Call for the Saint (The Saint Series) Read online

  The Saint sighed, “I guess Karl is on his way to report to you now. I was hoping he’d sleep longer than that.”

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Grady spluttered.

  “Yes,” Spangler said, all pretence at good humour 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 cheques 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 cheques, 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 turned to Spangler, who had risen to his feet behind the desk as the massive frame of Mr Uniatz filled the doorway. “As you see, Doc, I’ve already signed one of those cheques. 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 cheque toward him, leaning over the desk. He looked up. “Mike Grady will hold these cheques, 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 cheque 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 cheque 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 Hoosegow!’ ”

  “That wouldn’t be nearly so embarrassing,” the Saint said imperturbably, “as twenty years in Sing Sing for second-degree murder. I don’t think you really wanted to kill Torpedo Smith. But nevertheless he died on account of you.”

  Spangler’s jaw fell open. He started to speak.

  “Now look here,” Grady tried again. “I don’t like this a bit, Saint. I just don’t want to be mixed up in any—”

  “Just the same, you’re going to hold those bets,” said the Saint. “And you want me to drive you back to your office—now. Come along.”

  “I warn you,” Spangler said bleakly, “that I shall hold both of you to the exact terms of that bet. If you try to welsh on it, the Betting Commissioner—”

  “Your fadder’s moustache!” Mr Uniatz quoted delicately.

  He spread a large horny hand over Spangler’s beefy face, and pushed with the force of a locomotive piston. Doc Spangler crashed backwards against his chair and toppled thunderously to the floor, chair and all. He was still lying there as Simon and Hoppy conducted Grady firmly out of the room and out of the house.

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am,” the Saint said as they drove northward up Fifth Avenue, “to know that you’re not in cahoots with Spangler, Mike. That was the thing that bothered me most of all.”

  “Thanks for the bill of health,” Grady responded caustically. “It’s that relieved I am.” He scowled. “But I can’t say I go for the high-handed way you have of ordering me about at the point of a gun!”

  “Forgive me,” the Saint apologised, “but I couldn’t take any chances of being deprived of your company for lunch.”

  “I got too many things to do, Saint. No time for lunch. Just get me back to the Arena as quick as you can.”

  “It won’t take much time,” Simon smiled dreamily. “I’ve got a table at the Brevoort…”

  Grady frowned. “Well—I’ll see if I can make it.”

  They parked in front of the Arena and Simon accompanied Grady inside to his office.

  The girl at the switchboard called out as they entered Mike’s office, “There’s been several calls from your daughter, Mr Grady, and from Mr Mullins…”

  “Okay,” Grady grunted, and picked up the stack of letters and messages piled upon his desk. “Wonder what Whitey Mullins wants,” he muttered, thumbing through the sheaf. “According to this pile of call notes, he’s phoned about six times.”

  The telephone rang. Grady lifted the receiver.

  “Who?…Okay, put him on…Hello, Whitey?…” Mike Grady suddenly stiffened as he listened. He paled visibly and for a few seconds listened in silence. Presently he asked, “In the Saint’s apartment? What was he doing there?…Yes, of course. I’ll be down as soon as I possibly can.”

  He hung up and turned to the Saint.

  “Steve Nelson has been shot,” he said. “In your apartment.”

  The Saint’s whole being seemed to stand still in the same timeless stasis that affected the expansion of his ribs.

  “Karl,” he said slowly and bitterly. “Waiting for me in my apartment…”

  Grady looked stupidly at him.

  “No…At least Whitey says the police don’t think it was anyone layin’ for you at your place. Whoever did it they think was waitin’ for you on the roof of the apartment house across the street. There’s a bullet hole in the window of the room where Connie found him.”

  “Connie?” the Saint repeated, knowing even as he said it how it must have happened.

  “She was waiting for him in the car while he went up to your place to leave his things. He was going to stay with you, wasn’t he?”

  Simon nodded.

  “Where is he?”

  “Bellevue. They got the bullet out of him. Whitey says they think he’s got a fifty-fifty chance.” Grady’s face furrowed with pain. “The poor kid…He’s a helluva fine boy, Saint. I’ve just been a damn fool, and that’s a fact!”

  He glared at Simon defensively.

  “Listen, Mike.” The Saint gripped his arm. “Whoever did it must’ve thought it was me. It could only have been one of Spangler’s men. It was my fault that this happened.”
<
br />   “But why should Spangler want to do you in?”

  “He’s afraid that I’ll find out what he’s been up to. I started the whole thing by butting in after the Torpedo Smith fight. Now I’ve got to finish it. Listen—I’ve to take Steve’s place tomorrow night.”

  Grady’s eyes bulged.

  “What?”

  “You heard me! You’ve got to put me in against the Angel!”

  The Saint’s steely fingers tightened about Grady’s arm. “You’ve got to, Mike!”

  “Bu…but…”

  Grady stopped short and looked at him for a long moment. He stepped backwards and eyed him up and down critically. He said finally, “Well, you look big enough. And hard enough, I guess. I’ve heard how you can hit…”

  “I’ve been working with Steve,” said the Saint. “I’m in as good condition as a man ever was, Mike. And I can take Bilinski, believe me!”

  “But it’s ridiculous!” Grady exploded. “There’s never been such a fight—”

  Simon said swiftly, “Make an announcement in the ring. Tell them about my bet with Spangler. If they want their money back, they can have it. If they just want to see a fight—even if it’s only the Saint—”

  “Only the Saint!” Grady’s eyes took fire. A luminous inspired glow spread over his round, freckled face. “Holy mackerel! Maybe it won’t be a championship fight as advertised, but with you in it—”

  “Come on, then.” Simon pulled him towards the door. “Let’s go—I’ve got to get hold of Whitey right away!”

  15

  The opening preliminary was already under way when the Saint, with Hoppy and Patricia Holm, strode through the tag-end of the crowd of street urchins who eddied about the “artists’ ” entrance of the Manhattan Arena.

  Whitey met them in the doorway.

  “I was gettin’ worried,” he said anxiously. “What happened to ya? The show’s started.”

  He started them down the corridor that turned off to the dressing-room section. The Saint stopped him.

  “Whitey, will you show Miss Holm to her seat? I don’t think she can find her way up front from this part of the Arena.”

  The tempting curve of Miss Holm’s red mouth drew to a pout.

  “You mean I’ve got to spend the next hour or so in solitary refinement?”

  “Well, you certainly can’t spend it in my dressing-room,” said the Saint. “It’s not exactly a ladies’ boudoir.”

  Whitey nodded to Patricia, in visible awe of her golden-blonde beauty.

  “Sure, just follow me,” he said. He turned to Simon. “I’ll check on the Angel’s hand-wraps on my way back.”

  They disappeared round a turn from where the roar of the crowd was flowing like the muted roar of distant surf.

  The Saint went on with Hoppy to his dressing-room, feeling the ghostly fingers of peril once more playing their familiar cadenza along his vertebrae and up through the roots of his hair…He knew, his every instinct told him, that tonight he was fighting for greater stakes than glory or dollars. Tonight would be more than a mere encounter with padded gloves. Tonight he would be fighting for his life.

  A swarthy snaggle-toothed character in a dirty polo shirt was seated on a broken-down chair as they entered the dressing-room. Hoppy recognized him at once.

  “Mushky,” he growled. “I fought you was in de Angel’s corner.”

  “So I am, chum, so I am,” Mr Mushky Thompson agreed affably. “I gotta take a gander when you bandage de Saint’s hands.”

  “That’s what I admire about this business,” Simon remarked cheerfully. “Everyone trusts everyone else.”

  Hoppy fixed Mr Thompson with a baleful glare.

  “Out, ya bum,” he ordered.

  “Now wait,” Mushky protested. “It’s de rules. I—”

  “Oh, let him alone,” said the Saint. “Whitey is watching the Angel, isn’t he? It isn’t exactly a unilateral proposition.”

  “Sure,” Mr Thompson agreed with hasty anxiety. “No cause for gettin’ mad, Hoppy. I’m just one of de hired hands.”

  Hoppy grunted and proceeded about the business of laying out the hand bandages, adhesive tape, rubber mouthpiece, collodion, ammonia, and other paraphernalia of the modern gladiator.

  “You working with Karl, Mushky?” the Saint asked casually as he slipped out of his street clothes.

  Thompson shook his head.

  “Naw…He…uh…got kicked in the face by a beer-wagon horse. Broke his jaw in two places, I hear.”

  Hoppy looked up at him a moment, and broke into a deep guffaw.

  “Ya don’t say,” he yakked.

  Simon slipped into his dark purple sateen trunks and began to lace his boxing shoes swiftly as Hoppy tore strips of adhesive tape into suitable knuckle strips. Mushky Thompson lounged in his chair with a cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth until Hoppy had finished taping the Saint’s hands with practised precision, reinforcing the bones without impairing their freedom. Then Mushky got to his feet.

  “Good luck,” he threw over his shoulder. “You’ll need it.”

  “Tanks,” Hoppy said—and did a take after the gibe sank in.

  “Come back here!” the Saint snapped as Mr Uniatz started after the Angel’s second. “Don’t start anything now, you idiot!”

  Hoppy made unintelligible gravelly noises through his bared teeth, his nuclear mind infected as much by the vibrant blood cry of the mob as by the taunt. Impending battle—his own or anyone else’s—was apt to make Mr Uniatz emotionally unstable.

  Three preliminaries and a semi-final later, the Saint lay on the rubbing table, completely relaxed, listening to ten thousand throats vibrating the walls in a massive chorus of excitement. The semi-final bout had ended in a knock-out, he guessed, from the uproar. He stretched his length peacefully, his eyes closed, everything in him settled into an immeasurable stillness amid the swirling rumble of vociferation. Dimly and indistinguishably he heard the orotund bellow of the announcer introducing somebody after the roar of the crowd had died down a bit, and shortly afterwards the man who had been introduced began speaking over the audience public-address system, and he recognized Grady’s unmistakable accents even though he could not make out the words.

  Hoppy stumbled into the dressing-room, breathless from battling the crowd en route.

  “What a mob!” he wheezed, his eyes gleaming. “Grady’s up dere makin’ dat announcement!”

  A swelling ululation rose in a gathering tidal wave of sound and broke thunderously upon their ears.

  “Say,” Hoppy exulted, “sounds like dey like what he told ’em, huh?” He came over to the Saint. “Boss, what does Spangler say when Grady tells him ya goin’ in for Nelson?”

  The Saint yawned.

  “Oh, he raised a little stench about it at first, but Mike reminded him that my bet stated that Bilinski would be knocked out—it didn’t say by whom. So he changed his mind…By the way, did Pat get a good seat?”

  “Yeah,” Hoppy chuckled hoarsely. “An’ guess who’s she settin’ next to!”

  “Are you training for a quiz programme, or would you just like to tell me?”

  “Inspector Foinack!”

  The Saint considered him reverently for a moment, while the forthcoming possibilities of that supernal juxtaposition developed the gorgeous gamut of their emotional potential.

  “Oh, my God!” Simon breathed. “I’d rather watch that than my own fight.”

  There was a patter of footsteps and Whitey Mulling darted into the dressing-room. His face was contorted with savage glee.

  “Okay,” he croaked. “You’re on, Saint. They’re waitin’ for you!” He snatched up the water bucket. “Grab the water-bottle and sponge,” he yelped at Hoppy, and went to the door.

  The Saint swung his long legs off the table to the floor and stood up. He followed Whitey out of the door into the corridor, with Hoppy bringing up the rear.

  “Brother, I only wisht it was that lousy crook Spangler you was
smackin’ around tonight,” Mullins grated with vitriolic bitterness as they mounted the ramp into the Arena, “and not just that dumb ox he stole from me.”

  Simon sensed an excitement, a temper in the crowd that was different from the usual mass tension of the ordinary fight attendance at Grady’s weekly shows. It was electric with anticipation of the unexpected, a breathless waiting watchfulness that he felt as he mounted to the apron of the ring and slipped between the ropes amid a thunderclap of acclaim. There was a slight note of hysteria in it, he thought as he seated himself on the stool in his corner and looked about the ocean of faces that spread on every side.

  The Masked Angel hadn’t appeared yet, but the Saint rather expected that Spangler would try every trick in the bag, including the petty one of wearing down the opposition’s nerves by making him wait.

  He failed to spot Pat among the buzzing tide of faces at the ringside, but everything beyond the glare of light centring on the ring was little more than a smoke-dimmed blur. The faces, void of all individuality, were such as one encounters sometimes in nightmare sequences, a phantasmagoria of eyes and noise—hard, critical, and skin-prickingly theriomorphic…He wondered momentarily if Steve was in good enough shape to listen to the fight from his bedside…Connie had been with him nearly all day at the hospital…

  A roar like an approaching forest fire filled the packed coliseum with surging clamour as the Masked Angel appeared up the ramp, preceded by Doc Spangler and followed by a cohort of handlers bearing the various accessories of refreshment and revival. The incredible bulk of the Angel loomed up over the apron of the ring and squeezed between the ropes in his corner, his plates of sagging fat quivering like chartreuse jelly. Unmasked now, his ridiculous little nubbin of a head bobbed from side to side in acknowledgment of the roars of the mob, his round little cheeks and button nose more an inspiration for laughter than the fearsome horror his black mask had aroused.

  Behind him, Doc Spangler leaned over his shoulder and spoke softly into an ear that was the approximate size and shape of a Brussels sprout.

  As the Saint watched them from beneath lowered lids, he felt once again the spectral footfalls of ghostly centipedes parading his spine, knowing that his real danger was as yet undetermined, the point of attack, unknown. How it would come, in what shape or form, he wasn’t quite sure. He’d covered all the possibilities, or so he thought; but whether the threat, the unknown secret weapon that the Angel must surely possess, would come from an act of the Angel himself, or from some outside agent, he wasn’t quite sure. All he had was an idea…He felt its shadow upon him like a ghostly mist, ambient and all-pervading…