“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; his 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.”