Call for the Saint

'My dear Mike,' he argued, 'every successful man in this game is the natural target of vile rumor and malicious gossip. I'm hurt that you, with all your experience with that sort of thing, should give even hesitant credence to this thing you've mentioned.'

'I didn't say I believed it,' Grady said heavily. 'I just want to get your side of it, that's all.'

'If Karl attacked Templar, it was entirely on his own voli­tion, Mike, I assure you. After all, the Saint gave him sufficient reason, don't you think?'

'Okay,' Grady said. 'Maybe so. But what about the thing that happened this morning ? I picked up this paper on my way down here. It's on the front page-look.' He picked up the early afternoon edition from his lap and tossed it onto Span­gler's desk. 'According to that, it was an accident. But was it? Did Templar tell me the truth? Did Mancini try to run him down?'

Spangler shrugged, spreading his hands helplessly.

'Now how would I know? Certainly Slim had as much reason as Karl had to attempt a, shall we say, retributive act? That is, if it wasn't an accident, which it may well have been.' He sighed. 'After all, the manhandling that both of them have suffered from Templar and that gorilla of his would be enough to tax the forbearance of far less-er-angelic creatures than Karl and Slim, poor fellow. After all, Mike, I'm no nursemaid. Nor do I keep any of my employees on a leash.'

'Yeah, yeah,' Mike agreed restlessly, removing the cigar from his mouth. 'But that isn't all. There's talk. About that last fight. Torpedo Smith's death is still being-well, talked about. There are rumors-:-'

'Rumors, rumors ...' The fat man shook his head ruefully. 'And you listen? Where do you suppose they originate? From Steve Nelson's camp, of course. Trying to discredit me, to smear the Angel. Nelson knows very well he hasn't a chance against my man, so he's preparing his alibi in advance. Can't you see that? You know and I know that the real reason the Angel wins is because of the psycho-hypnotic technique I use in my training methods. It gives that great hulk of a fellow power and speed many times greater than any man is normally capable of.'

'Maybe so.' Grady stuck his cigar back between his teeth and wagged a warning forefinger at Spangler. 'But I tell you right here and now, Doc, if that man Smith was killed because of anything-shady--'

The good humor vanished completely from Spangler's meaty face.

'My dear Mike!' he protested aggrievedly. 'Trust my in­telligence if nothing else!' He spread his hands widely. 'What possible reason could I have to wish him harm?'

'A very good reason indeed, Doctor,' drawled the Saint.

Both men's eyes jerked to the open doorway.

Simon Templar stood there, the automatic in his hand held with deceptive negligence.

'The Saint!' Spangler got out.

An unhealthy flush suffused his florid face, and his hands dropped to his lap behind the desk.

'Yes, gentlemen,' Simon Templar smiled. 'However, you'll notice this little gadget I'm holding is not a harp. Hands on the desk, please. Doc.'

Spangler obeyed slowly, the habitual good humor on his face distorted into a parody of itself.

Grady found his voice.

'What's this?' he rasped cholerically. 'Are you following me around?'

'Rather fortunately for you, I am,' said the Saint. 'I over­heard just enough of your conversation to settle a lot of early doubts about your honesty. Which only leaves your intelligence more in doubt than ever.'

Spangler suddenly yelled: 'Karl! Help!'

Simon shook his head regretfully.

'Don't strain your larynx, Doctor. It won't do you any good. We met Brother Mancini's successor at the door. My friend Mr. Uniatz is watching over him in the hall to see that no one disturbs his slumber.' The Saint glanced at the knuckles of his left hand affectionately. 'If this happens much more often I'm afraid the Butlers' Union will put you on the black list.'

Grady climbed to his feet, an angry glint in his eye.

'Now look here--' he began.

There was a sudden scurry of footfalls in the hall, and the outer door slammed open just ahead of a wrathful howl from Hoppy.

The Saint sighed: 'I guess Karl is on his way to report you now. I was hoping he'd sleep longer than that.'

'What's the meaning of this?' Grady spluttered.

'Yes,' Spangler said, all pretense at good humor blotted out by the venomous hatred that simmered behind the onyx sheen of his eyes, 'what do you want?'

'Your signature,' said the Saint easily. He walked up to Spangler's desk, fishing two checks from his pocket. He laid them before Spangler. 'You'll notice that both of these are for the same amount. The amount, you can verify, is the total of the winner's shares of all the purses that your masked moron has won through practices that are extremely illegal.'

Spangler looked up at him sharply, his hands slipping off the desk.

'You're stark raving crazy!' he blared.

'Do keep your hands on top of the desk, Doctor,' Simon reminded him pleasantly. 'That's better. . . . Both of these checks, you'll observe, are payable to the Simon Templar Foundation for the Relief of Distressed Pugilists.'

'What?' Spangler squealed incredulously.

'What kind of racket is this?' Grady demanded.

A ghost of a smile touched the Saint's face. He stepped to one side and glanced, at the door as Hoppy's heavy footsteps pounded back through the outer door, into the hallway, and clomped to a halt in the doorway of the room.

Mr. Uniatz stood there a moment, catching his breath.

'He got away,' he announced with dark disgust. 'When I wasn't lookin'.'

'Don't worry about it,' Simon said. 'We'll put an ad in the paper.' He returned to Spangler, who had risen to his feet be­hind his desk as the massive frame of Mr. Uniatz filled the doorway. 'As you see, Doc, I've already signed one of those checks. Now you are going to sign the other.'

Spangler turned sharply to Grady.

'You're a witness, Mike. It's blackmail, extortion!'

'Hardly that,' Simon corrected him. 'Those are simply the stakes in our bet, Doctor. I'm betting that Barrelhouse Bilinski is knocked out tomorrow night.'

For a long narrow-lidded moment Doc Spangler gaped at the Saint. And then a slow glistening grin began to spread over his face.

'And that,' he queried softly, 'is what you want me to sign?'

The Saint nodded amiably.

'Exactly. If you don't, I'm afraid our friend Inspector Fer­nack will have to drop in and ask you some awkward ques­tions. . . .'

A deep chuckle seemed to boil up deeply from within the fat man's rotund belly. The chuckle broke into a laugh that shook his chins.

'My dear Mr. Templar!' he said deprecatingly, waving a pudgy hand. 'Put away that gun.' He wiped his eyes with his cuff as though overcome by some secret joke, and looked down at his desk, still chuckling. 'Where's my pen?' He found it and pulled the check toward him, leaning over the desk. He looked up. 'Mike Grady will hold these checks, of course?'

'That's okay with me.'

'Now wait.' Grady frowned, plagued by a vague troubled puzzlement. 'I don't want no part--'

'Of course you do,' the Saint insisted persuasively. 'I assure you this is on the up-and-up, Mike.'

'At least,' Spangler agreed genially, 'I know I can trust you.' He bent over and signed the other check with a flourish and held them both out to Grady. 'If you please, Mike.'

Grady took them reluctantly.

'Nothing would please me more,' Spangler gurgled, 'than to have your check bounce, Mr. Templar. I should enjoy send­ing you to jail for something like that. It would certainly look well in the newspapers.' He licked his lips as if already tasting the Saint's ignominy. 'Famous Adventurer Sentenced to a Year and a Day in County