Mr Swafford seemed hypnotised by the baleful apparition glaring at him over the Saint’s shoulder.
“I,” he swallowed. “I... Please forgive me,” he said hastily, “but there was some rumour — about a shot, I think it was. Some people in the building seem to think it came from up here.”
Simon turned to Hoppy.
“Did you hear a shot?”
Mr Uniatz fixed Mr Swafford with a basilisk glare. He growled, “Boss, dis guy must be nuts!”
Mr Swafford gulped and amended hastily, “Of course I don’t say it came from your apartment. It was just what some of the tenants thought. They seem to have jumped to the conclusion that someone was being shot, but I assure you—”
“I’m sure,” the Saint broke in pleasantly, “that there must be a more productive form of exercise than jumping to conclusions, don’t you think, comrade?”
Mr Swafford retreated another step, his eyes bulging wider as they confirmed their impression of the gun in the Saint’s hand and the fallen shower of plaster from the ceiling.
“Oh, yes, of course,” he said weakly. “I never—”
“I’m sorry you were disturbed.” said the Saint benevolently. “My friend here is just in from Montana, where men are men and have notches in their guns to prove it. When they’re having fun, they just blaze away at the ceiling. I’ve just taken his six-shooter away and tried to explain to him—”