The telephone rang. Grady lifted the receiver.
“Who?... Okay, put him on... Hello, Whitey?...” Mike Grady suddenly stiffened as he listened. He paled visibly and for a few seconds listened in silence. Presently he asked, “In the Saint’s apartment? What was he doing there?... Yes, of course. I’ll be down as soon as I possibly can.”
He hung up and turned to the Saint.
“Steve Nelson has been shot,” he said. “In your apartment.”
The Saint’s whole being seemed to stand still in the same timeless stasis that affected the expansion of his ribs.
“Karl,” he said slowly and bitterly. “Waiting for me in my apartment...”
Grady looked stupidly at him.
“No... At least Whitey says the police don’t think it was anyone layin’ for you at your place. Whoever did it they think was waitin’ for you on the roof of the apartment house across the street. There’s a bullet hole in the window of the room where Connie found him.”
“Connie?” the Saint repeated, knowing even as he said it how it must have happened.
“She was waiting for him in the car while he went up to your place to leave his things. He was going to stay with you, wasn’t he?”
Simon nodded.
“Where is he?”
“Bellevue. They got the bullet out of him. Whitey says they think he’s got a fifty-fifty chance.” Grady’s face furrowed with pain. “The poor kid... He’s a helluva fine boy, Saint. I’ve just been a damn fool, and that’s a fact!”
He glared at Simon defensively.
“Listen, Mike.” The Saint gripped his arm. “Whoever did it must’ve thought it was me. It could only have been one of Spangler’s men. It was my fault that this happened.”
“But why should Spangler want to do you in?”
“He’s afraid that I’ll find out what he’s been up to. I started the whole thing by butting in after the Torpedo Smith fight. Now I’ve got to finish it. Listen — I’ve to take Steve’s place tomorrow night.”
Grady’s eyes bulged.
“What?”
“You heard me! You’ve got to put me in against the Angel!”
The Saint’s steely fingers tightened about Grady’s arm. “You’ve got to, Mike!”
“Bu... but...”
Grady stopped short and looked at him for a long moment. He stepped backwards and eyed him up and down critically. He said finally, “Well, you look big enough. And hard enough, I guess. I’ve heard how you can hit...”
“I’ve been working with Steve,” said the Saint. “I’m in as good condition as a man ever was, Mike. And I can take Bilinski, believe me!”
“But it’s ridiculous!” Grady exploded. “There’s never been such a fight—”
Simon said swiftly, “Make an announcement in the ring. Tell them about my bet with Spangler. If they want their money back, they can have it. If they just want to see a fight — even if it’s only the Saint—”
“Only the Saint!” Grady’s eyes took fire. A luminous inspired glow spread over his round, freckled face. “Holy mackerel! Maybe it won’t be a championship fight as advertised, but with you in it—”
“Come on, then.” Simon pulled him towards the door. “Let’s go — I’ve got to get hold of Whitey right away!”
Chapter fifteen
The opening preliminary was already under way when the Saint, with Hoppy and Patricia Holm, strode through the tag-end of the crowd of street urchins who eddied about the “artists’ ” entrance of the Manhattan Arena.
Whitey met them in the doorway.
“I was gettin’ worried,” he said anxiously. “What happened to ya? The show’s started.”
He started them down the corridor that turned off to the dressing-room section. The Saint stopped him.
“Whitey, will you show Miss Holm to her seat? I don’t think she can find her way up front from this part of the Arena.”
The tempting curve of Miss Holm’s red mouth drew to a pout.
“You mean I’ve got to spend the next hour or so in solitary refinement?”
“Well, you certainly can’t spend it in my dressing-room,” said the Saint. “It’s not exactly a ladies’ boudoir.”
Whitey nodded to Patricia, in visible awe of her golden-blonde beauty.
“Sure, just follow me,” he said. He turned to Simon. “I’ll check on the Angel’s hand-wraps on my way back.”
They disappeared round a turn from where the roar of the crowd was flowing like the muted roar of distant surf.
The Saint went on with Hoppy to his dressing-room, feeling the ghostly fingers of peril once more playing their familiar cadenza along his vertebrae and up through the roots of his hair... He knew, his every instinct told him, that tonight he was fighting for greater stakes than glory or dollars. Tonight would be more than a mere encounter with padded gloves. Tonight he would be fighting for his life.
A swarthy snaggle-toothed character in a dirty polo shirt was seated on a broken-down chair as they entered the dressing-room. Hoppy recognized him at once.
“Mushky,” he growled. “I fought you was in de Angel’s corner.”
“So I am, chum, so I am,” Mr Mushky Thompson agreed affably. “I gotta take a gander when you bandage de Saint’s hands.”
“That’s what I admire about this business,” Simon remarked cheerfully. “Everyone trusts everyone else.”
Hoppy fixed Mr Thompson with a baleful glare.
“Out, ya bum,” he ordered.
“Now wait,” Mushky protested. “It’s de rules. I—”
“Oh, let him alone,” said the Saint. “Whitey is watching the Angel, isn’t he? It isn’t exactly a unilateral proposition.”
“Sure,” Mr Thompson agreed with hasty anxiety. “No cause for gettin’ mad, Hoppy. I’m just one of de hired hands.”
Hoppy grunted and proceeded about the business of laying out the hand bandages, adhesive tape, rubber mouthpiece, collodion, ammonia, and other paraphernalia of the modern gladiator.
“You working with Karl, Mushky?” the Saint asked casually as he slipped out of his street clothes.
Thompson shook his head.
“Naw... He... uh... got kicked in the face by a beer-wagon horse. Broke his jaw in two places, I hear.”
Hoppy looked up at him a moment, and broke into a deep guffaw.
“Ya don’t say,” he yakked.
Simon slipped into his dark purple sateen trunks and began to lace his boxing shoes swiftly as Hoppy tore strips of adhesive tape into suitable knuckle strips. Mushky Thompson lounged in his chair with a cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth until Hoppy had finished taping the Saint’s hands with practised precision, reinforcing the bones without impairing their freedom. Then Mushky got to his feet.
“Good luck,” he threw over his shoulder. “You’ll need it.”
“Tanks,” Hoppy said — and did a take after the gibe sank in.
“Come back here!” the Saint snapped as Mr Uniatz started after the Angel’s second. “Don’t start anything now, you idiot!”
Hoppy made unintelligible gravelly noises through his bared teeth, his nuclear mind infected as much by the vibrant blood cry of the mob as by the taunt. Impending battle — his own or anyone else’s — was apt to make Mr Uniatz emotionally unstable.
Three preliminaries and a semi-final later, the Saint lay on the rubbing table, completely relaxed, listening to ten thousand throats vibrating the walls in a massive chorus of excitement. The semi-final bout had ended in a knock-out, he guessed, from the uproar. He stretched his length peacefully, his eyes closed, everything in him settled into an immeasurable stillness amid the swirling rumble of vociferation. Dimly and indistinguishably he heard the orotund bellow of the announcer introducing somebody after the roar of the crowd had died down a bit, and shortly afterwards the man who had been introduced began speaking over the audience public-address system, and he recognized Grady’s unmistakable accents even though he could not make out the words.