“Congratulations,” said the Saint.
“Yeah,” Hoppy rasped, kicking the door shut behind them. “Nice woik, Doc.”
For a paralysed second, Dr Spangler, Karl, and the massive Angel composed a tableau of staring surprise. Then Spangler’s florid wattles grew even more crimson.
“Who the devil—”
“Forgive us,” the Saint interrupted. He took the cigarette from his mouth and flicked the ash reflectively, indicating Mr Uniatz, who stood beside him with the black snout of a big automatic protruding from one hairy fist. “My friend and I couldn’t resist the temptation, Doctor — especially when your man left the door to pursue those reporters down the hall.” He forbore to add that Maxie was, at the moment, reposing peacefully in a corridor broom closet where Hoppy had stuffed him after an exceedingly brief encounter. “Put away the gun, Hoppy,” he reproved. “This is strictly social.”
Hoppy obeyed slowly. He was staring at the naked mass of the Angel as if what mental equipment he possessed failed utterly to accept the evidence of his eyes.
“Ged oudda here,” Karl grated tonelessly.
His voice, like his bushy-browed eyes, was flat, dull, and deadly. The Saint appraised him with a glance — a short, squat, powerfully constructed character whose prognathous jaw matched the cubist lines of his shoulders.
“For de luvva mike!” Incredulous amazement raised Hoppy’s bullfrog bass a full octave. Rapturous recognition slowly illumined his corrugated countenance like dawning sunlight on a rock pile. “Bilinski!” he shouted. “Barrelhouse Bilinski!”
The Angel, who had been favouring Hoppy with the same open-mouthed concentration, slid slowly off the edge of the table to his feet. A reciprocal light dawned on the fuzzy horizon of his memory and spread over his humpty-dumpty face in a widening grin.