The Saint nodded.
“Concussion. Undoubtedly caused by the psychic dynamite that Doc Spangler has put in the Angel’s punch.”
“Or by a hunk of lead in one of those gloves!” the Inspector growled.
His eyes wandered searchingly about the room.
The Saint said, “You spoke to the Masked Angel, of course?”
“I spoke to him, of course. Why?”
“What was his theory, if any?”
“ His theory!” Inspector Fernack snorted scornfully. “Why, that moron Bilinski doesn’t know he’s alive! But he’s staying in jail till we find those gloves, understand?” His eyes narrowed. “How long have you known Bilinski? How did you recognise him as the Masked Angel? Is he a friend of yours?”
The Saint smiled wryly.
“Please, Inspector,” he protested. “My social standing is not indestructible.” He turned to Hoppy. “Well,” he sighed, “if it’s a matter of getting your little playmate out of the cooler, you’d better bring the Inspector his souvenirs.”