“I have to face the hazards of my profession,” Simon explained, with a glint of scapegrace mockery in his blue eyes. “But there may be some excitement at that — although I don’t mean what you’re thinking, darling.”
The memory of Connie’s visit, her confused plea for him to see the fight, lingered in his mind like the memory of strange music, a siren measure awakening an old familiar chill, prescient and instinctive, warning of danger that was no less perilous because it was as yet unknown.
The crowd broke into a thunderous roar.
“It’s de Angel!” Hoppy proclaimed. “He’s climbin’ in de ring!”
The current sensation of the leather-pushing profession was indeed mounting the punch podium. He squeezed his hogshead torso between the ropes, and as he straightened up the Saint saw that the mask was really nothing more than a black bean-bag that fitted over his small potato head with apertures for eyes, nose, and mouth, and fastened by a drawstring between chin and shoulder at the place where a normal person’s neck would ordinarily be, but which in the Angel was no more than an imaginary line of demarcation. He shambled to his corner like a hairless gorilla and clasped his bandaged hands over his head in a salute to the enraptured mob.
Patricia shuddered.
“Simon, is it — is it human?”
The Saint grinned.
“He’ll never win any contests for the body beautiful, but of course we haven’t seen his face yet. He may be quite handsome.”
“Dere ain’t nobody seen his face,” Hoppy confided. “Dese wrestlers what pull dis gag wit’ de mask on de face, dey don’t care who knows who dey really are, but Doc Spangler, he don’t let nobody see who his boy is. May be it’s for luck. De Masked Angel ain’t lost a fight yet!”