Call for the Saint (The Saint Series) Read online

  “You won’t mind if I borrow this until I trace the character who tried to use it on me last night?”

  “Help yourself,” Grady grunted darkly. “Did you have any idea who it was?”

  “Do you think Steve Nelson could answer that question?”

  Grady scowled and shook his head.

  “It doesn’t sound like him—sneakin’ into a man’s house…No, it couldn’t have been! The lowser must have sold it or—lost it. Whoever got it from Nelson is the man. you’ll be wantin’.”

  The Saint stood up.

  “That’s who I’m going to find,” he said. “I’ll see you again, Mike.”

  Before the promoter realised that the interview was over, he had opened the door and sauntered out.

  There was a sudden dampening of volume in the conversation about him as he emerged from Grady’s office. Whereas he had attracted little attention on entering the reception-room, his effrontery in crashing Grady’s office ahead of everyone else now made him a marked man, the target of a concentrated battery of indignant eyes. But the Saint seemed wholly unaware of the hushed hostility as he paused by the girl at the switchboard and watched her plug in a connection.

  “Yes, Mr Grady,” she said. And after a moment, “Dr Who?…Yes, sir, I’ll get him for you right away.”

  She reached for the telephone directory on a shelf beside her.

  “Crescent 3-1465,” the Saint prompted helpfully.

  She looked up like a startled gopher, and Simon Templar gave her the same friendly smile with which he had short-circuited her before.

  “It was Dr Kurt Spangler you wanted, wasn’t it?” he said, and strolled on out before she could find her voice.

  Hoppy Uniatz had the engine of the convertible racing as Simon opened the door, and he scarcely gave the Saint time to sit down before he banged in the clutch and sent the car roaring up the street and lurching around the first corner against the lights.

  “What are you trying to do?” Simon asked. “Pick up a ticket?”

  “Don’t worry, boss,” Hoppy said. “De getaway is a cinch. I drove lotsa dese jobs before. Dijja blast him good?”

  Simon considered him.

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Dat bum, Grady! Ya just give him de business, don’tcha?”

  The Saint shook his head patiently.

  “No, Hoppy, no. I never said that our visitor last night was Mike Grady. Let’s head for Riverside Drive—I mean to talk to Steve Nelson in person.”

  8

  The blue convertible swept up Riverside Drive through the sixties, past seventies, with the sun-drenched wind whispering through Simon Templar’s crisp black hair; it was a clean brisk wind cooled by the majestic mile-wide ribbon of the Hudson which ran parallel on their left, its shining waters stippled by the wind in a million breaking facets that caught the bright sunlight in broad mosaics of burnished gold. All in all, the Saint thought, it was much too gay and lovely a day for exploring spiritual sewers, or delving into the fetid labyrinths of murder.

  They were in the eighties before the Saint signalled Hoppy to slow down.

  “It’s that house at the end of the block,” he said.

  The big car swooped to the curb and drew to a halt before one of the three-storied brownstone buildings which stand along Riverside Drive like autumnal spinsters, their old-fashioned elegance reminiscent of a more sedate and happier era.

  “De champ live here?” Hoppy asked with some wonder.

  “It says so in the directory.”

  “Wit’ his dough, I’d be livin’ on Park Avenue.”

  “That’s why you wouldn’t have his dough for long.” Simon got out of the car. “Wait for me, Hoppy. I won’t be long.”

  A glance at the letter-boxes revealed that Steve Nelson had an apartment on the second floor. Simon opened the door and went to the foot of the thickly-carpeted stairway. The gloom inside was stygian by contrast with the brightness of the street, but he was able to make out the doorway of Steve Nelson’s apartment at the head of the stairs. From the same direction came the sound of male voices raised in argument.

  Simon gripped the ornately carved banister and bounded upwards lightly and with absolute silence; before he reached the top, however, the voices suddenly rose to shouting violence. There was a girl’s scream, and the door flew open with a crash. A bull-necked citizen staggered backwards out of the door, followed by a taller, quick-moving younger man who gripped him by the shoulder, spun him around with a jerk, and sent him crashing down the stairs with a savage kick.

  If the Saint hadn’t been in the way, it is probable he would have continued to the bottom without more than two bounces. But, as it happened, Simon caught the impact of his weight on one arm and shoulder, lifted him to his feet, and had a good look at his face.

  “Why, Karl!” Simon greeted him affably, keeping a firm grip on the dazed thug’s lapel. “How you do get around.”

  Recognition and fear flared simultaneously in the gunman’s eyes. With a sudden turn he jerked away and leaped the rest of the way down the stairs and disappeared out the door, leaving his coat in the Saint’s hands.

  “The Saint!” Connie Grady gasped.

  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 over 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 fiancé, 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 landing 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 towards 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 favourite 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 story 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!”<
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  The Saint sprang to his feet, but Connie was already opening the door.

  Hoppy surged in, looking round 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 is your sparring partner?” Nelson asked, looking Hoppy up and down with respect.

  “Not Hoppy,” said the Saint regretfully. “He never learned the Queensberry rules in his life. 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 gloves on.”

  “I guess not,” Nelson said politely.

  “But I’ll 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 humourlessly. “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 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.”

  She flung herself on the sofa and buried her face in her hands.

  Steve Nelson put his arm about her shoulders.

  ‘‘That’s okay, baby,” he comforted, “that’s okay.”

  Hoppy stirred uncomfortably, but the Saint accepted the emotional demonstration and Nelson’s uncertain glare with Indian equanimity. He was completely impersonal, completely unconfused.

  He lighted another cigarette, and exhaled with judicious patience.

  “All I’m interested in,” he said, “is how that gun happened to find its way into my apartment last night.”

  Nelson seemed uncertain whether to explain or fight.

  “Sure, I…I took the gun away from Grady, but how it got into the hands of a burglar I don’t know. I gave it back to Connie to give back to her father.” He turned to her. “You did return it to him, didn’t you, honey?”

  She sat up, drying the teary dampness from her nose, and shook her head in silent negation.

  Nelson stared at her.

  “You didn’t?”

  She stuffed her handkerchief away.

  “I didn’t want him to have it!” she said vehemently. “He wasn’t safe with it. After what he did to you—”

  “But—”

  “I gave it to Whitey to get rid of,” she said. “I told him to drop it in the river!”

  “I know Whitey,” said Mr Uniatz. “He’s a good trainer, Champ.”

  “He’s my manager too, now,” Nelson said.

  Simon stroked the ash-tray with the end of his cigarette, clearing the glowing end.

  “Since when?” he inquired.

  “We signed the papers yesterday.” Nelson turned back to Connie. “Whitey never said anything about you giving him the gun.”

  “Why should he? I just told him to get rid of it and not say anything to anybody.”

  “Whitey’s okay,” Mr Uniatz insisted, to make his point absolutely clear. “He can do ya a lotta good.”

  “Sure,” Nelson asserted moodily, “and he’s honest—which is a damn sight more than you can say for most of ’em—not that your dad isn’t honest, honey,” he amended quickly. “We never quarrelled over that.”

  The Saint drew his trimmed cigarette end to a fresh glow.

  “It sounds cosy as hell,” he murmured. “But I’d still like very much to find out what Brother Mullins did with that gun after he got it.”

  The girl said, “I don’t know…I don’t know.”

  Footfalls sounded on the stairway outside and the doorbell rang.

  “That’s probably him now,” Nelson said. “He’s going to the gym with me.”

  He opened the door and Whitey Mullins stepped in, as advertised.

  “Hiya, Champ,” he greeted, and stopped short as he caught sight of Hoppy heaving to his feet.

  “Whitey!” Mr Uniatz welcomed, surging forward and flinging a crane-like arm about Whitey’s shoulders in leviathan camaraderie.

  Mullins staggered beneath the shock of its weight; hi
s derby slipped over his forehead and he pushed it back crossly.

  “Easy, you big ape!” he snarled.

  “We just hear you are de Champ’s new manager,” Hoppy bellowed happily.

  “This is the Saint,” Steve Nelson introduced. “You’ve heard of him.”

  Whitey Mullins’s pale eyes widened a trifle; his mouth formed a nominal smile.

  “You bet I have.”

  He thrust out a narrow monkey-like hand. “I seen you at the fights last night, didn’t I?”

  The Saint nodded, shaking the hand.

  “I was there.”

  “Sure you seen us,” Hoppy said. “You’re de foist one tells us de Torpedo is crocked, remember?”

  “I never wanna have nuttin’ like that happen to me again,” Mullins said grimly. “It’s awful. I still can’t figure how it coulda happened. The Torpedo was in great condition. The poor guy musta had a weak ticker—or sump’n.” He turned to Simon, a faint gleam coming alive in his pale eyes. “I heard you raised a stink with that louse Spangler after the fight.”

  The Saint launched a smoke-ring in the direction of the gun lying on the table and smiled dreamily.

  “The stench you mention,” he said, “was already there. Hoppy and I merely went to investigate its source.”

  “Yeah,” Hoppy corroborated. “De Angel stinks out loud! Why, dat bum can’t fight.”

  “How can you say that,” Connie objected tensely, “when he just killed a man in the ring?”

  “That was an accident.” Mullins waved away her fears with an impatient gesture of one thin hairy hand. “That crook Spangler will be eatin’ off’n his social security when we get through with him, huh, Champ? You’ll murder that big beef he stole from me!”

  His hatchet face was venomous, as though distorted by an inward vision of vengeance.

  “Whitey,” Connie said, “what did you do with that gun?”

  Whitey’s rapt stare came back to earth and jerked in her direction.

  “Gun?” he said blankly, and followed her glance at the table. “Oh, that.”

  He looked quickly at Steve, at Simon, and Hoppy, and back to Connie again.

  “Yes, that,” she said. “I told you to get rid of it.”

  “I did,” Whitey said. “How did it get here?”