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.”
Chapter eight
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!”
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.”