Call for the Saint

The Saint, relaxed in one of Grady's worn leather chairs, studied him through drifting cirrus clouds of cigarette smoke. 'Not by Spangler in person, perhaps. He's too smart-and too fat for that.' He sent a playful smoke ring soaring over Mike's carroty dome like a pale blue halo. 'He merely pays people to try to kill me. Of course,' he added thoughtfully, 'when I say two attempts, I'm not counting the first try by brother Karl. Let's say he did that on his own and give the good Doc the benefit of any doubt I may have on that particular score. . . . The other attempts were more up Doc Spangler's alley. One showed organized effort. The other-well, it could have been an accident, you know, giving Mancini an out if he got caught. Both those last tries had brains behind them.'

A confused scowl furrowed Grady's brow.

'And why,' he asked, 'should you be so quick to make a case against Doc Spangler? He told me all about your crashin' his house and roughin' up his hired help and then accusin' him of those same things you've come to me about.'

'Really?' Simon flicked ash into a nearby tray. 'The Doc is burning his candor at both ends these days.'

'There are men,' Grady said sententiously, 'who make more than a man's proper share of enemies for no proper reason.' He pointed a stubby finger at the Saint. 'And you, Mr. Templar, are one of them.'

The Saint bowed graciously.

'I've always been rather proud of my enemies, Mike. They're usually the sort that every man ought to make.' His mouth curved in a crooked smile. 'Did your friend Spangler tell you that Karl also shot Whitey Mullins? We found him bleeding on the carpet when we got there.'

'I know all about that! If Whitey or anybody else goes to another man's house to threaten and raise a shindy, he should be prepared to take the consequences.' Grady's lip curled scorn­fully. 'And that's the manager Nelson picks for himself, is it? Ivory from the neck up! It's two of a kind they are, and no mistake.' He leaned forward again. 'Why, I ask you why, in God's name, should Spangler want to put you away? Why? Give me one reason I can believe.'

The Saint smiled sympathetically.

'I know-mysterious, isn't it? Or have I already told you that he's afraid I might be able to show Steve how to beat the Angel ?'

'Grady snorted impatiently.

'Nuts to that! There's no man livin' who can beat the Angel! Neither you nor anyone else can make a winner out of a second-rater like Steve Nelson!'

The Saint's brows lifted politely.

'Second-rater? He only happens to be the champion. If you're betting your shirt on the Angel, I hope you have a good laundry. You might have to wait a long time for--'

He stopped short as he saw Grady tense, staring past him. The Saint looked back.

Connie Grady and Steve Nelson stood in the open doorway. They came in, hand in hand, Nelson shutting the door behind them as they entered, his youthful face set and determined.

The Saint rose lazily to his feet as Grady's eyes flashed with angry suspicion from Nelson to his daughter.

'What's the meaning of this?' bellowed the promoter, kick­ing his chair away and coming out from behind his desk.

Connie's lips parted to speak, but Nelson stepped forward before she could say a word.

'You'd better ask me that, Mr. Grady,' he said, and glanced at the Saint. 'Sorry, I didn't know you were here, or we'd have waited.'

'All right!' Grady roared. 'Then I'm askin' you! What the hell do. you mean bustin' into my office? And how many times have I got to be tellin' you to keep away from my daughter, you penny-ante palooka!'

'Don't you dare talk to him like that!' Connie cried, her green eyes flashing angrily. 'I'm going to marry him right after the fight, with or without your permission!'

Grady's mouth dropped open. He swallowed.

'The hell you say,' he finally choked out.

'Perhaps,' Simon murmured, 'you family people would like to be alone.'

He edged toward the door, but Nelson grabbed his arm.

'No, stick around. You're my best man, aren't you?'

Grady wheeled on the Saint.

'Best man, is it?' he yelled. 'So it's a plot!'

'Not so far as I'm concerned,' the Saint said hastily.

'You listen to me, Mike.' The fighter seized Grady by the lapel. 'Seeing that you're going to be my father-in- law, you might as well--'

'In a pig's eye!' Grady sputtered. 'Let go me coat, you punch-drunk jerk, or I'll-I'll--'

He turned wildly and grabbed a boxing trophy that stood on his desk. Nelson ducked nimbly and clutched his wrist, shaking the heavy metal statuette from his grasp.

'You might as well get used to the idea, Mike,' said the Saint. 'It seems to be settled that Steve loves Connie and Connie loves Steve, and they're going to be married, and since they're both of age I don't see what you can do about it.'

'Oh, Daddy!' Connie pleaded, coming around to face him. 'You're acting like a spoiled brat. You've got nothing against Steve--'

'Let go me arm!' Grady snapped at Nelson. 'Or are you trying to break it, you foul-fightin' blackguard?'

Nelson released him and stepped back.

'I came here to tell you because I don't want you to say I ever did anything behind your back, Mike,' he said palely.

Connie threw her arms around her father, looking up into his face.

'Darling, you know darn well you haven't any real reason for not liking Steve.'

'I know it's all on account of your wanting Connie to have the best, Mike,' Nelson said. 'I know I'm not a millionaire, maybe, but--'

'We'll have enough,' Connie put in. 'Even'-she looked at Steve nervously, the shadow of her fear passing over her face-'even if he didn't fight tomorrow night.'

'I'll be in plenty good shape to take care of a wife,' Nelson grinned. 'Especially after tomorrow night.'

Grady gazed at him a moment with lackluster eyes. Then he pushed Connie away, grabbed his hat from a corner of his desk, jammed it on his head, and stalked to the door.

'Dad, wait!' she cried.

The door slammed behind him.

'Congratulations,' the Saint smiled from the depths of the club chair into which he had retired, one leg slung over a leather upholstered arm. 'He'll dance at your wedding yet.'

'Oh, I do hope so,' said the girl. The rosy flush of effort that had tinted her smooth pixie features was fading to an unhappy pallor. 'Oh, Steve . . .'

'Cheer up,' said the Saint. 'He really likes him. He just guessed wrong about Steve at first and he's too bullheaded to admit it.'

He climbed to his feet once more.

'Have lunch with us,' Steve invited eagerly. 'Will you? We have a table at the Brevoort. We're going over to your place first so I can leave my stuff, and then we--'

'Bless you, my children,' the Saint interrupted, 'but I have a prior engagement, unfortunately. Some other time, perhaps.'

He lifted a hand in a debonair gesture of farewell, opened the door, and sauntered out rather abruptly before the argu­ment could continue.

He did not mean to be rude, but he had a sudden pellucid intuition where Michael Grady had gone, and he did not want to be too far behind.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Mike Grady sat slumped in a corner of the sofa in Doc Spangler's study, moodily chewing an unlit cigar. Spangler, his elbows on the desk, pressed his fingertips together with injured reproach pointedly visible behind a film of charlatan good humor.