Call for the Saint

There was a pale thread of repressed panic in her startled voice. She was standing in the doorway of Steve Nelson's apartment, staring down at Simon past one of Steve Nelson's broad shoulders.

The Saint went on up the stairs, with Karl's coat over his arm.

'Your playmate must have been in a hurry,' he murmured. 'Doesn't he know there's a clothing shortage?'

Nelson, blond and slim-waisted, gazed at the Saint puzzled­ly. He turned to Connie.

'It's the Saint,' she said. 'Simon Templar. I told you I met him yesterday. . . . My fiance, Steve Nelson,' she introduced them.

As Nelson turned to take Simon's hand, the Saint caught a glimpse of Connie's eyes over his shoulder, strained and pleading. So she was afraid he'd spill the beans about her visit to his apartment that morning.

'I'm afraid you came at rather a difficult moment,' she was saying with a nervous laugh.

'If that character ever comes back again,' Steve Nelson said deliberately, 'he'll lose more than just a coat.' He grinned.'Glad to know you, Saint. I've sure heard a lot about you. Won't you come in?'

Steve Nelson's apartment inside was considerably more at­tractive than the conservative exterior of the building seemed to indicate. Simon looked about him approvingly.

'Do sit down, won't you?' Connie invited, and he could feel her nervousness like a secret between them.

The Saint sat down, stretching his long legs luxuriously as he fished for his cigarettes.

Nelson dropped into a chair across the table and pushed a little wooden donkey toward him. He pumped its tail and a cigarette flopped out of its mouth into the Saint's lap.

Simon retrieved it admiringly.

'Quite a gadget,' he remarked easily. 'Too bad you haven't got one that tosses out undesirable guests with equal facility.'

'That's one thing I'd rather do by hand,' Nelson said. 'You know him, eh?'

The Saint's shoulders lifted slightly. 'Karl? We've met.' He glanced at Connie. She was still standing, watching him tensely. 'One of Doc Spangler's favorite thugs.' He struck a light and lit his cigarette, aware of Nelson's silent curiosity about his visit. 'Unfortunately,' he commented, 'his mind has too much specific gravity- which is only natural, perhaps, when you consider that there's more solid ivory on top of it than even my friend Hoppy Uniatz can boast.'

'Who?' Nelson asked wonderingly.

They all turned to the door as a sudden rush of giant foot­falls came pounding up the stairs.

'That would be him now,' Simon announced calmly.

'Boss!' Hoppy's laryngismal bellow shook the panels of the door almost as forcefully as the crash of his fist. 'Boss, you all right? Boss!'

The Saint sprang to his feet, but Connie was already open­ing the door.

Hoppy surged in looking around alertly. He spotted Simon with a gusty sigh of relief.

'Hoppy,' Connie cried in alarm. 'What's the matter?'

'Chees!' wheezed Mr. Uniatz. 'I see dat monkey Karl comin' out after you go in, an' when you don't come out after him--'

'You really thought that brainless ape had taken me? You didn't stop him to find out?'

Mr. Uniatz floundered with embarrassment.

'Well, I chase him, boss, but he dives into somebody's base­ment on West End Avenoo, an' I'm kinda worried about what goes wit' youse, so I come back to find out.'

The Saint handed him Karl's coat.

'He was just streamlining his wardrobe. You can have it- it's about your size and certainly your style.'

He turned to Nelson. 'This is Hoppy Uniatz. Hoppy- meet the Champ, Steve Nelson.'

Hoppy thrust out a hamlike paw as he grabbed the coat with the other.

'Likewise, I'm sure,' he beamed.

'This your sparring partner?' Nelson asked, looking Hoppy up and down with respect.

'Not Hoppy,' said the Saint regretfully. 'He forgot all the Queensberry rules long ago. When Hoppy fights, he uses everything he has-including his head, elbows, knees, and feet. That is, when he can't use brass knuckles, a beer bottle, or a blackjack.'

'Well, yeah,' Hoppy admitted, 'a sap makes t'ings easier, but ya can't handle it wit' dem big gloves on.'

'I guess not,' Nelson said politely.

'But I'll sure be glad to spar wit' youse, just de same,' Hoppy said. 'I myself can knock dis Masked Angel kickin' and so can you.'

'That's what the Angel's manager seems to be afraid of,' Nelson said. He turned to Simon. 'He sent that bum I threw out to proposition me.'

The Saint regarded him steadily.

'Tell me more.'

'Spangler's offering him the Angel's share of the purse!' Connie broke in, a note of hysteria in her voice, 'Steve'll get the whole purse if he-if--'

She was trembling.

'Take it easy, baby,' Nelson soothed, putting an arm around her shoulders. He looked at Simon. 'I get the Angel's cut of the purse if I throw the fight. That's the proposition.' He showed his teeth humorously. 'The Boxing Commission will get a kick out of it when I tell them.'

Simon shook his head.

'I'm afraid Spangler will only deny it.'

'But Connie's a witness!'

'Of course. But Karl was drunk. He didn't know what he was doing or saying. And he was kidding anyway. Karl's a great little kidder. At least, that's what Spangler will say, and Karl will agree with him absolutely. Spangler may even fire him-in public anyway-for being a bad boy.' The Saint shrugged. 'I wouldn't bother about reporting it to the Com­mission if I were you, Steve. Just go ahead and flatten the Angel. Tell the Commission afterwards.'

'No!' Connie cried. 'Steve ought to report it first. Spangler shouldn't be allowed to get away with it. He's a crooked manager and it's going to be a crooked fight!'

'I can take care of myself,' Nelson said irritably. 'The fight's going on, baby, come hell or high water. And I'm not going to get hurt. After all the good men I've fought, you have to worry about a stumble bum like the Angel!'

'Lookit, Champ,' Hoppy said proudly. 'I got a idea.'

'What?'

'Whyncha tell de Doc you'll take his proposition-cash in advance? Get de dough an' den knock de fat slob for a homer. What's wrong wit' dat?'

'I'm afraid it would offer undesirable complications,' Simon vetoed amiably. 'There are enough complications to straighten out as it is.' He pulled Mike Grady's gun from his pocket. 'This, for instance,' he said, and handed it, butt first, to Steve Nelson.

For the space of two seconds a startled stillness froze the room.

Then Nelson put out his hand slowly and took the weapon. He glanced at it, looked at the Saint a moment, then turned to meet Connie's wide stare. Her eyes were dark with apprehen­sion.

The narrow margin of Mr. Uniatz's brow knotted in puz­zlement.

'Boss,' he said hoarsely, 'ya don't mean it was him?'

The champion's eyes flashed to the Saint.

'What's this about?' he clipped. 'Where'd you get this?'

'From some character who paid us a call last night. We've been trying to find out who he was and return it to him, in case he feels undressed without it. Mike Grady admits the gun is his, but he claims you stole it from him.'

'That's ridiculous!' Connie jumped up, her eyes flashing. 'Daddy was-he wasn't himself!' Sudden tears spilled down the curve of her cheeks. She continued with difficulty: 'He- he'd been drinking too much. Steve had to take the gun away from him.'