“Maybe somebody does,” Simon agreed. “And the doc’s name could be Spangler.”
He switched the lights on at the entrance and looked around. The loose rug that had been involved in Hoppy’s downfall was a tousled heap in the middle of the floor, and as he lifted one corner to straighten it he saw the gun underneath it.
He picked it up gingerly — a heavy “banker’s-model” revolver with a two-inch barrel.
“Chees,” Hoppy said. “De lug forgets his equaliser. Now all we gotta do is find out who it belongs to, an’ we know who he is.”
“That peace of logic,” said the Saint, “has more holes in it than Swiss cheese. However—”
He broke off as he became aware that the elevator doors were opening in front of him. For one instant he was tense, with his forefinger curling instinctively on the trigger of the weapon in his hand. Then he saw the passenger clearly.
He was a rabbity little man draped in a flowered bathrobe, with pince-nez supporting a long black ribbon.
“I,” he enunciated pompously, “am your neighbour downstairs, Mr Swafford. Has there been any trouble?”
He stepped back suddenly, with his eyes popping, as Hoppy moved into full view from behind the Saint.
“Trouble?” Simon inquired politely. “What sort of trouble?”