reconcile his indelibly photographic impression of the man who had driven that car with the possibility that it had been someone other than Karl. ... If it hadn't been Karl, then it had certainly been his identical twin.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The dawning sun arched a causeway of golden light through the Saint's bedroom window, glinting on his crisp dark hair as he laced on the heavy rubber-soled shoes in which he did his road work with Steve every morning. Hoppy, bleary-eyed, leaned against the doorframe, watching him unhappily.
"Chees;" he complained hoarsely, "will I be glad when de fight is over tomorrow night! I'm goddam sick of gettin' up wit' de boids every mornin' to do road work wit' Nelson." He yawned cavernously. "Dis at'letic life is moider."
"What athletic life?" the Saint inquired with mild irony. "The only road work you do is follow behind in the car with Whitey."'
Hoppy sighed lugubriously.
"Dat ain't de pernt, boss. It's just I don't get de sleep a guy. needs at my age."
"Well, I must say you wear the burden of your years with lavender and old dignity," Simon complimented him. He stood up and headed for the door. "Come on, Steve and Whitey will be waiting for us."
Hoppy groaned and followed like an exhausted elephant.
They found Nelson near the Fifty-ninth Street entrance of Central Park, alone.
"Whitey's got another of those headaches," he explained. ''I think maybe that bullet Karl grazed him with last month must have shaken his brains up worse than he admitted."
The Saint nodded, breaking into an easy jogging trot beside Nelson as they struck out northward along the side of a winding park road.
"Could be," he agreed.
Mr. Uniatz climbed into the car again, and waited disconsolately for several minutes in order to give them a good head start. Then he started the car up and followed slowly behind.
Some thirty minutes later the Saint and Steve Nelson were jogging eastward along the inner northern boundary of Central Park, following the edge of the park road. The Saint's long legs pumped in smooth, tireless rhythm as he breathed the dew-washed fragrance of blooming shrubs that covered the green slopes. At that early hour there was practically no traffic through Central Park, and he filled his lungs with air untainted by the fumes of carbon monoxide and tetraethyl lead. . . . During the past weeks the regimen of training in which he had joined Steve Nelson had tempered his lithe strength to the whiplash resilience of Toledo steel and surcharged his reflexes with jungle lightning; and as he ran his blood seemed to tingle with the sheer exultation of just living. He drank deeply of the perfume of the morning, smiling at a sky of the same clear blue as his eyes, his every nerve singing, feeling his youth renewed indestructibly.
He glanced back once at the brooding shadow of Hoppy's face behind the wheel of the car far behind, and chuckled softly. Nelson, trotting beside him, asked: "What's funny?"
The Saint nodded over his shoulder.
"Hoppy. He's miserable. Nobody to talk to. Nothing to drink."
Nelson looked back and grinned.
Ahead to his left over the park wall some distance away Simon could see the broad terminus of Lenox Avenue coming into view. Directly in front of them, through the trees, he caught the gleam of the lake that lies at the northern end of the park. The park road swoops sharply to the right at this point, paralleling the lake for a distance as it winds southward again.
The easy purr of an approaching car blended against and quickly drowned out the sound of the Saint's car hugging the edge of the road. The overtaking car accelerated as it came up to them and whooshed past, disappearing around the curve some distance ahead.
The Saint looked after it thoughtfully. Only two private cars had passed them since they'd started running-and both of them had been this same big limousine with the curtained windows.
"I hope you won't be too busy the day after the fight," Nelson said, glancing at him.
The Saint pondered his remark for a moment.
"That all depends. Why?"
"Connie and I have set the date for our wedding. Will you be my best man?"
The Saint's quick warm smile sparkled at him. "It'll be a pleasure, Steve."
Nelson slapped him on the back as they jogged along.
"Thanks."
"Will you be staying on at your place on Riverside Drive?"
"Yeah. Having it redecorated. As a matter of fact, they started work today. It was the only date I could make that would have it finished when we get- back from our honeymoon, but the place is a mess right now."
"Why don't you move in with me until the day after tomorrow?" Simon suggested. "We've got a spare bed that you're welcome to."
"That's swell of you, Saint."
"No trouble at all. Besides, it'll be easier to keep an eye on you."
They padded on with tireless ease, tucking another mile behind them. The city was beginning to take on life. In the distance Simon could see the subway-entrance cupolas at the head of Lenox Avenue with early morning workers hurrying toward each of them. But the park as yet seemed quite deserted. The lake was like a sheet of silvered glass with a covey of green rowboats huddled along the near shore about their mother boathouse. . . .. As they approached the curve in the road the path along the road narrowed and the Saint crossed over to the opposite side to run parallel with Steve.
He had just reached the curve when he heard, with startling suddenness, the roar of a car approaching behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. The black limousine that had already passed them twice was crossing over to his side of the road with swiftly increasing acceleration, rushing straight at him. In that split second he perceived with crystal clarity the tall bony high-shouldered figure hunched over the wheel, eyes crinkled with murdero
us intent, and knew instantly that the driver had stalked them in the hope of catching him apart from Nelson.
He flung himself down the gentle embankment that sloped to the sidewalk before he even heard Nelson's warning yell. The big limousine screamed around on two wheels as it tried to stick to the curve, but its mile-a-minute momentum was too great. It bounded sideways over the slope, entirely clearing the iron railing that bordered the sidewalk, struck the concrete pavement with a sickening crash, and took a fifteen-foot bounce into the lake, landing on its top, its wheels just visible above the water and still spinning.
The Saint leaped to his feet and ran to the water's edge with Nelson sprinting down the embankment after him. A screech of brakes knifed the morning stillness as Hoppy leaped out of his car to join them.
"He ran at you deliberately!" Nelson blurted as he came up.
"That's my trouble-I can't keep my fans away," said the Saint, and plunged into the water.
"Let him croak!" Hoppy bellowed breathlessly as he came running up. "De bum was trying to get ya!"
The Saint needed only one dive to tell him what he wanted to know. Nelson read the truth on his face as he came to the surface and rejoined him on the sidewalk.
"You know him?" he asked.
"Doc Spangler," the Saint said laconically, "is going to need a new butler."
He glanced up at the park's Lenox Avenue entrance. Several people, appearing magically, were running down to the scene of the "accident."
"Let's get out of here," he said, and bounded back over the iron fence and up the embankment.
Hoppy and Nelson followed him. They got into the car and sped away as an approaching police-car siren lifted its high clear alarm on the morning air.
"Spangler again," Nelson muttered grimly, staring straight ahead.
A stream of earnest profanity issued from Mr. Uniatz's practiced lips.
"You shoulda stuck a knife in de rat when you was under wit' him," he concluded. "Dose dumb jackasses back dere are liable to pull him out before he drowns."
"They'll have to pull him off that steering column first," Simon said callously. "He's stuck on it like a bug on a pin."
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