Call for the Saint (16 page)

“De Zombies!” he hissed in a resounding whisper that brought Simon’s hand back upon his mouth again.

“Quiet!” the Saint breathed savagely.

There was a brief silence, and it seemed for a moment as if the man working on the door had indeed heard him. Then it came again-a scrape of metal-and suddenly the metallic click of tumblers falling into alignment, and the snick of an opening bolt.

“He’s coming in,” Simon whispered in Hoppy’s ear. “Don’t make a sound or I’ll brain you with this gun butt.”

He took his hand off Hoppy’s mouth and moved with the effortless ease of a cat through the living room. He could hear the creak of the bed as Hoppy got out and padded after him. They paused by the archway to the entrance hall, staring into the almost darkness, intent on the pale rectangle of the front door.

As they waited there, the Saint couldn’t help feeling that somehow, despite his conviction that” this visit arose from his recent conflict with Spangler, it didn’t quite add up. For he thought he knew Spangler’s character pretty thoroughly; and so primitive a motive as simple revenge simply didn’t agree with his knowledge of the man. Revenge for revenge’s sake was a luxury too expensive-and dangerous-to be compatible with Doc Spangler’s conservative nature. The worthy doctor might have better reason later on, but so far the Saint couldn’t imagine him going to so much trouble merely to assuage a sore belly.

There was another moment of silence… . Then, without hearing it, but almost as if he sensed a momentary and fractional change in the air pressure, the Saint knew that the front door was starting to open.

Hoppy edged past Simon, as though straining on a leash.

Simultaneously, several things happened in such swift succession that they had the effect of happening almost all at once: a sizzling shower of golden sparks flamed from the doorknob, a wild howl split the silence, there was a mad scramble of slipping feet, the thud of a falling body, the blast of a gunshot, and the rattle of plaster cascading to the floor.

The Saint and Hoppy leaped forward almost on top of the gunman’s yell, with Hoppy ahead of Simon by virtue of his head start.

Simon’s warning cry came too late.

Hoppy’s joyous battle bellow leaped to a yell of consternation as he grabbed the doorknob amid another constellation of sparks bursting about his hand. He hurtled backwards, skidding on a rug, and sat down with a mighty crash in front of the doorway.

The Saint ripped the cord from the electric outlet with one hand, reached over with the other, and tried to pull open the door against Hoppy’s obstructing weight.

“Okay, boss, okay!” Hoppy grunted protestingly as Simon rolled him over with a yank at the door.

He scrambled to his feet as the Saint disappeared into the hallway. But even as he snatched open the front door, Simon knew that the quarry had escaped. The “In Use” signal light of the automatic elevator gleamed at him in yellow derision.

Hoppy charged past him and skidded to a halt.

“Where’d he go, huh? Where’d he go?” he demanded feverishly.

Then he caught the glow of the elevator signal light and whirled for the stairs.

The Saint grabbed his arm and stopped him.

“Come back, Pluto,” he said disgustedly. “That elevator will be at the bottom before you’ve gone down three flights.”

He dragged Hoppy back into the apartment as a murmur of alarmed voices, with a few doors opening and closing, drifted faintly up the stair well. Muttering to himself, Hoppy joined the Saint in the darkness before the living-room window and stared down at the moon-silvered street before the building entrance far below. Suddenly, as the realization that the would-be raider would probably be leaving by that exit dawned upon him, a vast feral grin spread over his face. He raised his gun.

The Saint noted the car parked before the building, a little distance behind his—a dark sedan that hadn’t been there when he’d arrived there that night. He caught a glimpse of hands in the moonlight-hands that carried an odd sparkle-resting on the visible portion of the steering wheel.

Hoppy crouched beside him, his big black automatic clutched in a hairy fist resting on the window sill, and stared lynx-eyed at the canopied building entrance eighteen floors below. Presently he rasped in an awful tide of anxiety: “Boss, maybe he goes out de back—”

He broke off as a man darted out from under the canopy, a figure reduced to miniature, scurrying towards the parked sedan.

Mr. Uniatz raised his gun and was aiming carefully when Simon’s hand clamped on his wrist in a grip of iron.

“No!” he ordered. “We’ll only have Fernack back-and next time he won’t be so easy to get rid of.”

“Chees, boss:” Hoppy complained mournfully, staring at the sedan roaring down the street. “I had a bead on him.”

“In the dark? Shooting downward at that distance?” Simon snapped. He turned away, crossing the living room. “Don’t be a goddam fool. Besides”-he stepped out of the darkness of the living room into the hallway-“there’s been enough noise for one night.”

Hoppy shuffled after him, muttering indignantly: “Nobody can gimme de business an’ get away wit’ it.”

The Saint looked at him resignedly.

“Don’t blame him! Grabbing that doorknob after I’d wired it was your own damn fault.”

“I wouldn’a done it if it wasn’t for him,” Hoppy insisted sullenly. “Besides, how do I know he can run like dat? All de zombies I ever see in pitchers more slower dan Bilinski. Dis musta bin a new kind, boss. Maybe somebody gives him a hypo.”

“Maybe somebody does,” Simon agreed. “And the doc’s name could be Spangler.”

He switched the lights on at the entrance and looked around. The loose rug that had been involved in Hoppy’s downfall was a tousled heap in the middle of the floor; and as he lifted one corner to straighten it he saw the gun underneath it.

He picked it up gingerly-a heavy “banker’s” model revolver with a two-inch barrel.

“Chees,” Hoppy said. “De lug forgets his equalizer. Now all we gotta do is find out who it belongs to, an’ we know who he is.”

“That piece of logic” said the Saint, “has more holes in it than Swiss cheese. However—”

He broke off as he became aware that the elevator doors were opening in front of him. For one instant he was tense, with his forefinger curling instinctively on the trigger of the weapon in his hand. Then he saw the passenger clearly.

He was a rabbity little man draped in a flowered bathrobe, with pince-nez supporting a long black ribbon.

“I,” he enunciated pompously, “am your neighbor downstairs, Mr. Swafford. Has there been any trouble?”

He stepped back suddenly, with his eyes popping, as Hoppy moved into full view from behind the Saint.

“Trouble?” Simon inquired politely. “What sort of trouble?”

Mr. Swafford seemed hypnotized by the baleful apparition glaring at him over the Saint’s shoulder.

“I,” he swallowed. “I— Please forgive me,” he said hastily, “but there was some rumor-about a shot, I think it was. Some people in the building seem to think it came from up here.”

Simon turned to Hoppy.

“Did you hear a shot?”

Mr. Uniatz fixed Mr. Swafford with a basilisk glare. He growled: “Boss, dis guy must be nuts!”

Mr. Swafford gulped and amended hastily: “Of course I don’t say it came from your apartment. It was just what some of the tenants thought. They seem to have jumped to the conclusion that someone was being shot, but I assure you—”

“I’m sure,” the Saint broke in pleasantly, “that there must be a more productive form of exercise than jumping to conclusions, don’t you think, comrade?”

Mr. Swafford retreated another step, his eyes bulging wider as they confirmed their impression of the gun in the Saint’s hand and the fallen shower of plaster from the ceiling.

“Oh, yes, of course,” he said weakly. “I never—”

“I’m sorry you were disturbed,” said the Saint benevolently. “My friend here is just in from Montana, where the men are men and have notches in their guns to prove it. When they’re having fun, they just blaze away at the ceiling. I’ve just taken his six-shooter away and tried to explain to him —”

“Scram before I step on ya like a roach!” Hoppy bellowed, squeezing past the Saint.

Mr. Swafford stumbled backwards, his pince-nez dropping from his long nose and dangling by their ribbon; he turned and scurried precipitately back into the elevator.

“Good night, Mr. Swafford,” Simon called breezily, as the, closing elevator doors blotted out the little man’s pallid stare.

He turned back into the apartment, shutting the door behind him.

“Boss,” Hoppy said, following him, “dis is gettin’ monogamous. Just one t’ing after anudder.”

“That sounds almost bovine to me,” said the Saint. “But it’ll probably get worse before it gets better.”

He was sure that he had recognized the squat silhouette of Spangler’s henchman, Max, fleeing from the building toward the waiting sedan. But he was still wondering, as he fell asleep, just why Doc Spangler had sent him.

CHAPTER SIX
Hoppy was in the penthouse kitchen frying bacon with concentrated absorption late the next morning when the doorbell rang. The Saint, seated in the adjoining breakfast alcove, put down the morning paper and stood up.

“I’ll get it, boss,” Hoppy offered, laying down the fork in one hand and the comic section clutched in the other.

“Never mind.” Simon strode across the kitchen. “I don’t want to take your mind off Dick Tracy.”

The opening door revealed a vision in daffodil yellow with hair to match and a quizzical smile.

“Pat!” Simon drew her in and held her at arm’s length, boldly admiring. “You’re a sight to be held!”

He suited the action to the word.

She laughed breathlessly, pulling away.

“Darling, you have one of the most elemental lines since Casanova.”

His eyes caressed her figure. “The most elemental lines,” he said, “are never spoken. They’re looked at.”

“Do I look as good as Connie?” she inquired with arched eyebrows.

“Much better.” He took her hand and led her toward the kitchen. “Hoppy!” he called, “bring on the vitamins.”

“Comin’ up, boss!” Hoppy sang out, and came around to deposit a glass of pale amber liquid in front of her as she sat down. “Vitamins,” he grinned, and retreated back to his stove.

“Thank you.” Pat smiled and lifted the glass.

“Wait.” Simon reached over and took the glass from her. He sniffed it. “I thought so!”

“What’s the matter?” Pat asked. “Isn’t it all right?”

He pushed the glass back.

“Smell it.”

She sniffed the glass and sat up, laughing. “Brandy!”

Hoppy’s head appeared over the top of the alcove partition.

“Whassamatter, boss ?”

“Thanks for the compliment,” said Patricia, “but I’m not quite up to your kind of fruit juice.”

Mr. Uniatz’s brow furrowed in hurt bewilderment.

“It’s from grapes, ain’t it? Grapes is fruit, ain’t it?” He reached behind him and raised up the bottle for all to behold. “It says so, right here on the bottle.”

The Saint waved him away in despair.

“Never mind,” he said. “Bring on the solid food.”

“Okay, boss.” Hoppy removed the offending liquor and drained it at a gulp. He went back into the kitchen and looked over the partition onto the top of Pat’s blond head. “Dijja read about de fight in de paper dis mornin’ ?” he asked.

“They arrested the Masked Angel, didn’t they?”

“But not for long,” Hoppy said complacently. “We fix dat, don’t we, boss?”

Pat’s clear eyes studied the Saint.

“What does he mean-you fixed it up?”

“We informed the law that the Masked Angel is an old chum of Hoppy’s,” Simon explained glibly. “Naturally, with that kind of a character reference, they’re bound to let Bilinski go.”

“I don’t trust you,” Patricia said coldly. “Not for a minute. What goes on?”

“Goes on?” The Saint’s eyebrows lifted.

“I know you too well, you wouldn’t have left me last night the way you did unless something had—”

She broke off as the doorbell sounded briefly.

“I’ll let her in, boss,” Hoppy said cheerfully, and paddled out of the kitchen.

” ‘Her’?” Patricia quoted acidly. “Miss Grady, I presume?”

“A purely professional visit,” he said calmly. “After all, she is engaged to Steve Nelson.”

Pat’s cool red mouth curved cynically.

“A passing fiancé, no doubt.”

Simon’s eyes closed in pain.

“My dear girl,” he protested.

He got to his feet as Hoppy trumpeted from the hallway.

“It’s Connie Grady, boss!”

She hesitated in the kitchen door, slim and dewy-fresh, her short black curls making her look very young and almost boyish, with Hoppy looming up behind her like a grinning Cerberus.

“Come in, darling,” said the Saint. He took her hand and led her to the breakfast alcove. “Miss Grady, this is my colleague, Miss Holm.”

“Hullo, Connie,” said Patricia sympathetically. “Welcome to the harem.”

Connie Grady glanced uncertainly from Pat to Simon. “I-I didn’t know you were having company,” she said. “I didn’t want to—”

“It’s perfectly all right,” Simon assured her. “Pat really is my colleague in-er-many of my enterprises. Anything you say to me you can say to her with equal freedom.” He waved to Hoppy. “That’s another of my colleagues-Hoppy Uniatz.”

“Likewise, I’m sure,” Hoppy beamed. “I seen ya lotsa times when your pop was runnin’ de old Queensberry Gym, remember? Ya useta bring him his lunch.”

Her elfin features crinkled in a smile.

“Yes … I remember.”

“Sit down,” said the Saint. “We’re just starting.”

He saw her settled in the booth and pulled up another chair for himself, while Mr. Uniatz doled out plates of bacon and eggs and cups of coffee with hash-house dexterity.

Connie picked up her fork and tried to start, but the effort of restraint was too much. She looked full at the Saint, with the emotion unashamed on her face.

“You saw what happened,” she said, her voice small and tense. “The Angel killed a man last night… . Now, do you wonder that I don’t want Steve to fight that-that gorilla?”