He stopped short as he saw Grady tense, staring past him. The Saint looked back.
Connie Grady and Steve Nelson stood in the open doorway.
They came in, hand in hand, Nelson shutting the door behind them as they entered, his youthful face set and determined.
The Saint rose lazily to his feet as Grady’s eyes flashed with angry suspicion from Nelson to his daughter.
“What’s the meaning of this?” bellowed the promoter, kicking his chair away and coming out from behind his desk.
Connie’s lips parted to speak, but Nelson stepped forward before she could say a word.
“You’d better ask me that, Mr Grady,” he said, and glanced at the Saint. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were here, or we’d have waited.”
“All right!” Grady roared. “Then I’m askin’ you! What the hell do you mean bustin’ into my office? And how many times have I got to be tellin’ you to keep away from my daughter, you penny-ante palooka!”
“Don’t you dare talk to him like that!” Connie cried, her green eyes flashing angrily. “I’m going to marry him right after the fight, with or without your permission!”
Grady’s mouth dropped open. He swallowed.
“The hell you say,” he finally choked out.
“Perhaps,” Simon murmured, “you family people would like to be alone.”
He edged toward the door, but Nelson grabbed his arm.
“No, stick around. You’re my best man, aren’t you?”
Grady wheeled on the Saint.
“Best man, is it?” he yelled. “So it’s a plot!”
“Not so far as I’m concerned,” the Saint said hastily.
“You listen to me, Mike.” The fighter seized Grady by the lapel. “Seeing that you’re going to be my father-in-law, you might as well—”
“In a pig’s eye!” Grady sputtered. “Let go me coat, you punch-drunk jerk, or I’ll... I’ll...”
He turned wildly and grabbed a boxing trophy that stood on his desk. Nelson ducked nimbly and clutched his wrist, shaking the heavy metal statuette from his grasp.
“You might as well get used to the idea, Mike,” said the Saint. “It seems to be settled that Steve loves Connie and Connie loves Steve, and they’re going to be married, and since they’re both of age I don’t see what you can do about it.”
“Oh, Daddy!” Connie pleaded, coming round to face him. “You’re acting like a spoiled brat. You’ve got nothing against Steve—”
“Let go me arm!” Grady snapped at Nelson. “Or are you trying to break it, you foul-fightin’ blackguard?”
Nelson released him and stepped back.
“I came here to tell you because I don’t want you to say I ever did anything behind your back, Mike,” he said palely.
Connie threw her arms around her father, looking up into his face.
“Darling, you know darn well you haven’t any real reason for not liking Steve.”
“I know it’s all on account of your wanting Connie to have the best, Mike,” Nelson said. “I know I’m not a millionaire maybe, but—”
“We’ll have enough,” Connie put on. “Even” — she looked at Steve nervously, the shadow of her fear passing over her face — “even if he didn’t fight tomorrow night.”
“I’ll be in plenty good shape to take care of a wife,” Nelson grinned. “Especially after tomorrow night.”
Grady gazed at him a moment with lacklustre eyes. Then he pushed Connie away, grabbed his hat from a corner of his desk, jammed it on his head, and stalked to the door.
“Dad, wait!” she cried.
The door slammed behind him.
“Congratulations,” the Saint smiled from the depths of the club chair into which he had retired, one leg slung over a leather upholstered arm. “He’ll dance at your wedding yet.”
“Oh, I do hope so,” said the girl. The rosy flush of effort that had tinted her smooth elfin features was fading to an unhappy pallor. “Oh, Steve...”
“Cheer up,” said the Saint. “He really likes him. He just guessed wrong about Steve at first and he’s too bull-headed to admit it.”
He climbed to his feet once more.
“Have lunch with us,” Steve invited eagerly. “Will you? We have a table at the Brevoort. We’re going over to your place first so I can leave my stuff, and then we—”
“Bless you, my children,” the Saint interrupted, “but I have a prior engagement, unfortunately. Some other time, perhaps.”
He lifted a hand in a debonair gesture of farewell, opened the door, and sauntered out rather abruptly before the argument could continue.
He did not mean to be rude, but he had a sudden pellucid intuition where Michael Grady had gone, and he did not want to be too far behind.
Chapter fourteen
Mike Grady sat slumped in a corner of the sofa in Doc Spangler’s study moodily chewing an unlit cigar. Spangler, his elbows on the desk, pressed his fingertips together with injured reproach pointedly visible behind a film of charlatan good humour.
“My dear Mike,” he argued, “every successful man in this game is the natural target of vile rumour and malicious gossip. I’m hurt that you, with all your experience with that sort of thing, should give even hesitant credence to this thing you’ve mentioned.”
“I didn’t say I believed it,” Grady said heavily. “I just want to get your side of it, that’s all.”
“If Karl attacked Templar, it was entirely on his own volition, Mike, I assure you. After all, the Saint gave him sufficient reason, don’t you think?”
“Okay,” Grady said. “Maybe so. But what about the thing that happened this morning? I picked up this paper on my way down here. It’s on the front page — look.” He picked up the early afternoon edition from his lap and tossed it on to Spangler’s desk. “According to that, it was an accident. But was it? Did Templar tell me the truth? Did Mancini try to run him down?”
Spangler shrugged, spreading his hands helplessly.
“Now how would I know? Certainly Slim had as much reason as Karl had to attempt a, shall we say, retributive act? That is, if it wasn’t an accident, which it may well have been.” He sighed. “After all, the manhandling that both of them have suffered from Templar and that gorilla of his would be enough to tax the forbearance of far less... uh... angelic creatures than Karl and Slim, poor fellow. After all, Mike, I’m no nursemaid. Nor do I keep any of my employees on a leash.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mike agreed restlessly, removing the cigar from his mouth. “But that isn’t all. There’s talk. About that last fight. Torpedo Smith’s death is still being — well, talked about. There are rumours—”
“Rumours, rumours...” The fat man shook his head ruefully. “And you listen? Where do you suppose they originate? From Steve Nelson’s camp, of course. Trying to discredit me, to smear the Angel. Nelson knows very well he hasn’t a chance against my man, so he’s preparing his alibi in advance. Can’t you see that? You know and I know that the real reason the Angel wins is because of the psycho-hypnotic technique I use in my training methods. It gives that great hulk of a fellow power and speed many times greater than any man is normally capable of.”
“Maybe so.” Grady stuck his cigar back between his teeth and wagged a warning forefinger at Spangler. “But I tell you right here and now, Doc, if that man Smith was killed because of anything... shady...”
The good humour vanished completely from Spangler’s meaty face.
“My dear Mike!” he protested aggrievedly. “Trust my intelligence if nothing else!” He spread his hands widely. “What possible reason could I have to wish him harm?”
“A very good reason indeed, Doctor,” drawled the Saint.