“Listen.” The Saint glanced at the door. “I think I hear them now.”
They followed his gaze, listening.
And while they stood intently frozen, the Saint sauntered quite casually to the corner where Karl and Maxie had tossed the Angel’s gloves, and scooped them up in one sweeping motion.
Dr Spangler turned quickly.
“What are you doing? Put down those gloves!” Alarmed suspicion darkened his colourless eyes. “Karl! Angel!”
His voice broke shrilly.
Bilinski went into motion uncertainly, as if still wondering what he was called on to do; but with a playful push as gentle as the thrust of a locomotive piston, Hoppy shoved him back to a sitting position on the edge of the rubbing table.
“Aw, don’t mind him, Barrelhouse,” he grinned. “He’s just noivous.”
He stuck out a foot to trip Karl who, gun in hand, was diving for cover behind the table.
The Saint moved with the effortless speed of lubricated lightning, kicking the gun from the sprawling thug’s hand with all the vicious grace of a savate champ.