Call for the Saint

'The pleasure,' Simon bowed, 'is all mine.'

'Not at all, my dear fellow. I-er-I've rather expected this visit-at some time or another, knowing of your parasitic propensities.'

The Saint lifted an eyebrow.

'Parasitic?'

Dr. Spangler chuckled.

'Forgive me. I was merely referring to your habit of living on other people's enterprises.'

'Meaning, no doubt, that you think I've come for a cut of your take in the Masked Angel-is that it?'

Spangler shrugged deprecatingly.

'What else?'

'Doc, whassa matter, huh?' the Angel queried with a puz­zled grin which exposed several broken teeth. 'What's he want?'

'Take it easy, Barrelhouse,' Hoppy rumbled. 'Dis is strictly social.'

The Saint laughed.

'You're wrong, Doctor.'

'Am I ?' Spangler said. 'I've always known that at some un­expected point in the strange geometry of providence our paths must surely cross someday. We have much in common, Tem­plar. We would work well together.'

Mockery danced in Simon's azure eyes.

'You must be psychic, Doctor, to have recognized me so quickly. I can't recall our ever having met before.'

'True.' Spangler nodded graciously. 'However, your face has appeared in the public prints on several occasions I can recall.'

'And so has yours,' said the Saint reminiscently-'generally tacked on post-office walls beneath the word 'Wanted.' '

Spangler chuckled.

'You amuse me.'

The light in Simon's eyes settled into two steely points.

'Then laugh this off. Torpedo Smith is dead.'

The startled sag of the fat man's jaw was too sincere a reflex for simulation. His stare shifted uncertainly to Karl standing beside him.

'Vot der hell!' Karl's beetling black brows matched his sneering snarl. 'You tryink to scare somebody, hah?'

The Angel scratched his jaw bewilderedly, the whole un­lovely mass of his gross nakedness quivering like jelly as he turned to his manager.

'Dead?' he muttered stupidly. 'He's dead?'

Hoppy nodded admiringly.

'He won't never be no deader. Whereja ever get dat punch, chum? Why, when we was togedder, you stunk.'

'My dear sir,' Spangler said, eyeing the Saint with watchful deliberation, 'if this is an attempt at humor--'

'You needn't laugh now,' Simon assured him pleasantly. 'Save it for later-when the police get here. They should be in at any moment.'

The Angel licked his lips tremulously.

'Jeez, Doc ... I croaked him. I croaked de Torpe­do ...'

'He's lying!' Karl sneered. 'Smith cannot be dead!'

'Listen.' The Saint glanced at the door. 'I think I hear them now.'

They followed his gaze, listening.

And while they stood intently frozen, the Saint sauntered quite casually to the corner where Karl and Maxie had tossed the Angel's gloves, and scooped them up in one sweeping motion.

Dr. Spangler turned quickly.

'What are you doing? Put down those gloves!' Alarmed suspicion darkened his colorless eyes. 'Karl! Angel!'

His voice broke shrilly.

Bilinski went into motion uncertainly, as if still wondering what he was called on to do; but with a playful push as gentle as the thrust of a locomotive piston, Hoppy shoved him back to a sitting position on the edge of the rubbing table.

'Aw, don't mind, him, Barrelhouse,' he grinned. 'He's just noivous.'

He stuck out a foot to trip Karl who, gun in hand, was div­ing for cover behind the table.

The Saint moved with the effortless speed of lubricated lightning, kicking the gun from the sprawling thug's hand with all the vicious grace of a savate champ.

'Whassamatter ?' the Angel blinked bewilderedly. 'Doc--'

Karl struggled to all fours. It was a strategic error; for he presented, for one irresistible moment, his rear end to Mr. Uniatz's ecstatic toe in an explosive junction that flung him end over end into the shower stall across the room.

'Help!' Spangler shouted. 'Max! Max! Hel--'

His cry broke in a gasping grunt as the Saint's fist buried itself a good six inches in his paunch, collapsing him to the floor like a deflated blimp.

'Nice woik, boss,' Hoppy congratulated.

'Hey's what's the big idea?' the Angel demanded, his con­fusion crystallizing into a fuzzy awareness that the isotope of friendship had somehow exploded.

He struggled off the edge of the rubbing table.

'Aw, relax, ya fat slob!' Hoppy recommended affection­ately.

He clarified his suggestion with a shove that had all the deli­cate tact of an impatient rhinoceros slamming full tilt into a bull elephant; and the Angel, unbalanced, staggered back­wards, knocking over the rubbing table and going down with it in a thunderous crash.

'All right, Hoppy,' Simon called from the door as he re­moved the key. 'Don't let's wear out our welcome.'

He handed the gloves to Hoppy as they stepped out into the corridor and locked the door behind them. As they turned to leave, other gruff voices echoed faintly through the corridor leading from the end of the ramp; and the Saint's white teeth flashed in a satiric grin as he recognized the terse tonalities of the Law.

'The other way, Hoppy,' he said, and turned in the oppo­site direction.

They sped swiftly through the underground maze toward the basement exits that opened into the street at the other end.

CHAPTER THREE

Hoppy Uniatz eased the big convertible adroitly through the midnight traffic and past the bright lights of the Times Square district; and presently gave vent to a cosmic complaint.

'Boss,' he announced with the wistful appeal of an arid hippopotamus being driven past a water hole, 'I gotta t'oist. Exercise always gives me a t'oist, boss.'

'Keep going,' the Saint commanded inexorably. His long brown fingers were carefully probing the gloves on his lap. 'You can refresh yourself after we get home.'

Hoppy sighed and trod on the accelerator again.

'Anyt'ing in dem gloves, boss?'

'I can't feel anything.'

Simon lifted a glove and sniffed it thoughtfully. He rubbed his finger over the damp leather and tasted it.

'Barrelhouse musta loined how to speed up his punch,' Hoppy ruminated. 'De fat slob always can hit like a mule, but he never is able to land it much when I know him. He's too slow.' Hoppy shook his head in perplexity. 'Imagine him bein' de Masked Angel! Doc Spangler musta teached him plenty.'