Call for the Saint (22 page)

Whitey, let go the desk unsteadily.

“Okay. I can make it,” he said, and waved away Hoppy’s helpfully offered hand. He followed Simon, spitting contemptuously on the floor as he passed Karl’s cowed figure huddled in the corner.

As they sped northward up Fifth Avenue, Mullins explained the predicament in which the Saint had found him.

“I guess I was nuts,” he said, “goin’ into that den of thieves alone, but I went off my chump just thinkin’ of that lousy fink sendin’ his stooge to proposition my boy.”

“You shoulda gone heeled, pal,” Hoppy said.

“I did.” Whitey slapped his right hip. “But I just figured on bawling Spangler out, not killin’ him; and then I get blasted from behind.”

“How long were you there?” Simon asked.

” ‘Bout half an hour. Say!” Whitey’s voice lifted as though remembering. “It couldn’a been Karl who was with those mugs what you said tried to gun you. He was in that room with Spangler most of the time I was cussin’ the Doc.” His pale eyes’ brightened with thought. “Y’ know, there’s a coupla heist guys with the Scarponi mob who Spangler hires sometimes for jobs. They look a lot like Karl.”

The Saint shrugged.

“He still might have made it. I figure that Karl got some of his pals together in a hurry after he left Steve’s place, and followed Hoppy and me when we left. I wouldn’t give him an alibi unless he punched a time clock. You certainly weren’t in shape to time everything to the minute.” He glanced at Whitey. “We’d better drop you off at a doctor’s so you can get that fixed up. How do you feel?”

“Oh, I’m okay, Saint,” Whitey minimized. He felt his blood-clotted head gingerly. “The slug took a li’l hair off, that’s all. Just drop me off at Kayo Jackson’s gym. I’ll wash up there.”

“It’s your noodle.” Simon swung the wheel to his left and cut westward toward Sixth Avenue.

“Did you mean it,” Whitey asked after a moment, “when you said you’d work with the Champ?”

The Saint fished a cigarette from his breast pocket and punched the dashboard lighter.

“You’re the trainer, Whitey.”

Whitey found a match in his pocket and struck it with his thumb, cupping the flame as he held it to the Saint’s cigarette.

“Kayo’ll go nuts when I tell him,” he grinned. “Wit’ you and the Champ workin’ out there together, we’ll pack ‘em in.”

“At two bits a head,” Mr. Uniatz mentioned, rather quickly for him. “So whaddas de boss get out of it?”

“I’ll see that Kayo shells out with the Saint’s cut of the gymnasium gate, don’t worry.”

“Hoppy is my agent,” said the Saint.

He was thinking more about the slug he carried in his pocket -the slug he had dug out of the pawnshop doorframe. He had to ponder the fact that neither Karl’s guns nor Slim Mancini’s were of the same caliber-and in spite of what he had said, he couldn’t really visualize Doc Spangler doing his own torpedo work. There was at least negative support for Whitey’s evidence that Karl had been in the house during the time the Saint thought he’d seen him at the wheel of the gunmen’s car. Yet Simon found it impossible to reconcile his indelibly photographic impression of the man who had driven that car with the possibility that it had been someone other than Karl. … If it hadn’t been Karl, then it had certainly been his identical twin.

CHAPTER TWELVE
The dawning sun arched a causeway of golden light through the Saint’s bedroom window, glinting on his crisp dark hair as he laced on the heavy rubber-soled shoes in which he did his road work with Steve every morning. Hoppy, bleary-eyed, leaned against the doorframe, watching him unhappily.

“Chees;” he complained hoarsely, “will I be glad when de fight is over tomorrow night! I’m goddam sick of gettin’ up wit’ de boids every mornin’ to do road work wit’ Nelson.” He yawned cavernously. “Dis at’letic life is moider.”

“What athletic life?” the Saint inquired with mild irony. “The only road work you do is follow behind in the car with Whitey.”’

Hoppy sighed lugubriously.

“Dat ain’t de pernt, boss. It’s just I don’t get de sleep a guy. needs at my age.”

“Well, I must say you wear the burden of your years with lavender and old dignity,” Simon complimented him. He stood up and headed for the door. “Come on, Steve and Whitey will be waiting for us.”

Hoppy groaned and followed like an exhausted elephant.

They found Nelson near the Fifty-ninth Street entrance of Central Park, alone.

“Whitey’s got another of those headaches,” he explained. ”I think maybe that bullet Karl grazed him with last month must have shaken his brains up worse than he admitted.”

The Saint nodded, breaking into an easy jogging trot beside Nelson as they struck out northward along the side of a winding park road.

“Could be,” he agreed.

Mr. Uniatz climbed into the car again, and waited disconsolately for several minutes in order to give them a good head start. Then he started the car up and followed slowly behind.

Some thirty minutes later the Saint and Steve Nelson were jogging eastward along the inner northern boundary of Central Park, following the edge of the park road. The Saint’s long legs pumped in smooth, tireless rhythm as he breathed the dew-washed fragrance of blooming shrubs that covered the green slopes. At that early hour there was practically no traffic through Central Park, and he filled his lungs with air untainted by the fumes of carbon monoxide and tetraethyl lead… . During the past weeks the regimen of training in which he had joined Steve Nelson had tempered his lithe strength to the whiplash resilience of Toledo steel and surcharged his reflexes with jungle lightning; and as he ran his blood seemed to tingle with the sheer exultation of just living. He drank deeply of the perfume of the morning, smiling at a sky of the same clear blue as his eyes, his every nerve singing, feeling his youth renewed indestructibly.

He glanced back once at the brooding shadow of Hoppy’s face behind the wheel of the car far behind, and chuckled softly. Nelson, trotting beside him, asked: “What’s funny?”

The Saint nodded over his shoulder.

“Hoppy. He’s miserable. Nobody to talk to. Nothing to drink.”

Nelson looked back and grinned.

Ahead to his left over the park wall some distance away Simon could see the broad terminus of Lenox Avenue coming into view. Directly in front of them, through the trees, he caught the gleam of the lake that lies at the northern end of the park. The park road swoops sharply to the right at this point, paralleling the lake for a distance as it winds southward again.

The easy purr of an approaching car blended against and quickly drowned out the sound of the Saint’s car hugging the edge of the road. The overtaking car accelerated as it came up to them and whooshed past, disappearing around the curve some distance ahead.

The Saint looked after it thoughtfully. Only two private cars had passed them since they’d started running-and both of them had been this same big limousine with the curtained windows.

“I hope you won’t be too busy the day after the fight,” Nelson said, glancing at him.

The Saint pondered his remark for a moment.

“That all depends. Why?”

“Connie and I have set the date for our wedding. Will you be my best man?”

The Saint’s quick warm smile sparkled at him. “It’ll be a pleasure, Steve.”

Nelson slapped him on the back as they jogged along.

“Thanks.”

“Will you be staying on at your place on Riverside Drive?”

“Yeah. Having it redecorated. As a matter of fact, they started work today. It was the only date I could make that would have it finished when we get- back from our honeymoon, but the place is a mess right now.”

“Why don’t you move in with me until the day after tomorrow?” Simon suggested. “We’ve got a spare bed that you’re welcome to.”

“That’s swell of you, Saint.”

“No trouble at all. Besides, it’ll be easier to keep an eye on you.”

They padded on with tireless ease, tucking another mile behind them. The city was beginning to take on life. In the distance Simon could see the subway-entrance cupolas at the head of Lenox Avenue with early morning workers hurrying toward each of them. But the park as yet seemed quite deserted. The lake was like a sheet of silvered glass with a covey of green rowboats huddled along the near shore about their mother boathouse… .. As they approached the curve in the road the • path along the road narrowed and the Saint crossed over to the opposite side to run parallel with Steve.

He had just reached the curve when he heard, with startling suddenness, the roar of a car approaching behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. The black limousine that had already passed them twice was crossing over to his side of the road with swiftly increasing acceleration, rushing straight at him. In that split second he perceived with crystal clarity the tall bony high-shouldered figure hunched over the wheel, eyes crinkled with murderous intent, and knew instantly that the driver had stalked them in the hope of catching him apart from Nelson.

He flung himself down the gentle embankment that sloped to the sidewalk before he even heard Nelson’s warning yell. The big limousine screamed around on two wheels as it tried to stick to the curve, but its mile-a-minute momentum was too great. It bounded sideways over the slope, entirely clearing the iron railing that bordered the sidewalk, struck the concrete pavement with a sickening crash, and took a fifteen-foot bounce into the lake, landing on its top, its wheels just visible above the water and still spinning.

The Saint leaped to his feet and ran to the water’s edge with Nelson sprinting down the embankment after him. A screech of brakes knifed the morning stillness as Hoppy leaped out of his car to join them.

“He ran at you deliberately!” Nelson blurted as he came up.

“That’s my trouble-I can’t keep my fans away,” said the Saint, and plunged into the water.

“Let him croak!” Hoppy bellowed breathlessly as he came running up. “De bum was trying to get ya!”

The Saint needed only one dive to tell him what he wanted to know. Nelson read the truth on his face as he came to the surface and rejoined him on the sidewalk.

“You know him?” he asked.

“Doc Spangler,” the Saint said laconically, “is going to need a new butler.”

He glanced up at the park’s Lenox Avenue entrance. Several people, appearing magically, were running down to the scene of the “accident.”

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, and bounded back over the iron fence and up the embankment.

Hoppy and Nelson followed him. They got into the car and sped away as an approaching police-car siren lifted its high clear alarm on the morning air.

“Spangler again,” Nelson muttered grimly, staring straight ahead.

A stream of earnest profanity issued from Mr. Uniatz’s practiced lips.

“You shoulda stuck a knife in de rat when you was under wit’ him,” he concluded. “Dose dumb jackasses back dere are liable to pull him out before he drowns.”

“They’ll have to pull him off that steering column first,” Simon said callously. “He’s stuck on it like a bug on a pin.”

“But why,” Steve Nelson puzzled, “did he try to do it? What has he got against you?”

“Maybe he thinks I’m bringing you luck. If I’m out of the way, he’s backing the Angel to take care of you.”

Nelson said nothing for a moment. Then he shook his head.

“It doesn’t make good sense,” he said. “I don’t get it.”

The Saint shrugged.

“Forget it. Spangler and his outfit are a bunch of psychopaths, anyway.” He unhooked a key from his ring and handed it to Nelson. “Here-to the apartment. I’ll use Hoppy’s key.”

Nelson took it with troubled gratitude. “Thanks-thanks a lot, Saint. I expect I’ll take my stuff over sometime this afternoon. I’ve got some things to do before I move.”

“I’ve a few things to attend to myself,” said the Saint. “Move in whenever you’re ready.”

They let Steve Nelson out at the Fifty-ninth Street end of the park where he’d parked his car. He put a hand on the Saint’s arm, leaning over the door of the convertible.

“Tell me,” he asked worriedly, “what goes on between you and Spangler? Why does he hate you so?”

A bantering smile touched the Saint’s lean cynical face.

“We’re allergic. I guess,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

Steve sighed and shook his head perplexedly. He turned and walked to his car.

“Where to now, boss?” Hoppy inquired as the Saint drove the car out into the tide of Fifth Avenue.

“Mike Grady’s,” Simon Templar said flatly.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mr. Michael Grady was incredulous. He leaned forward in his swivel chair, his mouth open and his eyebrows lifted in soaring arches.

“Two attempts on your life!” he repeated. “By Spangler?”

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.”