good head start. Then he started the car up and followed slowly behind.
Some thirty minutes later the Saint and Steve Nelson were jogging eastward along the inner northern boundary of Central Park, following the edge of the park road. The Saint's long legs pumped in smooth, tireless rhythm as he breathed the dew-washed fragrance of blooming shrubs that covered the green slopes. At that early hour there was practically no traffic through Central Park, and he filled his lungs with air untainted by the fumes of carbon monoxide and tetraethyl lead. . . . During the past weeks the regimen of training in which he had joined Steve Nelson had tempered his lithe strength to the whiplash resilience of Toledo steel and surcharged his reflexes with jungle lightning; and as he ran his blood seemed to tingle with the sheer exultation of just living. He drank deeply of the perfume of the morning, smiling at a sky of the same clear blue as his eyes, his every nerve singing, feeling his youth renewed indestructibly.
He glanced back once at the brooding shadow of Hoppy's face behind the wheel of the car far behind, and chuckled softly. Nelson, trotting beside him, asked: 'What's funny?'
The Saint nodded over his shoulder.
'Hoppy. He's miserable. Nobody to talk to. Nothing to drink.'
Nelson looked back and grinned.
Ahead to his left over the park wall some distance away Simon could see the broad terminus of Lenox Avenue coming into view. Directly in front of them, through the trees, he caught the gleam of the lake that lies at the northern end of the park. The park road swoops sharply to the right at this point, paralleling the lake for a distance as it winds southward again.
The easy purr of an approaching car blended against and quickly drowned out the sound of the Saint's car hugging the edge of the road. The overtaking car accelerated as it came up to them and whooshed past, disappearing around the curve some distance ahead.
The Saint looked after it thoughtfully. Only two private cars had passed them since they'd started running-and both of them had been this same big limousine with the curtained windows.
'I hope you won't be too busy the day after the fight,' Nelson said, glancing at him.
The Saint pondered his remark for a moment.
'That all depends. Why?'
'Connie and I have set the date for our wedding. Will you be my best man?'
The Saint's quick warm smile sparkled at him. 'It'll be a pleasure, Steve.'
Nelson slapped him on the back as they jogged along.
'Thanks.'
'Will you be staying on at your place on Riverside Drive?'
'Yeah. Having it redecorated. As a matter of fact, they started work today. It was the only date I could make that would have it finished when we get- back from our honeymoon, but the place is a mess right now.'
'Why don't you move in with me until the day after tomorrow?' Simon suggested. 'We've got a spare bed that you're welcome to.'
'That's swell of you, Saint.'
'No trouble at all. Besides, it'll be easier to keep an eye on you.'
They padded on with tireless ease, tucking another mile behind them. The city was beginning to take on life. In the distance Simon could see the subway-entrance cupolas at the head of Lenox Avenue with early morning workers hurrying toward each of them. But the park as yet seemed quite deserted. The lake was like a sheet of silvered glass with a covey of green rowboats huddled along the near shore about their mother boathouse. . . .. As they approached the curve in the road the ? path along the road narrowed and the Saint crossed over to the opposite side to run parallel with Steve.
He had just reached the curve when he heard, with startling suddenness, the roar of a car approaching behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. The black limousine that had already passed them twice was crossing over to his side of the road with swiftly increasing acceleration, rushing straight at him. In that split second he perceived with crystal clarity the tall bony high-shouldered figure hunched over the wheel, eyes crinkled with murderous intent, and knew instantly that the driver had stalked them in the hope of catching him apart from Nelson.
He flung himself down the gentle embankment that sloped to the sidewalk before he even heard Nelson's warning yell. The big limousine screamed around on two wheels as it tried to stick to the curve, but its mile-a- minute momentum was too great. It bounded sideways over the slope, entirely clearing the iron railing that bordered the sidewalk, struck the concrete pavement with a sickening crash, and took a fifteen-foot bounce into the lake, landing on its top, its wheels just visible above the water and still spinning.
The Saint leaped to his feet and ran to the water's edge with Nelson sprinting down the embankment after him. A screech of brakes knifed the morning stillness as Hoppy leaped out of his car to join them.
'He ran at you deliberately!' Nelson blurted as he came up.
'That's my trouble-I can't keep my fans away,' said the Saint, and plunged into the water.
'Let him croak!' Hoppy bellowed breathlessly as he came running up. 'De bum was trying to get ya!'
The Saint needed only one dive to tell him what he wanted to know. Nelson read the truth on his face as he came to the surface and rejoined him on the sidewalk.
'You know him?' he asked.
'Doc Spangler,' the Saint said laconically, 'is going to need a new butler.'
He glanced up at the park's Lenox Avenue entrance. Several people, appearing magically, were running down to the scene of the 'accident.'
'Let's get out of here,' he said, and bounded back over the iron fence and up the embankment.
Hoppy and Nelson followed him. They got into the car and sped away as an approaching police-car siren lifted its high clear alarm on the morning air.
'Spangler again,' Nelson muttered grimly, staring straight ahead.
A stream of earnest profanity issued from Mr. Uniatz's practiced lips.
'You shoulda stuck a knife in de rat when you was under wit' him,' he concluded. 'Dose dumb jackasses back dere are liable to pull him out before he drowns.'
'They'll have to pull him off that steering column first,' Simon said callously. 'He's stuck on it like a bug on a pin.'
'But why,' Steve Nelson puzzled, 'did he try to do it? What has he got against you?'
'Maybe he thinks I'm bringing you luck. If I'm out of the way, he's backing the Angel to take care of you.'
Nelson said nothing for a moment. Then he shook his head.
'It doesn't make good sense,' he said. 'I don't get it.'
The Saint shrugged.
'Forget it. Spangler and his outfit are a bunch of psychopaths, anyway.' He unhooked a key from his ring and handed it to Nelson. 'Here-to the apartment. I'll use Hoppy's key.'
Nelson took it with troubled gratitude. 'Thanks-thanks a lot, Saint. I expect I'll take my stuff over sometime this afternoon. I've got some things to do before I move.'
'I've a few things to attend to myself,' said the Saint. 'Move in whenever you're ready.'
They let Steve Nelson out at the Fifty-ninth Street end of the park where he'd parked his car. He put a hand on the Saint's arm, leaning over the door of the convertible.
'Tell me,' he asked worriedly, 'what goes on between you and Spangler? Why does he hate you so?'
A bantering smile touched the Saint's lean cynical face.
'We're allergic. I guess,' he said. 'Don't worry about it.'
Steve sighed and shook his head perplexedly. He turned and walked to his car.
'Where to now, boss?' Hoppy inquired as the Saint drove the car out into the tide of Fifth Avenue.
'Mike Grady's,' Simon Templar said flatly.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mr. Michael Grady was incredulous. He leaned forward in his swivel chair, his mouth open and his eyebrows lifted in soaring arches.
'Two attempts on your life!' he repeated. 'By Spangler?'
