“Scram before I step on ya like a roach!” Hoppy bellowed, squeezing past the Saint.
Mr Swafford stumbled backwards, his pince-nez dropping from his long nose and dangling by their ribbon; he turned and scurried precipitately back into the elevator.
“Good night, Mr Swafford,” Simon called breezily, as the closing elevator doors blotted out the little man’s pallid stare.
He turned back into the apartment, shutting the door behind him.
“Boss,” Hoppy said, following him. “Dis is getting’ monogamous. Just one t’ing after anudder.”
“That sounds almost bovine to me,” said the Saint. “But it’ll probably get worse before it gets better.”
He was sure that he had recognised the squat silhouette of Spangler’s henchman, Max, fleeing from the building toward the waiting sedan. But he was still wondering, as he fell asleep, just why Doc Spangler had sent him.
Chapter six
Hoppy was in the penthouse kitchen frying bacon with concentrated absorption late the next morning when the doorbell rang, The Saint, seated in the adjoining breakfast alcove, put down the morning paper and stood up.
“I’ll get it, boss,” Hoppy offered, laying down the fork in one hand and the comic section clutched in the other.