Mockery danced in Simon’s azure eyes.
“You must be psychic, Doctor, to have recognised me so quickly. I can’t recall our ever having met before.”
“True,” Spangler nodded graciously. “However, your face has appeared in the public prints on several occasions I can recall.”
“And so has yours,” said the Saint reminiscently, “generally tacked on post-office walls beneath the word ‘Wanted.’ ”
Spangler chuckled.
“You amuse me.”
The light in Simon’s eyes settled into two steely points.
“Then laugh this off. Torpedo Smith is dead.”
The startled sag of the fat man’s jaw was too sincere a reflex for simulation. His stare shifted uncertainly to Karl standing beside him.
“Vot der hell!” Karl’s beetling black brows matched his sneering snarl. “You tryink to scare somebody, hah?”