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 towards 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 murderous 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 it 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 alarum on the morning air.
“Spangler again,” Nelson muttered grimly, staring straight ahead.
A stream of earnest profanity issued from Mr Uniatz’s practised 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.”
“But why,” Steve Nelson puzzled, “did he try to do it? What has he got against you?”
“Maybe he thinks I’m bringing you luck. If I’m out of the way, he’s backing the Angel to take care of you.”
Nelson said nothing for a moment. Then he shook his head.
“It doesn’t make good sense,” he said. “I don’t get it.”
The Saint shrugged.
“Forget it. Spangler and his outfit are a bunch of psychopaths, anyway.” He unhooked a key from his ring and handed it to Nelson. “Here—to the apartment. I’ll use Hoppy’s key.”
Nelson took it with troubled gratitude. “Thanks—thanks a lot, Saint. I expect I’ll take my stuff over some time this afternoon. I’ve got some things to do before I move.”
“I’ve a few things to attend to myself,” said the Saint. “Move in whenever you’re ready.”
They let Steve Nelson out at the Fifty-Ninth Street end of the park where he’d parked his car. He put a hand on the Saint’s arm, leaning over the door of the convertible.
“Tell me,” he asked worriedly, “what goes on between you and Spangler? Why does he hate you so?”
A bantering smile touched the Saint’s lean, cynical face.
“We’re allergic, I guess,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
Steve sighed and shook his head perplexedly. He turned and walked to his car.
“Where to now, boss?” Hoppy inquired as the Saint drove the car out into the tide of Fifth Avenue.
“Mike Grady’s,” Simon Templar said flatly.
13
Mr Michael Grady was incredulous. He leaned forward in his swivel chair, his mouth open and his eyebrows lifted in soaring arches.
“Two attempts on your life!” he repeated. “By Spangler?”
The Saint, relaxed in one of Grady’s worn leather chairs, studied him through drifting cirrus clouds of cigarette smoke.
“Not by Spangler in person, perhaps. He’s too smart—and too fat for that.” He sent a playful smoke-ring soaring over Mike’s carroty dome like a pale blue halo. “He merely pays people to try to kill me. Of course,” he added thoughtfully, “when I say two attempts, I’m not counting the first try by brother Karl.
Let’s say he did that on his own and give the good Doc the benefit of any doubt I may have on that particular score…The other attempts were more up Doc Spangler’s alley. One showed organised effort. The other—well, it could have been an accident, you know, giving Mancini an out if he got caught. Both those last tries had brains behind them.”
A confused scowl furrowed Grady’s brow.
“Any why,” he asked, “should you be so quick to make a case against Doc Spangler? He told me all about your crashin’ his house and roughin’ up his hired help and then accusin’ him of those same things you’ve come to me about.”
“Really?” Simon flicked ash into a nearby tray. “The Doc is burning his candour at both ends these days.”
“There are men,” ‘Grady said sententiously, “who make more than a man’s proper share of enemies for no proper reason.” He pointed a stubby finger at the Saint. “And you, Mr Templar, are one of them.”
The Saint bowed graciously.
“I’ve always been rather proud of my enemies, Mike. They’re usually the sort that every man ought to make.” His mouth curved in a crooked smile. “Did your friend Spangler tell you that Karl also shot Whitey Mullins? We found him bleeding on the carpet when we got there.”
“I know all about that. If Whitey or anybody else goes to another man’s house to threaten and raise a shindy
, he should be prepared to take the consequences.” Grady’s lip curled scornfully. “And that’s the manager Nelson picks for himself, is it? Ivory from the neck up! It’s two of a kind they are, and no mistake.” He leaned forward again. “Why, I ask you, why in God’s name should Spangler want to put you away? Why? Give me one reason I can believe.”
The Saint smiled sympathetically.
“I know—mysterious, isn’t it? Or have I already told you that he’s afraid I might be able to show Steve how to beat the Angel?”
Grady snorted impatiently.
“Nuts to that! There’s no man livin’ who can beat the Angel! Neither you nor anyone else can make a winner out of a second-rater like Steve Nelson!”
The Saint’s brows lifted politely.
“Second-rater? He only happens to be the champion. If you’re betting your shirt on the Angel, I hope you have a good laundry. You might have to wait a long time for—”
He stopped short as he saw Grady tense, staring past him. The Saint looked back.
Connie Grady and Steve Nelson stood in the open doorway.
They came in, hand in hand, Nelson shutting the door behind them as they entered, his youthful face set and determined.
The Saint rose lazily to his feet as Grady’s eyes flashed with angry suspicion from Nelson to his daughter.
“What’s the meaning of this?” bellowed the promoter, kicking his chair away and coming out from behind his desk.
Connie’s lips parted to speak, but Nelson stepped forward before she could say a word.
“You’d better ask me that, Mr Grady,” he said, and glanced at the Saint. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were here, or we’d have waited.”
“All right!” Grady roared. “Then I’m askin’ you! What the hell do you mean bustin’ into my office? And how many times have I got to be tellin’ you to keep away from my daughter, you penny-ante palooka!”
“Don’t you dare talk to him like that!” Connie cried, her green eyes flashing angrily. “I’m going to marry him right after the fight, with or without your permission!”
Grady’s mouth dropped open. He swallowed.
“The hell you say,” he finally choked out.
“Perhaps,” Simon murmured, “you family people would like to be alone.”
He edged toward the door, but Nelson grabbed his arm.
“No, stick around. You’re my best man, aren’t you?”
Grady wheeled on the Saint.
“Best man, is it?” he yelled. “So it’s a plot!”
“Not so far as I’m concerned,” the Saint said hastily.
“You listen to me, Mike.” The fighter seized Grady by the lapel. “Seeing that you’re going to be my father-in-law, you might as well—”
“In a pig’s eye!” Grady sputtered. “Let go me coat, you punch-drunk jerk, or I’ll…I’ll…”
He turned wildly and grabbed a boxing trophy that stood on his desk. Nelson ducked nimbly and clutched his wrist, shaking the heavy metal statuette from his grasp.
“You might as well get used to the idea, Mike,” said the Saint. “It seems to be settled that Steve loves Connie and Connie loves Steve, and they’re going to be married, and since they’re both of age I don’t see what you can do about it.”
“Oh, Daddy!” Connie pleaded, coming round to face him. “You’re acting like a spoiled brat. You’ve got nothing against Steve—”
“Let go me arm!” Grady snapped at Nelson. “Or are you trying to break it, you foul-fightin’ blackguard?”
Nelson released him and stepped back.
“I came here to tell you because I don’t want you to say I ever did anything behind your back, Mike,” he said palely.
Connie threw her arms around her father, looking up into his face.
“Darling, you know darn well you haven’t any real reason for not liking Steve.”
“I know it’s all on account of your wanting Connie to have the best, Mike,” Nelson said. “I know I’m not a millionaire maybe, but—”
“We’ll have enough,” Connie put on. “Even”—she looked at Steve nervously, the shadow of her fear passing over her face—“even if he didn’t fight tomorrow night.”
“I’ll be in plenty good shape to take care of a wife,” Nelson grinned. “Especially after tomorrow night.”
Grady gazed at him a moment with lacklustre eyes. Then he pushed Connie away, grabbed his hat from a corner of his desk, jammed it on his head, and stalked to the door.
“Dad, wait!” she cried.
The door slammed behind him.
“Congratulations,” the Saint smiled from the depths of the club chair into which he had retired, one leg slung over a leather upholstered arm. “He’ll dance at your wedding yet.”
“Oh, I do hope so,” said the girl. The rosy flush of effort that had tinted her smooth elfin features was fading to an unhappy pallor. “Oh, Steve…”
“Cheer up,” said the Saint. “He really likes him. He just guessed wrong about Steve at first and he’s too bull-headed to admit it.”
He climbed to his feet once more.
“Have lunch with us,” Steve invited eagerly. “Will you? We have a table at the Brevoort. We’re going over to your place first so I can leave my stuff, and then we—”
“Bless you, my children,” the Saint interrupted, “but I have a prior engagement, unfortunately. Some other time, perhaps.”
He lifted a hand in a debonair gesture of farewell, opened the door, and sauntered out rather abruptly before the argument could continue.
He did not mean to be rude, but he had a sudden pellucid intuition where Michael Grady had gone, and he did not want to be too far behind.
14
Mike Grady sat slumped in a corner of the sofa in Doc Spangler’s study moodily chewing an unlit cigar. Spangler, his elbows on the desk, pressed his fingertips together with injured reproach pointedly visible behind a film of charlatan good humour.
“My dear Mike,” he argued, “every successful man in this game is the natural target of vile rumour and malicious gossip. I’m hurt that you, with all your experience with that sort of thing, should give even hesitant credence to this thing you’ve mentioned.”
“I didn’t say I believed it,” Grady said heavily. “I just want to get your side of it, that’s all.”
“If Karl attacked Templar, it was entirely on his own volition, Mike, I assure you. After all, the Saint gave him sufficient reason, don’t you think?”
“Okay,” Grady said. “Maybe so. But what about the thing that happened this morning? I picked up this paper on my way down here. It’s on the front page—look.” He picked up the early afternoon edition from his lap and tossed it on to Spangler’s desk. “According to that, it was an accident. But was it? Did Templar tell me the truth? Did Mancini try to run him down?”
Spangler shrugged, spreading his hands helplessly.
“Now how would I know? Certainly Slim had as much reason as Karl had to attempt a, shall we say, retributive act? That is, if it wasn’t an accident, which it may well have been.” He sighed. “After all, the manhandling that both of them have suffered from Templar and that gorilla of his would be enough to tax the forbearance of far less…uh…angelic creatures than Karl and Slim, poor fellow. After all, Mike, I’m no nursemaid. Nor do I keep any of my employees on a leash.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mike agreed restlessly, removing the cigar from his mouth. “But that isn’t all. There’s talk. About that last fight. Torpedo Smith’s death is still being—well, talked about. There are rumours—”
“Rumours, rumours…” The fat man shook his head ruefully. “And you listen? Where do you suppose they originate? From Steve Nelson’s camp, of course. Trying to discredit me, to smear the Angel. Nelson knows very well he hasn’t a chance against my man, so he’s preparing his alibi in advance. Can’t you see that? You know and I know that the real reason the Angel wins is because of the psycho-hypnotic technique I use in my training methods. It gives th
at great hulk of a fellow power and speed many times greater than any man is normally capable of.”
“Maybe so.” Grady stuck his cigar back between his teeth and wagged a warning forefinger at Spangler. “But I tell you right here and now, Doc, if that man Smith was killed because of anything…shady…”
The good humour vanished completely from Spangler’s meaty face.
“My dear Mike!” he protested aggrievedly. “Trust my intelligence if nothing else!” He spread his hands widely. “What possible reason could I have to wish him harm?”
“A very good reason indeed, Doctor,” drawled the Saint.
Both men’s eyes jerked to the open doorway.
Simon Templar stood there, the automatic in his hand held with deceptive negligence.
“The Saint!” Spangler got out.
An unhealthy flush suffused his florid face and his hands dropped to his lap behind the desk.
“Yes, gentlemen,” Simon Templar smiled. “However, you’ll notice this little gadget I’m holding is not a harp. Hands on the desk, please, Doc.”
Spangler obeyed slowly, the habitual good humour on his face distorted into a parody of itself.
Grady found his voice.
“What’s this?” he rasped cholerically. “Are you following me around?”
“Rather fortunately for you, I am,” said the Saint. “I overheard just enough of your conversation to settle a lot of early doubts about your honesty. Which only leaves your intelligence more in doubt than ever.”
Spangler suddenly yelled, “Karl! Help!”
Simon shook his head regretfully.
“Don’t strain your larynx, Doctor. It won’t do you any good. We met Brother Mancini’s successor at the door. My friend Mr Uniatz is watching over him in the hall to see that no one disturbs his slumber.” The Saint glanced at the knuckles of his left hand affectionately. “If this happens much more often I’m afraid the Butler’s Union will put you on the black list.”
Grady climbed to his feet, an angry glint in his eye.
“Now look here—” he began.
There was a sudden scurry of footfalls in the hall, and the outer door slammed open just ahead of a wrathful howl from Hoppy.
Call for the Saint (The Saint Series) Page 19
