“But not for long,” Hoppy said complacently. “We fix dat, don’t we, boss?”
Pat’s clear eyes studied the Saint.
“What does he mean — you fixed it up?”
“We informed the Law that the Masked Angel is an old chum of Hoppy’s,” Simon explained glibly. “Naturally, with that kind of a character reference, they’re bound to let Bilinski go.”
“I don’t trust you,” Patricia said coldly. “Not for a minute. What goes on?”
“Goes on?” The Saint’s eyebrows lifted.
“I know you too well. You wouldn’t have left me last night the way you did unless something had—”
She broke off as the door-bell sounded briefly.
“I’ll let her in, boss,” Hoppy said cheerfully, and paddled out of the kitchen.
“ ‘Her?’ ” Patricia quoted acidly. “Miss Grady, I presume?”
“A purely professional visit,” he said calmly. “After all, she is engaged to Steve Nelson.”
Pat’s cool red mouth curved cynically.
“A passing fiancé, no doubt.”
Simon’s eyes closed in pain.
“My dear girl,” he protested.
He got to his feet as Hoppy trumpeted from the hallway.
“It’s Connie Grady, boss!”
She hesitated in the kitchen door, slim and dewy-fresh, her short auburn curls making her look very young and almost boyish, with Hoppy looming up behind her like a grinning Cerberus.
“Come in, darling,” said the Saint. He took her hand and led her to the breakfast alcove. “Miss Grady, this is my colleague, Miss Holm.”
“Hullo, Connie,” said Patricia sympathetically. “Welcome to the harem.”
Connie Grady glanced uncertainly from Pat to Simon. “I... I didn’t know you were having company,” she said. “I didn’t want to—”
“It’s perfectly all right,” Simon assured her. “Pat really is my colleague in... er... many of my enterprises. Anything you say to me you can say to her with equal freedom.” He waved to Hoppy. “That’s another of my colleagues — Hoppy Uniatz.”
“Likewise, I’m sure,” Hoppy beamed. “I seen ya lotsa times when your pop was runnin’ de old Queensbury Gym, remember? Ya useta bring him his lunch.”
Her elfin features crinkled in a smile.
“Yes... I remember.”
“Sit down,” said the Saint. “We’re just starting.”
He saw her settled in the booth and pulled up another chair for himself, while Mr Uniatz doled out plates of bacon and eggs and cups of coffee with hash-house dexterity.
Connie picked up her fork and tried to start, but the effort of restraint was too much. She looked full at the Saint, with the emotion unashamed on her face.
“You saw what happened,” she said, her voice small and tense. “The Angel killed a man last night... Now, do you wonder that I don’t want Steve to fight that — that gorilla?”
“I can see your point.”
“When I was talking to you last night,” she began, “I... I...”
She fumbled as if groping for the right words.
Simon passed Patricia the sugar with harlequin courtesy. She didn’t seem to see it.
She said sweetly, “Last night?”
“On the phone, after you called,” Simon elucidated smoothly. “She wanted to know what went on, too. Her father was rather upset by our little visit to the Masked Angel’s dressing-room after the fight.”
Patricia’s red mouth pursed in a sceptical “Oh!”
Connie found the words at last, “I was hoping and praying they’d keep that — that man in jail — that the fight would be called off...” Her voice broke. “But they’re releasing him.”
“Are they?” Simon asked with interest. “I didn’t see anything about it in my paper.”
“Daddy was over at police headquarters first thing this morning with Spangler — he’s the Masked Angel’s manager.”
The Saint nodded.
“I see. So they got the Angel out of the jug in spite of Hoppy’s recommendation.”
“Steve is going through with this fight — if you don’t do something about it.” Connie Grady’s voice strained against her self-control. “He’ll be killed.”
Hoppy gulped on a mouthful that would have choked a horse.
“Killed? De Champ? Why, he’ll moider de bum!”
Connie turned on him sharply.
“You think so? After what the Masked Angel did to Torpedo Smith last night? That... that so-called bum has beaten every man he’s fought.”
“Under Doc Spangler’s ministry, at least,” the Saint amended.
“Aah, dey was fakes,” Hoppy derided. “Dey musta bin!”
“When Torpedo Smith was killed last night,” she said tensely, “do you think he was faking?”
“You know, of course,” Simon said to Connie, “who the Masked Angel really is, don’t you?”
She nodded warily.
“Yes, of course. Daddy owns part of him.”
She looked up quickly, as if suddenly realising what she had said. “I mean,” she stumbled confusedly, “he doesn’t have any interest in him directly... that is, not really. It’s just that Spangler owes Daddy money, and... and...”
“Of course,” Simon soothed gently. “I understand. It’s just that Doc Spangler is paying off your father from his earnings on the Masked Angel.”
She seemed grateful for the lead.
“Yes. Yes, that’s it.”
“After all,” the Saint observed casually, “it’s not considered ethical for a matchmaker to hold a financial interest in any of his contestants — or at least a major share — so naturally Mr Grady would avoid that sort of thing. Especially where a championship bout was concerned.”
Connie Grady looked up suddenly.
“I don’t want Steve to be one of those contestants!” she burst out, her emerald eyes misting. She turned away. “I sound... ridiculous, don’t I? I... I wouldn’t dream of asking this of anyone else in the world. You... you’re the only person I could possibly imagine being capable of... somehow arranging it so that the fight would never happen.”
“Exactly what are you suggesting?” Pat asked curiously. “Do you think the Saint could persuade Nelson not to fight?”
Connie flashed her a startled glance.
“Oh, no!” she said. “If he knew I’d come here to ask Mr Templar — he’d never forgive me.” She turned to Simon pleadingly. ‘‘‘There must be some — other way I can’t say how. I only know that you’ve done things — in the past — that were like miracles... Daddy has told me about — some of your adventures.”
“Well, well,” said Patricia admiringly. “Simon Templar, the Paul Bunyan of modern crime. Have you another miracle up your sleeve?”
Then she caught the stricken look on Connie’s face and her laughter softened. She put an arm about the girl’s shoulders and looked up at the Saint questioningly.
“Simon, what do you think?”
“I think,” said the Saint, “that we ought to go on with breakfast before it all gets cold, or Hoppy eats it.”
He deliberately devoted himself to his own plate, and insisted on that matter-of-fact diversion until even Connie Grady had to follow with the others. He knew that the let-down was what she needed if she could be eased into it, and for his own part a healthy appetite was mixed with the need for an interlude of constructive thinking in approximately equal proportions. If it was obvious that Connie’s concern for Steve Nelson was absolutely real, it was no less plain to the Saint that she still hadn’t come out with everything that was on her mind.
He waited until the commonplace mechanics of eating had achieved an inevitable slackening of the tension, and then he said almost casually, “Of course, one thing we might do is shoot Barrelhouse Bilinski—”