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 towards 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 it 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 alarum on the morning air.
“Spangler again,” Nelson muttered grimly, staring straight ahead.
A stream of earnest profanity issued from Mr Uniatz’s practised 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 some time 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 organised 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.
“Any 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 candour 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.”
“I know all about that. If Whitey or anybody else goes to another man’s house to threaten and raise a shindy, he should be prepared to take the consequences.” Grady’s lip curled scornfully. “And that’s the manager Nelson picks for himself, is it? Ivory from the neck up! It’s two of a kind they are, and no mistake.” He leaned forward again. “Why, I ask you, why in God’s name should Spangler want to put you away? Why? Give me one reason I can believe.”
The Saint smiled sympathetically.
“I know — mysterious, isn’t it? Or have I already told you that he’s afraid I might be able to show Steve how to beat the Angel?”
Grady snorted impatiently.
“Nuts to that! There’s no man livin’ who can beat the Angel! Neither you nor anyone else can make a winner out of a second-rater like Steve Nelson!”
The Saint’s brows lifted politely.
“Second-rater? He only happens to be the champion. If you’re betting your shirt on the Angel, I hope you have a good laundry. You might have to wait a long time for—”