Call for the Saint

thing which in his heart of hearts he had long ceased to believe possible, he found himself inexplicably on his feet, howling: 'What's the matter, Saint? You gonna let that dumb lug do that to you? Move around, Templar, move around!'

But the Saint seemed finished. He let the referee come between him and the Angel, and staggered along the ropes, ap­parently helpless and ripe for the knockout blow. ... He wondered, as he peered at the Angel with eyes that he hoped had a glazed appearance, how many more of those sickening body blows he could have taken if the referee hadn't parted them when he did. . . .

This, the Saint knew, was the final move in his play, the all-deciding feint. It would, he hoped, open the Angel's guard sufficiently to permit a blow to the jaw. It would prove some­thing else as well. For he knew that Bilinski's experience would have warned him against such a trick-unless he had reason to believe that the Saint's sudden torpor was not faked, but real! For the Angel must know perfectly well that he had struck no blow that could have dazed his opponent to that extent. Nevertheless, he was opening up more and more, as if he expected the Saint to give ground-as if, indeed, he was ready for Simon to collapse about this point. The Saint doubt­ed that the Angel actually knew how this was being achieved. He was taking Spangler's word for it, and going on past cor­ roborative experience. . . .

The Saint slumped against the ropes, and not one person in the entire mob could have suspected the grim triumph that coursed through his every nerve as the Angel charged in for the slaughter, wide open, a bone- shattering right hurtling at the Saint's jaw.

But the blow never reached its destination.

For even as the Angel started it, Simon Templar's right hand came up from where it had been sagging near the floor, and landed, with the approximate velocity of an ack-ack shell and the same general concussive effect, flush on the Angel's froglike chin. Barrelhouse Bilinski's feet were jolted up a good three inches off the floor; and when he came down again, his eyes glassy, his arms flailing loosely, he continued all the way down-down to the canvas like a mountainous mass of bone­less gelatin.

He lay there twitching slightly; and it was evident to the blindest of the now completely hysterical audience that he would continue to lie there until someone carried him away.

The Saint strolled to his neutral corner as the referee began the formality of counting out the sleeping Angel. He failed to see either Hoppy or Whitey as he leaned against the ropes, and for a moment he was puzzled. Then, through the deafening hullabaloo, he thought he heard Hoppy's bronchitic foghorn somewhere below. As the referee completed his toll and Mush­ky leaped into the ring to retrieve the Angel's carcass, Simon slipped through the ropes and into the midst of the raving, eddying ringside mob, looking about anxiously.

'Hoppy!' he called.

Through the unbroken pandemonium and the pleas of the newspaper reporters and cameramen converging upon him, he heard Hoppy again, this time more distinctly: 'Boss, I got him! I got him!'

'Where are you?' Simon shouted.

'Under de ring! Dis way!'

The great pipe organ burst into 'Hail the Conquering Hero Comes' as Simon peered beneath the apron and saw, silhou­etted against the supporting joists, Mr. Uniatz holding down a set of kicking arms and legs by the simple expedient of sitting on the body that sprouted them.

'He gives me an argument when I don't let him spill out de bottle,' Hoppy explained in stentorian confidence. 'So I do like ya tell me.'

'Bring him out,' said the Saint.

Several dozen spectators crowded around, seething with ex­citement, while the photographers, frustrated in their efforts to get the Saint back in the ring, aimed their cameras at him crouched under the apron. Their flash bulbs went off in broad­sides as Hoppy wrestled with his quarry.

The blue uniforms of policemen were converging on the spot; and over the hubbub and the pealing of the organ Simon heard the brassy tones of another familiar voice approaching.

'One side, get outta the way! One side! What's going on here?' Inspector Fernack trumpeted as he fought his way through the crowd.

Hoppy finally dragged out his kicking clawing captive by the collar of its turtle-neck sweater.

'He tries to pull dis rod on me!' he said, and handed the gun to Simon. He yanked the man to his feet, as Fernack broke through the final barrier of humanity. 'Stand up, youse!'

As the Saint had expected, it was Whitey Mullins.

'What the hell goes on here?' Fernack demanded; and Simon handed him the gun.

'Take this, John Henry. I've got a slug I dug out of a pawn­shop doorframe that I think'll fit it. And I'll give you odds that the bullet that laid out Steve Nelson will also fit Whitey's gun.'

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Simon and Patricia were in Steve Nelson's hospital room next morning when Inspector Fernack arrived. Connie Grady was also there, accompanied by a sub­dued and sympathetic Michael. Mr. Uniatz was also present, accompanied by a breakfast bottle of bourbon. It was like Old Home Week.

'I hear you're doing fine, Champ,' Fernack said. 'How soon is Grady going to match you with the Saint?'

'From what I heard on the radio,' Nelson answered, 'may­be it's a good thing I'm retiring.'

Connie squeezed his hand.

'If you'd like to tell me more about this,' Fernack said, with as close to a tone of respect as he had ever used in speaking to the Saint, 'I'd be willing to listen. We picked up Spangler last night, by the way-he was just packing for a trip.'

'Congratulations, John Henry,' Simon grinned. 'Never let it be said that the Police Department lets lawns grow on its feet.'

Fernack grimaced.

'What I want to know,' he said, 'is how you figured Whitey was working with Spangler.'

'Well-' the Saint began thoughtfully, 'it was the way Whitey kept plugging his hatred for Spangler that first made me suspicious. Then later, when we were at Spangler's place and found Whitey apparently wounded by Karl's bullet, I noticed that the blood on his scalp had already begun to mat.

He couldn't have been shot by the bullet we'd just heard fired, which he claimed. It takes a little longer than that for blood to clot. I realized then and there that he'd actually been grazed by the bullet Hoppy sent through the rear window of the car he and Karl and Slim had used when they shot up the pawn­shop. Probably, when they realized I was in the house, Span­gler had Karl fire into the wall to make it appear that he was the one who'd shot Whitey-thus concealing the fact that Whitey had been one of the gunmen, and prolonging his use­fulness as Steve's manager.'

'If he was Spangler's inside man,' pondered Fernack, 'Whitey must've seconded all of the Angel's opponents. We'll check on that.'

'I've already done that. Quite a while ago. And Whitey did Second the Angel's opponents. Every one of them. That's how the barrel always rolled them out inside of two rounds. . . . I felt pretty sure that Whitey must've been doping the Angel's opponents, of course, if he was tied up with Spangler as I sus­pected. It would be easy for him to fix up his fighters' water with a few drops of something, and Spangler would know what to prescribe that wouldn't show:up in case of accidents.'

'Okay,' Fernack agreed, 'but if it was only knockout drops, what killed Torpedo Smith?'

'Why, you saw it yourself. The Angel hit him when Smith was already half asleep-and believe me, Brother Bilinski can really hit when he has lots of time. I know!'

'Darling,' Patricia said, 'you won't be permanently injured, will you?'

'I hope not,' said the Saint.

THE END