Leslie Charteris - Call for the Saint

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 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 getting’ 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 recognised 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.

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.”

“Coming 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.”

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 de 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 on to the top of Pat’s blonde head. “Dijja read about de fight in de paper dis morning?” 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 door-bell 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 auburn 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 Queensbury 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?”

“I can see your point.”

“When I was talking to you last night,” she began, “I... I...”

She fumbled as if groping for the right words.

Simon passed Patricia the sugar with harlequin courtesy. She didn’t seem to see it.

She said sweetly, “Last night?”

“On the phone, after you called,” Simon elucidated smoothly. “She wanted to know what went on, too. Her father was rather upset by our little visit to the Masked Angel’s dressing-room after the fight.”