Call for the Saint (The Saint Series)

by Leslie Charteris

  “Chees, boss!” Hoppy complained mournfully, staring at the sedan roaring down the street. “I had a bead on him.”

  “In the dark? Shooting downward at that distance?” Simon snapped. He turned away, crossing the living-room. “Don’t be a goddam fool. Besides”—he stepped out of the darkness of the living-room into the hallway—“there’s been enough noise for one night.”

  Hoppy shuffled after him, muttering indignantly, “Nobody can gimme de business an’ get away wit’ it.”

  The Saint looked at him resignedly.

  “Don’t blame him! Grabbing that door-knob after I’d wired it was your own damn fault.”

  “I wouldn’a done it if it wasn’t for him,” Hoppy insisted sullenly. “Besides, how do I know he can run like dat? All de zombies I ever see in pitchers move slower dan Bilinski. Dis musta bin a new kind, boss. Maybe somebody gives him a hypo.”

  “Maybe somebody does,” Simon agreed. “And the doc’s name could be Spangler.”

  He switched the lights on at the entrance and looked around. The loose rug that had been involved in Hoppy’s downfall was a tousled heap in the middle of the floor, and as he lifted one corner to straighten it he saw the gun underneath it.

  He picked it up gingerly—a heavy “banker’s-model” revolver with a two-inch barrel.

  “Chees,” Hoppy said. “De lug forgets his equaliser. Now all we gotta do is find out who it belongs to, an’ we know who he is.”

  “That peace of logic,” said the Saint, “has more holes in it than Swiss cheese. However—”

  He broke off as he became aware that the elevator doors were opening in front of him. For one instant he was tense, with his forefinger curling instinctively on the trigger of the weapon in his hand. Then he saw the passenger clearly.

  He was a rabbity little man draped in a flowered bathrobe, with pince-nez supporting a long black ribbon.

  “I,” he enunciated pompously, “am your neighbour downstairs, Mr Swafford. Has there been any trouble?”

  He stepped back suddenly, with his eyes popping, as Hoppy moved into full view from behind the Saint.

  “Trouble?” Simon inquired politely. “What sort of trouble?”

  Mr Swafford seemed hypnotised by the baleful apparition glaring at him over the Saint’s shoulder.

  “I,” he swallowed. “I…Please forgive me,” he said hastily, “but there was some rumour—about a shot, I think it was. Some people in the building seem to think it came from up here.”

  Simon turned to Hoppy.

  “Did you hear a shot?”

  Mr Uniatz fixed Mr Swafford with a basilisk glare. He growled, “Boss, dis guy must be nuts!”

  Mr Swafford gulped and amended hastily, “Of course I don’t say it came from your apartment. It was just what some of the tenants thought. They seem to have jumped to the conclusion that someone was being shot, but I assure you—”

  “I’m sure,” the Saint broke in pleasantly, “that there must be a more productive form of exercise than jumping to conclusions, don’t you think, comrade?”

  Mr Swafford retreated another step, his eyes bulging wider as they confirmed their impression of the gun in the Saint’s hand and the fallen shower of plaster from the ceiling.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” he said weakly. “I never—”

  “I’m sorry you were disturbed.” said the Saint benevolently. “My friend here is just in from Montana, where men are men and have notches in their guns to prove it. When they’re having fun, they just blaze away at the ceiling. I’ve just taken his six-shooter away and tried to explain to him—”

  “Scram before I step on ya like a roach!” Hoppy bellowed, squeezing past the Saint.

  Mr Swafford stumbled backwards, his pince-nez dropping from his long nose and dangling by their ribbon; he turned and scurried precipitately back into the elevator.

  “Good night, Mr Swafford,” Simon called breezily, as the closing elevator doors blotted out the little man’s pallid stare.

  He turned back into the apartment, shutting the door behind him.

  “Boss,” Hoppy said, following him. “Dis is getting’ monogamous. Just one t’ing after anudder.”

  “That sounds almost bovine to me,” said the Saint. “But it’ll probably get worse before it gets better.”

  He was sure that he had recognised the squat silhouette of Spangler’s henchman, Max, fleeing from the building toward the waiting sedan. But he was still wondering, as he fell asleep, just why Doc Spangler had sent him.

  6

  Hoppy was in the penthouse kitchen frying bacon with concentrated absorption late the next morning when the doorbell rang, The Saint, seated in the adjoining breakfast alcove, put down the morning paper and stood up.

  “I’ll get it, boss,” Hoppy offered, laying down the fork in one hand and the comic section clutched in the other.

  “Never mind,” Simon strode across the kitchen. “I don’t want to take your mind off Dick Tracy.”

  The opening door revealed a vision in daffodil yellow with hair to match and a quizzical smile.

  “Pat!” Simon drew her in and held her at arm’s length, boldly admiring. “You’re a sight to be held!”

  He suited the action to the word.

  She laughed breathlessly, pulling away.

  “Darling, you have one of the most elemental lines since Casanova.”

  His eyes caressed her figure. “The most elemental lines,” he said, “are never spoken. They’re looked at.”

  “Do I look as good as Connie?” she inquired with arched eyebrows.

  “Much better.” He took her hand and led her toward the kitchen. “Hoppy!” he called. “Bring on the vitamins.”

  “Coming up, boss!” Hoppy sang out, and came around to deposit a glass of pale amber liquid in front of her as she sat down. “Vitamins,” he grinned, and retreated back to his stove.

  “Thank you.” Pat smiled and lifted the glass.

  “Wait.” Simon reached over and took the glass from her. He sniffed it. “I thought so!”

  “What’s the matter?” Pat asked. “Isn’t it all right?”

  He pushed the glass back.

  “Smell it.”

  Hoppy’s head appeared over the top of the alcove partition.

  “Whassamatter, boss?”

  “Thanks for the compliment,” said Patricia, “but I’m not quite up to your kind of fruit juice.”

  Mr Uniatz’s brow furrowed in hurt bewilderment.

  “It’s from grapes, ain’t it? Grapes is fruit, ain’t it?” He reached behind him and raised up the bottle for all to behold. “It says so, right here on de bottle.”

  The Saint waved him away in despair.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Bring on the solid food.”

  “Okay, boss.” Hoppy removed the offending liquor and drained it at a gulp. He went back into the kitchen and looked over the partition on to the top of Pat’s blonde head. “Dijja read about de fight in de paper dis morning?” he asked.

  “They arrested the Masked Angel, didn’t they?”

  “But not for long,” Hoppy said complacently. “We fix dat, don’t we, boss?”

  Pat’s clear eyes studied the Saint.

  “What does he mean—you fixed it up?”

  “We informed the Law that the Masked Angel is an old chum of Hoppy’s,” Simon explained glibly. “Naturally, with that kind of a character reference, they’re bound to let Bilinski go.”

  “I don’t trust you,” Patricia said coldly. “Not for a minute. What goes on?”

  “Goes on?” The Saint’s eyebrows lifted.

  “I know you too well. You wouldn’t have left me last night the way you did unless something had—”

  She broke off as the door-bell sounded briefly.

  “I’ll let her in, boss,” Hoppy said cheerfully, and paddled out of the kitchen.

  “ ‘Her?’ ” Patricia quoted acidly. “Miss Grady, I presume?”

  “A purely professio
nal visit,” he said calmly. “After all, she is engaged to Steve Nelson.”

  Pat’s cool red mouth curved cynically.

  “A passing fiancé, no doubt.”

  Simon’s eyes closed in pain.

  “My dear girl,” he protested.

  He got to his feet as Hoppy trumpeted from the hallway.

  “It’s Connie Grady, boss!”

  She hesitated in the kitchen door, slim and dewy-fresh, her short auburn curls making her look very young and almost boyish, with Hoppy looming up behind her like a grinning Cerberus.

  “Come in, darling,” said the Saint. He took her hand and led her to the breakfast alcove. “Miss Grady, this is my colleague, Miss Holm.”

  “Hullo, Connie,” said Patricia sympathetically. “Welcome to the harem.”

  Connie Grady glanced uncertainly from Pat to Simon. “I…I didn’t know you were having company,” she said. “I didn’t want to—”

  “It’s perfectly all right,” Simon assured her. “Pat really is my colleague in…er…many of my enterprises. Anything you say to me you can say to her with equal freedom.” He waved to Hoppy. “That’s another of my colleagues—Hoppy Uniatz.”

  “Likewise, I’m sure,” Hoppy beamed. “I seen ya lotsa times when your pop was runnin’ de old Queensbury Gym, remember? Ya useta bring him his lunch.”

  Her elfin features crinkled in a smile.

  “Yes…I remember.”

  “Sit down,” said the Saint. “We’re just starting.”

  He saw her settled in the booth and pulled up another chair for himself, while Mr Uniatz doled out plates of bacon and eggs and cups of coffee with hash-house dexterity.

  Connie picked up her fork and tried to start, but the effort of restraint was too much. She looked full at the Saint, with the emotion unashamed on her face.

  “You saw what happened,” she said, her voice small and tense. “The Angel killed a man last night…Now, do you wonder that I don’t want Steve to fight that—that gorilla?”

  “I can see your point.”

  “When I was talking to you last night,” she began, “I…I…”

  She fumbled as if groping for the right words.

  Simon passed Patricia the sugar with harlequin courtesy. She didn’t seem to see it.

  She said sweetly, “Last night?”

  “On the phone, after you called,” Simon elucidated smoothly. “She wanted to know what went on, too. Her father was rather upset by our little visit to the Masked Angel’s dressing-room after the fight.”

  Patricia’s red mouth pursed in a sceptical “Oh!”

  Connie found the words at last, “I was hoping and praying they’d keep that—that man in jail—that the fight would be called off…” Her voice broke. “But they’re releasing him.”

  “Are they?” Simon asked with interest. “I didn’t see anything about it in my paper.”

  “Daddy was over at police headquarters first thing this morning with Spangler—he’s the Masked Angel’s manager.”

  The Saint nodded.

  “I see. So they got the Angel out of the jug in spite of Hoppy’s recommendation.”

  “Steve is going through with this fight—if you don’t do something about it.” Connie Grady’s voice strained against her self-control. “He’ll be killed.”

  Hoppy gulped on a mouthful that would have choked a horse.

  “Killed? De Champ? Why, he’ll moider de bum!”

  Connie turned on him sharply.

  “You think so? After what the Masked Angel did to Torpedo Smith last night? That…that so-called bum has beaten every man he’s fought.”

  “Under Doc Spangler’s ministry, at least,” the Saint amended.

  “Aah, dey was fakes,” Hoppy derided. “Dey musta bin!”

  “When Torpedo Smith was killed last night,” she said tensely, “do you think he was faking?”

  “You know, of course,” Simon said to Connie, “who the Masked Angel really is, don’t you?”

  She nodded warily.

  “Yes, of course. Daddy owns part of him.”

  She looked up quickly, as if suddenly realising what she had said. “I mean,” she stumbled confusedly, “he doesn’t have any interest in him directly…that is, not really. It’s just that Spangler owes Daddy money, and…and…”

  “Of course,” Simon soothed gently. “I understand. It’s just that Doc Spangler is paying off your father from his earnings on the Masked Angel.”

  She seemed grateful for the lead.

  “Yes. Yes, that’s it.”

  “After all,” the Saint observed casually, “it’s not considered ethical for a matchmaker to hold a financial interest in any of his contestants—or at least a major share—so naturally Mr Grady would avoid that sort of thing. Especially where a championship bout was concerned.”

  Connie Grady looked up suddenly.

  “I don’t want Steve to be one of those contestants!” she burst out, her emerald eyes misting. She turned away. “I sound…ridiculous, don’t I? I…I wouldn’t dream of asking this of anyone else in the world. You…you’re the only person I could possibly imagine being capable of…somehow arranging it so that the fight would never happen.”

  “Exactly what are you suggesting?” Pat asked curiously. “Do you think the Saint could persuade Nelson not to fight?”

  Connie flashed her a startled glance.

  “Oh, no!” she said. “If he knew I’d come here to ask Mr Templar—he’d never forgive me.” She turned to Simon pleadingly. ‘‘‘There must be some—other way I can’t say how. I only know that you’ve done things—in the past—that were like miracles…Daddy has told me about—some of your adventures.”

  “Well, well,” said Patricia admiringly. “Simon Templar, the Paul Bunyan of modern crime. Have you another miracle up your sleeve?”

  Then she caught the stricken look on Connie’s face and her laughter softened. She put an arm about the girl’s shoulders and looked up at the Saint questioningly.

  “Simon, what do you think?”

  “I think,” said the Saint, “that we ought to go on with breakfast before it all gets cold, or Hoppy eats it.”

  He deliberately devoted himself to his own plate, and insisted on that matter-of-fact diversion until even Connie Grady had to follow with the others. He knew that the let-down was what she needed if she could be eased into it, and for his own part a healthy appetite was mixed with the need for an interlude of constructive thinking in approximately equal proportions. If it was obvious that Connie’s concern for Steve Nelson was absolutely real, it was no less plain to the Saint that she still hadn’t come out with everything that was on her mind.

  He waited until the commonplace mechanics of eating had achieved an inevitable slackening of the tension, and then he said almost casually, “Of course, one thing we might do is shoot Barrelhouse Bilinski—”

  “No, no! “ Connie gasped, but her tone was now more impatient than fearful. “I didn’t mean anything like that. I don’t want—anybody hurt.” She shook her head. “There must be something—something else you could do. You’re clever…”

  Simon considered the tip of his cigarette a moment, the smoke trickling from his mouth.

  “Does your father know you’re here?” he asked.

  “Of course not!” The idea seemed to startle her. “I couldn’t tell him I’m trying to have the fight stopped—any more than I could tell Steve!”

  “Steve is pretty good at his profession,” Simon remarked.

  “Does he know how you feel about his chances against the Angel?”

  “How could I tell him? I’ve tried to make him quit now—with the championship. It hasn’t done any good. He’s so sure, so confident! If he only had sense enough to be afraid, to realise!”

  “Realise what?” Simon queried mildly.

  “That it’s not—not worth risking his life—”

  “He’s retiring after this next fight, according to the papers,” Patricia said.

/>   “Yes, I know. He promised me…But it may be too late by then.”

  Hoppy was shaking his head uncomprehendingly.

  “You talk like he’s a cream puff,” he said. “He’s de Champ, ain’t he?”

  “Connie,” said the Saint gently, holding her eyes, “is there any other reason why you think Steve won’t win? Something you haven’t told me yet?”

  She drew back.

  “No.” She turned away. “I’ve told you everything. I—Spangler used to be a doctor once,” she said quickly. “I mean a real doctor, I—Suppose he uses his hypnotism? I know how crazy that sounds, but something will happen to Steve! I know it will!”

  None of this was particularly fresh grist for Simon’s cogitative mill. He sighed.

  “If Steve gives his usual performance,” he reasoned, “I don’t see that Bilinski stands a prayer. As for Doc Spangler’s hypnotic powers—I wouldn’t worry too much about them if I were you, Connie.”

  Her mouth trembled.

  “I’m sorry. I might have known that you’d talk just like Steve does…You and that—trainer of his.”

  Simon’s brows lifted.

  “Trainer?”

  “Whitey Mullins.”

  Hoppy, reaching for the coffee-pot, turned eagerly.

  “Ya mean Whitey’s trainin’ de Champ? Say!” He beamed with the fanged grimace of a delighted dinosaur. “Whitey’s a great guy.”

  The green eyes flashed at him.

  “Is he? What does Mullins care what happens to Steve? All he cares about is getting even with Spangler. He’s just using Steve for a cat’s-paw!”

  Hoppy blinked, his mouth open.

  “I didn’t know de Champ’s a southpaw, but everybody knows Whitey has it in for de Doc ever since Spangler finagles Bilinski’s contract away from him. Dat’s an old story.” He shook his head dazedly. “And all de time I t’ink Nelson is a right-hander! He fights like one.”

  Pat suppressed a smile.

  “There doesn’t seem to be much wrong with having a handler who’s so interested in seeing the Angel beaten.”

  “But the Angel won’t be beaten,” Connie said hopelessly. “Steve’ll be killed! He hasn’t a chance!”

  Simon studied her broodingly.

  “You’re very sure of that,” he said, and reached into his pocket to bring something out. He went on without a change of tone, “Did you ever see this before?”