Simon shrugged.
“On the purse, I suppose. Unless, of course, he gets killed before he can collect it. The way Smith was.”
Mike Grady put his elbows on the desk and cupped his forehead in his hands, staring down at his desk.
“That was a terrible thing to happen,” he said sombrely. “But, it was an accident.” He looked up defiantly. “It wouldn’t happen once in a million fights.”
The Saint gazed at him thoughtfully. A pattern seemed to be unfolding. So Grady wanted no part of Connie’s fiancé. He was in semi-partnership with Doc Spangler. But did he disapprove of Nelson enough to arrange his death? Was he of the same stripe as Spangler?... Somehow the Saint couldn’t quite accept that. Grady was not wanting in the essential elements of humanity. A hot-headed, obstinate old blowhard, perhaps — but not a wicked man. Shrewd, conniving, scheming maybe — but not a crook. Somewhere the thorn of conscience pricked. Somewhere beneath the flinty carapace was the naively sentimental heart. An expert in such things, the Saint felt certain of his diagnosis. And yet...
“Perhaps,” said the Saint. “But I collect those one-in-a-million chances.” He slipped the snub-barrelled revolver out of his pocket and laid it almost casually on Grady’s desk. “No doubt it was also one chance in a million that I found this in my apartment last night.”
Grady stared at the gun in open-mouthed amazement.
“Where the hell did you get that?” he demanded stupidly.
“It’s yours, of course?”
“Sure it’s mine. My initials are on it! Where’d you get it?”