The cigar made another trip from Inspector Fernack’s face to his fist, and suffered further damage in transit.
“All right, Saint,” Fernack ground out, “what are you up to? And don’t give me that look of injured innocence. You didn’t crash that dressing-room just for the exercise.”
“We wanted de Angel’s autograph,” Hoppy contributed helpfully.
The Inspector whirled on him.
“I didn’t ask you! ” he blared, with such ferocity that even Hoppy recoiled.
“John Henry,” the Saint mused wistfully, “our association through the years has been a beautiful thing — in a futile sort of way — but there are moments when you really embarrass me.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Why should you take Spangler’s word that I stole those gloves? You know what he is. Besides, what makes you think there’s anything wrong with them? What was the doctor’s opinion as to the cause of death?”
Inspector Fernack placed the cigar in his mouth, his eyes fixed on the Saint.
“Concussion,” he said. “We’ll get the medical examiner’s report in the morning.”