Call for the Saint s-27

by Leslie Charteris

  "Forgive me," the Saint apologized, "but I couldn't take any chances of being deprived of your company for lunch."

  "I got too many things to do, Saint. No time for lunch. Just get me back to the Arena as quick as you can."

  "It won't take much time," Simon smiled dreamily. "I've got a table at the Brevoort . . ."

  Grady frowned: "Well-I'll see if I can make it."

  They parked in front of the Arena and Simon accompanied Grady inside to his office.

  The girl at the switchboard called out as they entered Mike's office: "There's been several calls from your daughter, Mr. Grady, and from Mr. Mullins . . ."

  "Okay," Grady grunted, and picked up the stack of letters and messages piled up on his desk. "Wonder what Whitey Mullins wants," he muttered, thumbing through the sheaf. "According to this pile of call notes, he's phoned about six times."

  The telephone rang. Grady lifted the receiver.

  "Who? . . . Okay, put him on. ... Hello, Whitey? . . ." Mike Grady suddenly stiffened as he listened. He paled visibly and for a few seconds listened in silence. Presently he asked: "In the Saint's apartment? What was he doing there? . . . Yes, of course. I'll be down as soon as I possibly can."

  He hung up and turned to the Saint.

  "Steve Nelson has been shot," he said. "In your apartment."

  The Saint's whole being seemed to stand still in the same timeless stasis that affected the expansion of his ribs.

  "Karl," he said slowly and bitterly. "Waiting for me in my apartment . . ."

  Grady looked stupidly at him.

  "No. ... At least Whitey says the police don't think it was anyone layin' for you at your place. Whoever did it they think was waitin' for you on the roof of the apartment house across the street. There's a bullet hole in the window of the room where Connie found him."

  "Connie?" the Saint repeated, knowing even as he said it how it must have happened.

  "She was waiting for him in the car while he went up to your place to leave his things. He was going to stay with you, wasn't he?"

  Simon nodded.

  "Where is he?"

  "Bellevue. They got the bullet out of him. Whitey says they think he's got a fifty-fifty chance." Grady's face furrowed with pain. "The poor kid. . . . He's a helluva fine boy, Saint. I've been just a damn fool, and that's a fact!"

  He glared at Simon defensively.

  "Listen, Mike." The Saint gripped his arm. "Whoever did it must've thought it was me. It could only have been one of Spangler's men. It was my fault that this happened."

  "But why should Spangler want to do you in?"

  "He's afraid that I'll find out what he's been up to, I started the whole thing by butting in after the Torpedo Smith fight. Now I've got to finish it. Listen-I've got to take Steve's place tomorrow night!"

  Grady's eyes bugged.

  "What?"

  "You heard me! You've got to put me in against the Angel!" The Saint's steely fingers tightened about Grady's arm. "You've got to, Mike!"

  "B-but-"

  Grady stopped short and looked at him for a long moment. He stepped backwards and eyed him up and down critically. He said finally: "Well, you look big enough. And hard enough, I guess. I've heard how you can hit ..."

  "I've been working with Steve," said the Saint. "I'm in as good condition as a man ever was, Mike. And I can take Bilinski, believe me!"

  "But it's ridiculous!" Grady exploded. "There's never been such a fight--"

  Simon said swiftly: "Make an announcement in the ring. Tell them about my bet with Spangler. If they want their money back, they can have it. If they just want to see a fight-even if it's only the Saint--"

  "Only the Saint!" Grady's eyes took fire. A luminous inspired glow spread over his round freckled face. "Holy mackerel! Maybe it won't be a championship fight as advertised, but with you in it--"

  "Come on then." Simon pulled him toward the door. "Let's go-I've got to get hold of Whitey right away!"

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The opening preliminary was already under way when the Saint, with Hoppy and Patricia Holm, strode through the tag end of the crowd of street urchins who eddied about the "artists' " entrance of the Manhattan Arena.

  Whitey met them in the doorway.

  "I was gettin' worried," he said anxiously. "What happened to ya? The show's started."

  He started them down the corridor that turned off to the dressing-room section. The Saint stopped him.

  "Whitey, will you show Miss Holm to her seat? I don't think she can find her way up front from this part of the Arena."

  The tempting curve of Miss Holm's red mouth drew to a pout.

  "You mean I've got to spend the next hour or so in solitary refinement?"

  "Well, you certainly can't spend it in my dressing room," said the Saint. "It's not exactly a ladies' boudoir."

  Whitey nodded to Patricia, in visible awe of her golden-blond beauty.

  "Sure, just follow me," he said. He turned to Simon. "I'll check on the Angel's hand wraps on my way back."

  They disappeared around a turn from where the roar of the crowd was flowing like the muted roar of distant surf.

  The Saint went on with Hoppy to his dressing room, feeling the ghostly fingers of peril once more playing their familiar cadenza along his vertebrae and up through the roots of his hair. . . . He knew, his every instinct told him, that tonight he was fighting for greater stakes than glory or dollars. To­night would be more than a mere encounter with padded gloves. Tonight he would be fighting for his life.

  A swarthy snaggle-toothed character in a dirty polo shirt was seated on a broken-down chair as they entered the dressing room. Hoppy recognized him at once.

  "Mushky," he growled. "I t'ought you was in de Angel's corner."

  "So I am, chum, so I am," Mr. Mushky Thompson agreed affably. "I gotta take a gander when you bandage de Saint's hands."

  "That's what I admire about this business," Simon remarked cheerfully. "Everyone trusts everyone else."

  Hoppy fixed Mr. Thompson with a baleful glare.

  "Out, ya bum," he ordered.

  "Now wait," Mushky protested. "It's de rules. I--"

  "Oh, let him alone," said the Saint. "Whitey is watching the Angel, isn't he? It isn't exactly a unilateral proposition."

  "Sure," Mr. Thompson agreed with hasty anxiety. "No cause for gettin' mad, Hoppy. I'm just one of de hired hands."

  Hoppy grunted and proceeded about the business of laying out the hand bandages, adhesive tape, rubber mouthpiece, col­lodion, ammonia, and other paraphernalia of the modern gladiator.

  "You working with Karl, Mushky?" the Saint asked casually as he slipped out of his street clothes.

  Thompson shook his head.

  "Naw. . . . He-uh-got kicked in the face by. a beer-wagon horse. Broke his jaw in two places, I hear."

  Hoppy looked up at him a moment, and broke into a deep guffaw.

  "Ya don't say," he yakked.

  Simon slipped into his dark purple sateen trunks and began to lace his boxing shoes swiftly as Hoppy tore strips of ad­hesive tape into suitable knuckle strips. Mushky Thompson lounged in his chair with a cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth until Hoppy had finished taping the Saint's hands with practiced precision, reinforcing the bones without im­pairing their freedom. Then Mushky got to his feet.

  "Good luck," he threw over his shoulder. "You'll need it."

  "Tanks," Hoppy said-and did a take after the gibe sank in.

  "Come back here!" the Saint snapped, as Mr. Uniatz started after the Angel's second, "Don't start anything now, you idiot!"

  Hoppy made unintelligible grating noises through his bared teeth, his nuclear mind infected as much by the vibrant blood cry of the mob as by the taunt. Impending battle-his own or anyone else's-was apt to make Mr. Uniatz emotionally un­stable.

  Three preliminaries and a semi-final later, the Saint lay on the rubbing table, completely relaxed, listening to ten thou­sand throats vibrating the walls in
a massive chorus of excite­ment. The semi-final bout had ended in a knockout, he guessed, from the uproar. He stretched his length peacefully, his eyes closed, everything in him settled into an immeasurabe still­ness amid the swirling rumble of vociferation. Dimly and indistinguishably he heard the orotund bellow of the announcer introducing somebody after the roar of the crowd had died down a bit; and shortly afterwards the man who had been introduced began speaking over the audience public-address system, and he recognized Grady's unmistakable accents even though he could not make out the words.

  Hoppy stumbled into the dressing room, breathless from battling the crowd en route.

  "What a mob!" he wheezed, his eyes gleaming. "Grady's up dere makin' dat announcement!"

  A swelling ululation rose in a gathering tidal wave of sound and broke thunderously upon their ears.

  "Say," Hoppy exulted, "sounds like dey like what he told'em, huh?" He came over to the Saint. "Boss, what does Span glersay when Grady tells him ya goin' in for Nelson?"

  The Saint yawned.

  "Oh, he raised a little stench about it at first, but Mike re minded him that my bet stated that Bilinski would be knocked out-it didn't say by whom. So he changed his mind. ... By the way, did Pat get a good seat?"

  "Yeah," Hoppy chuckled hoarsely. "An' guess who's she sittin' next to!"

  "Are you training for a quiz program, or would you just like to tell me?"

  "Inspector Foinack!"

  The Saint considered him reverently for a moment, while the forthcoming possibilities of that supernal juxtaposition devel­oped the gorgeous gamut of their emotional potential.

  "Oh, my God!" Simon breathed. "I'd rather watch that than my own fight."

  There was a patter of footsteps and Whitey Mullins darted into the dressing room. His face was contorted with savage glee.

  "Okay," he croaked. "You're on, Saint. They're waitin' for you!" He snatched up the water bucket. "Grab the water bottle and sponge," he yelped at Hoppy, and went to the door.

  The Saint swung his long legs off the table to the floor and stood up. He followed Whitey out of the door into the corri­dor, with Hoppy bringing up the rear.

  "Brother, I only wisht it was that lousy crook, Spangler, you was smackin' around tonight," Mullins grated with vitriolic bitterness as they mounted the ramp into the Arena, "and not just that dumb ox he stole from me."

  Simon sensed an excitement, a temper in the crowd that was different from the usual mass tension of the ordinary fight at­tendance at Grady's weekly shows. It was electric with antici­pation of the unexpected, a breathless waiting watchfulness that he felt as he mounted to the apron of the ring and slipped between the ropes amid a thunderclap of acclaim. There was a slight note of hysteria in it, he thought as he seated himself on the stool in his corner and looked about at the ocean of faces that spread on every side..

  The Masked Angel hadn't appeared yet, but the Saint rather expected that. Spangler would try every trick in the bag, in­cluding the petty one of wearing down the opposition's nerves by making him wait.

  He failed to spot Pat among the buzzing tide of faces at ringside, but everything beyond the glare of light centering on the ring was little more than a smoke-dimmed blur. The faces, void of all individuality, were such as one encounters sometimes in nightmare sequences, a phantasmagoria of eyes and noise-hard, critical, and skin-pricklingly theriomorphic. ... He wondered momentarily if Steve was in good enough shape to listen to the fight from his bedside. . . . Connie had been with him nearly all day at the hospital. . . .

  A roar like an approaching forest fire filled the packed coliseum with surging clamor as the Masked Angel appeared up the ramp, preceded by Doc Spangler and followed by a co­hort of handlers bearing the various accessories of refreshment and revival. The incredible bulk of the Angel loomed up over the apron of the ring and squeezed between the ropes in his corner, his plates of sagging fat quivering like chartreuse jelly. Unmasked now, his ridiculous little nubbin of a head bobbed from side to side in acknowledgment of the roars of the mob, his round little cheeks and button nose more an inspiration for laughter than the fearsome horror his black mask had aroused.

  Behind him, Doc Spangler leaned over his shoulder and spoke softly into an ear that was the approximate size and shape of a brussels sprout.

  As the Saint watched them from beneath lowered lids, he felt once again the spectral footfalls of ghostly centipedes pa­rading his spine, knowing that his real danger was as yet un­determined, the point of attack unknown. How it would come, in what shape or form, he wasn't quite sure. He'd covered all the possibilities, or so he thought; but whether the threat, the unknown secret weapon that the Angel must surely possess, would come from an act of the Angel himself, or from some outside agent, he wasn't quite sure. All he had was an idea. ... He felt its shadow upon him like a ghostly mist, ambient and all-pervading. . . .

  The bell clanged sharply a few times; the throbbing hum of the crowd subsided somewhat. The main-bout referee, dapper and fresh in white tennis shoes and flannels, stepped to the center of the ring and gestured the Saint and the Angel to come to him.

  Simon rose, followed by Whitey and Hoppy, and came for­ward to face the Angel, who shambled up to the referee flanked by Spangler and Mushky Thompson. The Angel tow­ered over them all, an utterly gross, unlovely specimen of so-called homo sapiens.

  The referee droned the familiar formula: ". . . break when I say break ... no hitting in breaks, no rabbit or kidney punches . . . protect yourself at all times . . . shake hands, come out fighting ..."

  They touched gloves, and the Saint walked nonchalantly back to his corner. He rubbed his feet a couple of times on the resin sprinkled there while Hoppy pulled the stool out of the ring. . . . The sound of the bell seemed unreal and far away when, after what seemed an extraordinarily long time, it finally rang.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Saint turned and moved almost casually out of his corner to meet the slowly approaching Angel. Bilinski shuffled forward, peering between forearms lifted before him, his body almost doubled over so that his elbows guarded his belly while his gloves shielded his face. No legally vulnerable square inch of his body was unprotected. He came forward steadily, inch by inch, making no attempt to lead or feint, merely coming forward with the massive low-gear irresistibility of a large tank, peering intently, cautiously -almost fearfully, Simon thought-between the bulging bar­riers of his ham-sized arms.

  The Saint moved around him in a leisurely half-circle, every muscle, every nerve completely at ease, relaxed, and co-ordi­nated. He was oblivious of the crowd now, studying his prob­lem with almost academic detachment, the latent lightning in his fists perfectly controlled. He couldn't help feeling the same guarded wonder that he knew Torpedo Smith, and for that matter all of the Angel's opponents, must have felt at the apparent impotence of the Angel's attack right up to the mo­ment of the blow that sent them on the way to oblivion. He thought to himself: Nothing happens the first round . . . nothing ever happens the first round. . . . The crux of his problem, he felt sure, was what the Angel did to open his victims for the inevitable knockout later on. . . .

  Bilinski, apparently growing tired of following Simon around the ring, stopped in the center and remained there, crouched, merely revolving to follow the Saint's lackadaisical circumvolutions about him.

  The cash customers began to shake the stadium with the drumming of their stamping feet in the familiar demand for action. A demand, Simon thought, which was no more than fair. . . . He stepped in, threw a left that cracked like a whip­lash, against the Angel's fleshy forearms, and crossed with a downward-driving right that strove to crash past into the mas­sive belly beyond. But the Angel instinctively brought his arms closer together so that the Saint's gloved fist thudded into their bone-centered barrier.

  Bilinski, visibly startled by the numbing shock of the blow, even though he did catch it on his guard, flung his arms about the Saint in an octopuslike clutch, sagging slightly in order
to let his overwhelming weight smother his opponent's efforts to strike again; but Simon, familiar with the old strength-sapping trick, merely relaxed with him and waited for the referee to come between them.

  From her seat at ringside, Patricia Holm, her blond hair wild with excitement, her hands gripping the arms of her chair, pleaded with tense anxiety: "Watch him, Simon, watch him! Be careful!"

  "He'd better watch while he can," Inspector Fernack gibed sardonically. He leaned back in his seat beside her and yelled: "All right, you Angel, shake him loose and let him have it! Give him one for me!"

  The referee was still battling to break the Angel's drown­ing-man grip when the bell ended the round.

  As he walked to his corner, the Saint noticed that there were no boos from the crowd over the inaction of that opening round. There was merely a more intense current of anticipatory excitement, as though everyone felt that they were about to witness a phenomenon of nature which, while it might be de­layed somewhat, would take place as ineluctably as a predicted eclipse of the sun. ...

  The betting, Simon knew, was not on whether or not he'd be knocked out, but rather precisely when and how that cataclysmic event would occur.

  Hoppy wiped nonexistent perspiration from the Saint's brow.

  "Dat foist round wuz slow motion, boss," he rasped encour­agingly. "Howja feel?"

  The Saint smiled coolly.

  "Fine. Where's Whitey?"

  "He forgot de towels." Hoppy thrust the mouth of the water bottle at Simon's lips. "Take a drink?"

  The Saint leaned back and turned his face away slightly as the water poured out of the uptilted bottle and slopped over his neck and chest.

  "Chees, boss!" Hoppy peered at the Saint's face. "Dijja get any?"

  "All I need. Wipe my face."

  Hoppy reached about vaguely for a nonexistent towel, seized the Saint's dressing gown draped over the edge of the ring apron, and used it instead to mop the moisture from Simon's face and body.

  "Hoppy," said the Saint in a low voice, as his faithful disci­ple started to fan him with the robe. "Hoppy, listen."

  "Yeah, boss?"