Call for the Saint

'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 wearily.

'Yes, of course. Daddy owns part of him.'

She looked up quickly, as if suddenly realizing 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-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 letdown 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 inter lude 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 realize!'

'Realize 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 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 coffeepot, 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?'

On the table between them he laid the revolver which last night's visitor had left behind.