“Eh?” Spangler grunted blankly.
Hoppy’s attention flashed back to the danger on hand, swivelling his gun to the thug’s belly. One of Karl’s hairy paws had already dipped halfway into a coat pocket.
“Reach!” Mr Uniatz rasped.
“Hands empty, please,” Simon smiled pleasantly over his shoulder.
The squat gunman slowly dragged his hand out of his pocket and raised both arms over his head.
Simon stepped over to him and extracted a Colt automatic from his pocket. Then he proceeded to run his hands with expert deftness down Karl’s sides, under his arms, inside his thighs, and along his back. He patted his sleeves, paused, and plucked another gun from inside one of the gunman’s cuffs. It looked like a toy, no larger than a magnified watch charm, but it held a.22-caliber shell in its chamber.
“Forgive me for underestimating you, comrade,” he said. “You’re a walking arsenal, aren’t you?”
He pulled what seemed to be a fountain-pen from Karl’s breast pocket and examined it briefly. He chuckled, pushing Karl so that he stumbled backwards. Simultaneously, Simon exploded a capsule of tear gas from one end of the “fountain-pen” squarely into the gangster’s nose. Karl clutched his face with both hands and reeled halfway across the room, tripping over a chair and crashing to the floor.
“That stuff spreads!” Spangler gasped. “We’ll all get it—”
“Take it easy,” said the Saint. “The windows are open, and there isn’t enough in one of those pills to do much harm unless it’s shot straight at you.”
“What do you want?” Spangler demanded, a glisten of panic in his eyes. “Why did you come here?” He looked down at Whitey as the trainer gripped the edge of the desk for support and pulled himself to his feet with Hoppy’s quick aid. Spangler pointed at him, his eyes narrowing. “I understand. You’re working for him now!”
Simon lighted a cigarette.
“Don’t confuse yourself, Doc. Hoppy and I represent our own business only — the Happy Dreams Shroud and Casket Company. I’m sorry we weren’t able to accommodate your boy Karl last night. We’d have liked to give him a fitting, but he was in such a hurry...”
He glanced at Karl who, on all fours, was crawling blindly toward the door.
A leer of gargoyle delight transfigured Hoppy’s features as he observed the proffered target. He took three steps across the room and, with somewhat better form than the previous night, launched a thunderous drop kick that caught the unfortunate thug squarely, lifting his entire body off the floor in a soaring ballotade, and dropped him sprawling in a corner.
Spangler stared fascinated at his limp cohort, and then again at Hoppy. His gaze swung uncertainly back to the Saint. He cleared his throat.
“I fail to comprehend,” he began, with an attempt to regain his habitual pomposity, “why you should—”
“I’m quite sure you do comprehend,” the Saint broke in suavely, “why I should resent your sending that goon over to my apartment last night to kill me.”
Spangler opened and shut his mouth like a frog.
“I sent him to your apartment?” he said in shocked tones.
“You hoid him! “ Hoppy growled.
“But my dear boy, I did no such thing!” Doc Spangler plucked a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his shining pink brow. He frowned at Karl, who was beginning to stir again in the corner. “If he took it upon himself to... uh... visit you last night, it must have been a matter of personal inspiration. I had nothing to do with it, believe me.”
“Strangely enough,” said the Saint surprisingly, “I do.”
“He’s lying,” Whitey grated fiercely. “He was gonna knock me off if you hadn’t come when ya did.”
“That’s entirely untrue,” Spangler said. “Mullins forced his way in here; he was abusive and threatening, and when he tried to attack me physically Karl had to fire a shot in my defence.”
“However,” the Saint continued, “a repeat performance was staged less than an hour ago near Sixth Avenue, with three characters and a black sedan taking the chief roles in another attempt to reunite Hoppy and me with our illustrious ancestors.”
“I assure you, sir, that I—”
“Excuse me,” the Saint interrupted. “I’m willing to believe that Karl might attempt a solo mission on account of the kicking around we gave him in the dressing-room, but there were three men in the second try. I’m rather certain the driver was Karl. He might have done that to grind a private axe, but the other two must have had other inducements, Doc, old boy. Inducements supplied by you, perhaps.”
Spangler shook his head bewilderedly.
“But... you’re entirely off the track, dear boy. Karl has been here in the house for the past three hours.”
“Then he must have a twin running around loose gunning for me... As for the other two — I’d lay some odds that one of them was your new butler, Jeeves Mancini, the demon major-domo, who seemed to be sort of lying down on the job when I saw him. The third man,” said the Saint dispassionately, “may very well have been you.”
Spangler’s expression of outraged innocence would have done credit to a cardinal accused of committing bigamy.
“But that’s simply preposterous. I haven’t left the house yet today. As a matter of fact, Karl and Slim and I were about to leave for the gym to meet the Angel when you arrived.” He spread his hands. “Surely you’re not serious when you say you actually expected to find three anonymous snipers — men who tried to shoot you from a car like movie gangsters — here in my house?”
“I don’t say I had that idea all along,” Simon admitted. “It just kind of grew on me when I found their car parked in front of this house. Your Stanley Steamer, I presume, Dr Livingston?”
“What!” Spangler’s eyes were round with appalled amazement, “My dear boy, are you sure you’re not feeling the heat? My car has been parked there all day.”
“I did feel the heat,” said the Saint gently, “of your car’s engine. For a jalopy that hadn’t been moved all day, it was awful feverish.”
“Standing out there in the sun—”
“It might get the chill off. But I hardly think the sun was quite hot enough to burn those holes through the rear window and the windshield.”
Spangler sank back into his chair, shaking his head helplessly.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to prove,” he protested earnestly. “But if you mean those bullet holes, they’ve been there for nearly a month now. One of the boys became a little exuberant one night and—”
“Skip it,” said the Saint amiably. “I didn’t come here to torment you by putting the stretch on your imaginative powers. Any time a good story is needed, I’m sure you can come up with one. I just wanted to make one point for the record. The next time any uncomfortable passes are made at me or any of my friends — among whom I am going to include Steve Nelson — I am just automatically going to drop by and beat the guts out of you and any of your team mates who happen to be around. It may seem rather arbitrary of me, Doc, but an expert like you should be able to allow for my psychopathic fixations... Let’s go, Whitey.”
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.”