Call for the Saint (The Saint Series)
With the invaluable assistance of Hoppy Uniatz and the help of a beautiful actress, the Saint tracks down the King of the Beggars, instigator of an ugly racket designed to exploit the beggars of the city. And then he must turn to fight a ruthless crook who will stop at nothing—including murder—to make “The Masked Angel” a champion boxer.
“In fact,” he said, “I’m not at all sure that it’s wise for you to go on with this project, even now. From what little I have heard, the King of the Beggars protects his absolute sovereignty as ruthlessly as any despot. I have a great admiration for your exploits, and I should hate to see anything happen to you.” “Thank you,” Simon said. “I’ve a great admiration for yours.” Elliott hesitated, staring. “Scarcely in the same category—” “I mean your charities. The Elliott Hotel, for example.”
Fernack’s face to his fist, and suffered further damage in transit. “All right, Saint,” Fernack ground out, “what are you up to? And don’t give me that look of injured innocence. You didn’t crash that dressing-room just for the exercise.” “We wanted de Angel’s autograph,” Hoppy contributed helpfully. The Inspector whirled on him. “I didn’t ask you!” he blared, with such ferocity that even Hoppy recoiled. “John Henry,” the Saint mused wistfully, “our association through the years has been a
all I want to know!” The Saint spread his hands with mock resignation, laughter sparkling in his cobalt eyes like sunlight on an Alpine lake. “Of course, John Henry, if you don’t believe me. However, if you should ever feel the need of any further enlightenment, always remember that our motto is service. Sure you won’t change your mind about that drink?” “All right!” Fernack grated, repeating himself. “Be a wise guy. Play the lone wolf. But remember this, Templar. Sooner or later you’re going
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
jaw. But the blow never reached its destination. For even as the Angel started it, Simon Templar’s right hand came up from where it had been sagging near the floor, and landed, with the approximate velocity of an ack-ack shell and the same general concussive effect, flush on the Angel’s froglike chin. Barrelhouse Bilinski’s feet were jolted up a good three inches off the floor, and when he came down again, his eyes glassy, his arms flailing loosely, he continued all the way down—down to the