The Angel scratched his jaw bewilderedly, the whole unlovely mass of his gross nakedness quivering like jelly as he turned to his manager.
“Dead?” he muttered stupidly. “He’s dead?”
Hoppy nodded admiringly.
“He won’t never be no deader. Whereja ever get dat punch, chum. Why, when we was togedder, you stunk.”
“My dear sir,” Spangler said, eyeing the Saint with watchful deliberation, “if this is an attempt at humour—”
“You needn’t laugh now,” Simon assured him pleasantly.
“Save it for later — when the police get here. They should be in at any moment.”
The Angel licked his lips tremulously.
“Jeez, Doc... I croaked him. I croaked de Torpedo...”
“He’s lying!” Karl sneered. “Smith cannot be dead!”