Leslie Charteris - Call for the Saint

“Well,” the Saint began thoughtfully, “it was the way Whitey kept plugging his hatred for Spangler that first made me suspicious. Then later, when we were at Spangler’s place and found Whitey apparently wounded by Karl’s bullet, I noticed that the blood on his scalp had already begun to mat. He couldn’t have been shot by the bullet we’d just heard fired, which he claimed. It takes a little longer than that for blood to clot. I realised then and there that he’d actually been grazed by the bullet Hoppy sent through the rear window of the car he and Karl and Slim had used when they shot up the pawnshop. Probably, when they realised I was in the house, Spangler had Karl fire into the wall to make it appear that he was the one who’d shot Whitey — thus concealing the fact that Whitey had been one of the gunmen, and prolonging his usefulness as Steve’s manager.”

“If he was Spangler’s inside man,” pondered Fernack, “Whitey must’ve seconded all of the Angel’s opponents. We’ll check on that.”

“I’ve already done that. Quite a while ago. And Whitey did second the Angel’s opponents. Every one of them. That’s how the barrel always rolled them out inside of two rounds... I felt pretty sure that Whitey must’ve been doping the Angel’s opponents, of course, if he was tied up with Spangler, as I suspected. It would be easy for him to fix up his fighter’s water with a few drops of something, and Spangler would know what to prescribe that wouldn’t show up in case of accidents.”

“Okay,” Fernack agreed, “but if it was only knockout drops what killed Torpedo Smith?”

“Why, you saw it yourself. The Angel hit him when Smith was already half-asleep — and believe me, Brother Bilinski can really hit when he has lots of time. I know!”

“Darling,” Patricia said, “you won’t be permanently injured, will you?”

“I hope not,” said the Saint.