“Barrelhouse musta loined how to speed up his punch,” Hoppy ruminated. “De fat slob always can hit like a mule, but he never is able to land it much when I know him. He’s too slow.” Hoppy shook his head in perplexity. “Imagine him bein’ de Masked Angel! Doc Spangler musta teached him plenty.”
“I wonder,” said the Saint.
But, whatever the secret of the Angel’s success, Simon was certain now that it didn’t lie in his gloves. There was nothing wrong with them that he could determine. No weights in the padding, no chemicals impregnated in the leather. He’d seen enough of Bilinski’s hand wraps to determine that there had been no illegal substance compounded therein. And yet the practically over-night transformation of a battered dull-witted hulk into an invincible gladiator with lethal lightning in his fists was too obvious a discord in the harmony of logic.
The action of that fatal second round leading up to Torpedo Smith’s collapse passed through the Saint’s memory again slowed down to a measured succession of mental images.
“Hoppy,” the Saint reflected, “did you see that first blow which started the Torpedo on his way out?”
“Sure, boss.” Hoppy nodded positively. “Barrelhouse catches him in de ropes.”
“Did he hit him with a right or a left?”
“He hits him wit’ both hands — lotsa times. You seen it.”
The Saint said, “I know. But I mean that very first punch — the one that dazed Smith and laid him open for other blows. Did you see that particular punch?”
“Sure I see it, boss. We bot’ see it.”