The Saint was engagingly frank.
“I examined them quite carefully, John Henry,” he said, “and they’re really quite in order, believe me. None of the stitches has been tampered with, or the lining torn, or any chemical such as oil of mustard soaked into the leather. I also had a look at Bilinski’s hand wraps. No plaster of Paris, pads of tinfoil, or calking compound. No hunks of lead—”
“All right, wise guy!” Fernack exploded. “If these are the gloves, the police lab will tell me all I want to know!”
The Saint spread his hands with mock resignation, laughter sparkling in his cobalt eyes like sunlight on an Alpine lake.
“Of course, John Henry, if you don’t believe me. However, if you should ever feel the need of any further enlightenment, always remember that our motto is service. Sure you won’t change your mind about that drink?”
“All right!” Fernack grated, repeating himself. “Be a wise guy. Play the lone wolf. But remember this, Templar. Sooner or later you’re going to make a false move, a mistake you can’t get out of. And when that happens, brother, I’ll be right there waiting to tag you for it!”
“You an’ who else?” Hoppy inquired brilliantly.
Inspector Fernack ignored him. He thrust a finger at the Saint.
“One of these days you’re going to reach out just a little too far — and you’re going to draw back a bloody stump!”
The Saint’s face crinkled in a shrugging smile as he put his cigarette to his mouth with a careless gesture. And as if by accident its glowing tip touched the finger Inspector Fernack held under his nose.