Call for the Saint (23 page)

“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 around 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 in. “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 lackluster 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 pixie 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 bullheaded 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.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
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 humor.

“My dear Mike,” he argued, “every successful man in this game is the natural target of vile rumor 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 onto 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-er-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 rumors-:-“

“Rumors, rumors …” 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 that 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 humor 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 humor 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 Butlers’ 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.

The Saint sighed: “I guess Karl is on his way to report you now. I was hoping he’d sleep longer than that.”

“What’s the meaning of this?” Grady spluttered.

“Yes,” Spangler said, all pretense at good humor blotted out by the venomous hatred that simmered behind the onyx sheen of his eyes, “what do you want?”

“Your signature,” said the Saint easily. He walked up to Spangler’s desk, fishing two checks from his pocket. He laid them before Spangler. “You’ll notice that both of these are for the same amount. The amount, you can verify, is the total of the winner’s shares of all the purses that your masked moron has won through practices that are extremely illegal.”

Spangler looked up at him sharply, his hands slipping off the desk.

“You’re stark raving crazy!” he blared.

“Do keep your hands on top of the desk, Doctor,” Simon reminded him pleasantly. “That’s better… . Both of these checks, you’ll observe, are payable to the Simon Templar Foundation for the Relief of Distressed Pugilists.”

“What?” Spangler squealed incredulously.

“What kind of racket is this?” Grady demanded.

A ghost of a smile touched the Saint’s face. He stepped to one side and glanced, at the door as Hoppy’s heavy footsteps pounded back through the outer door, into the hallway, and clomped to a halt in the doorway of the room.

Mr. Uniatz stood there a moment, catching his breath.

“He got away,” he announced with dark disgust. “When I wasn’t lookin’.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Simon said. “We’ll put an ad in the paper.” He returned to Spangler, who had risen to his feet behind his desk as the massive frame of Mr. Uniatz filled the doorway. “As you see, Doc, I’ve already signed one of those checks. Now you are going to sign the other.”

Spangler turned sharply to Grady.

“You’re a witness, Mike. It’s blackmail, extortion!”

“Hardly that,” Simon corrected him. “Those are simply the stakes in our bet, Doctor. I’m betting that Barrelhouse Bilinski is knocked out tomorrow night.”

For a long narrow-lidded moment Doc Spangler gaped at the Saint. And then a slow glistening grin began to spread over his face.

“And that,” he queried softly, “is what you want me to sign?”

The Saint nodded amiably.

“Exactly. If you don’t, I’m afraid our friend Inspector Fernack will have to drop in and ask you some awkward questions… .”

A deep chuckle seemed to boil up deeply from within the fat man’s rotund belly. The chuckle broke into a laugh that shook his chins.

“My dear Mr. Templar!” he said deprecatingly, waving a pudgy hand. “Put away that gun.” He wiped his eyes with his cuff as though overcome by some secret joke, and looked down at his desk, still chuckling. “Where’s my pen?” He found it and pulled the check toward him, leaning over the desk. He looked up. “Mike Grady will hold these checks, of course?”

“That’s okay with me.”

“Now wait.” Grady frowned, plagued by a vague troubled puzzlement. “I don’t want no part—”

“Of course you do,” the Saint insisted persuasively. “I assure you this is on the up-and-up, Mike.”

“At least,” Spangler agreed genially, “I know I can trust you.” He bent over and signed the other check with a flourish and held them both out to Grady. “If you please, Mike.”

Grady took them reluctantly.

“Nothing would please me more,” Spangler gurgled, “than to have your check bounce, Mr. Templar. I should enjoy sending you to jail for something like that. It would certainly look well in the newspapers.” He licked his lips as if already tasting the Saint’s ignominy. “Famous Adventurer Sentenced to a Year and a Day in County Hoosegow!”

“That wouldn’t be nearly so embarrassing,” the Saint said imperturbably, “as twenty years in Sing Sing for second-degree murder. I don’t think you really wanted to kill Torpedo Smith. But nevertheless he died on account of you.”

Spangler’s jaw fell open. He started to speak.

“Now look here,” Grady tried again. “I don’t like this a bit, Saint. I don’t want to be mixed up in any—”

“Just the same, you’re going to hold those bets,” said the Saint. “And you want me to drive you back to your office- now. Come along.”

“I warn you,” Spangler said bleakly, “that I shall hold both of you to the exact terms of that bet. If you try to welsh on it, the Betting Commissioner—”