Call for the Saint

murderous suddenness over hers. And the hand it closed on was holding a hypodermic syringe of brittle glass.

The barrel of the syringe became instantly a non-cohesive assortment of razor-sharp fragments, slicing agonizingly deeper into Big Hazel's flesh as the Saint's merciless grip ground tighter. All of her faculties were concentrated, to the exclusion of every other thought, on the immediate, vital, and hysterical necessity of opening her hand before the fingers began falling off. And being thus occupied, she was in no condition to realize that the Saint's hand had also swung her around until she completely blocked Frankie's line of fire.

At the same moment, Mr. Uniatz moved with an agility that threw a surprising side light on his nickname. He dived for the nearest gun on the floor, and fired almost as his paw closed on it. The only sound Frankie Weiss made was a queer sort of choking cough as he went down; and the tommy gun never spoke at all. . . .

'All right,' Kearney's voice said from the top of the stairs. 'Break it up, or I'll let all of you have it.'

Simon pushed Big Hazel away and smiled up at him.

'Good old Alvin,' he said. 'Never too late to take a bow.'

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Monica Varing turned her head upon the pillow, and her hair moved with it in a shining skein on he bare satin of her shoulder. The robe she wore swooped downward from there in a V so deep that Simon Templar, leaning on the high footboard of her hospital bed, was aware of not wholly inexplicable vertigo whenever his eyes wandered that way.

He sighed ostentatiously.

Monica smiled. Her voice was warm temptation.

'Is anything wrong? I thought all your problems were wound up nicely.'

'They are-nearly all.' He grinned rather wryly. 'Kearney got a promotion, Elliott cleared his good name, Laura Wingate-' The blue darkened. 'Laura Wingate held out a lot longer than I expected, but she's finally made a confession. Even Fingers Schultz.' The grin came back. 'It seems that a mug named Fingers Schultz was picked up in the street last night with tire marks all over him, apparently the victim of a hit-run driver; but I haven't asked Sammy the Leg what his car looks like.'

Monica leaned forward, clasping her knees, and smiled at him dazzlingly. The Saint enjoyed his ensuing vertigo.

'Why the deep sighs, then?'

'Because now we'll have hardly any excuse for seeing each other. How soon do you expect to get out of this joint?'

'By evening. It was nonsense bringing me in at all, but my manager insisted on a few days' rest. Tonight I play Nora as usual.'

'And after the show?'

'I was waiting to be asked. What were you thinking of?'

The Saint smiled.

'Exactly the same thing as you,' he said.

BOOK TWO: THE MASKED ANGEL

CHAPTER ONE

At this moment Simon Templar was not quite enjoying the thrill of a lifetime.

Relaxed as much as the immediate carpentry would permit in his ringside seat between Hoppy Uniatz and Patricia Holm, he blended the smoke of his own cigarette with the cigar-and-sweat aroma of the Manhattan Arena, and contemplated the dying moments of the semi-final bout with his sapphire eyes musing under lazily drooping lids. Never addicted to obtain­ing his thrills vicariously, the man who was better known to the world as the Saint would have found small cause for excitement even if he had been addicted to such sedentary pur­suits. Being there anyhow, he slouched in easy grace, the clean-cut lines of his face etched in a bronze mask of sardonic de­tachment as he watched the two gladiators move about the ring with all the slashing speed of ballet dancers in leg irons per­ forming under water, and dedicated himself uncomplainingly to whatever entertainment the soiree of sock might provide.

In the great world outside, there were uncountable charac­ters who would have considered his presence there with no equanimity. Some of them, who in one way or another had participated in much shadier promotions than prize fights, would have considered it a personal injustice that anyone like Simon Templar should still be at large when so many of their best friends were not. Others, whose standard of righteousness was vouched for by at least a badge, would have moaned just as loudly that there was nothing basically unhappy about a policeman's lot except what the Saint might plant in it.

If Inspector Fernack, for instance, had seen him there, that bulldogged minion of the law would have pondered darkly. He would have sensed from long experience in previous en­counters with this amazing modern buccaneer that the Saint could have no orthodox interest in such a dreary offering of Promoter Mike Grady's salon of swat. Of course the main bout between Torpedo Smith and the celebrated Masked Angel would probably be more interesting, but Simon Templar wasn't there just for the entertainment. That was something John Henry Fernack would never have believed.

And on this occasion, for instance, he would have been right.

Jeers swept in derisive breakers over the two Ferdinands in the ring without in the least disturbing the equilibrium of their mitt minuet. The massed feet of the cash customers began to stamp in metronomic disapproval, and Simon's chair jumped as the boxcar brogans on his left added their pile-driving weight to the crashing cantata. Their owner's klaxon voice lifted in a laryngismal obbligato, a brassy, belly-searching ulu­lation with overtones reminiscent of the retching bellow of a poisoned water buffalo. This, the Saint recognized, was merely Hoppy Uniatz's rendition of a disgusted groan.

'Boss,' Hoppy heaved, 'dis is moider!' The narrow strip of wrinkles that passed for Hoppy's forehead was deep with scorn. 'I oughta go up dere and t'row 'em bot' outta de ring.'

Hoppy's impulses were beautiful in their straightforward simplicity and homicidal honesty. The small globule of proto­plasm that lurked within his rock-bound skull, serving the nominal function of a brain, piloted his anthropoidal body ex­clusively along paths of action, primitive and direct, unencum­bered by any subtleties of thought or teleological considera­tions. The torture of cerebration he left entirely to the man to whose lucky star he had hitched his wagon. For, to Hoppy, the Saint was not of this ordinary world; he was a Merlin who brought strange wonders to pass with godlike nonchalance, whose staggering schemes were engineered with supernatural ease to inevitable success through miracles, of intellect which Hoppy followed in blind but contented obedience.

The Saint smiled at him tenderly.

'Relax, chum. This isn't the fight we came to see anyway.'

The dream with the spun-gold hair on Simon's right smiled.

'Never,' admonished Patricia Holm, 'look gift horses in the mouth.'

'To corn a phrase,' the Saint observed dryly.

'Huh?' Hoppy stared at the Saint's lady in openmouthed perplexity. 'Horses ?' His face, which bore a strong family re­semblance to those seen on totem poles designed to frighten evil spirits, was a study in loose-lipped wonder. 'What horses ?'

'After all,' Pat said, 'we're here as guests and--'

The clanking of the bell terminated both the fight and the need for further explanation. The sound pulled the trigger on a thunderclap of boos as the unfatigued gladiators were waved to their respective corners to await the decision. It came swift­ly. A well-booed draw.

'What a clambake,' Hoppy muttered.

'No hits, no runs, no fight,' Simon murmured sardonically.

'They had a lot of respect for each other, hadn't they?' Pat observed innocently.

'Respect!' Hoppy exploded. 'Dem bums was doggin' it. I could beat bot' deir brains out togedder wit' bot' hands tied behind me.' He simmered with righteous outrage. 'I only hope de Masked Angel don't knock out Torpedo Smith too quick. Dey oughta let him stay for at least a coupla rounds so maybe we'll see some fightin'.'

'If there's any fighting to be seen,' Simon said, absently, 'at least we're in a good position to see it.'