Simon gripped the ornately carved banister and bounded upwards lightly and with absolute silence; before he reached the top, however, the voices suddenly rose to shouting violence. There was a girl’s scream, and the door flew open with a crash. A bull-necked citizen staggered backwards out of the door, followed by a taller, quick-moving younger man who gripped him by the shoulder, spun him around with a jerk, and sent him crashing down the stairs with a savage kick.
If the Saint hadn’t been in the way, it is probable he would have continued to the bottom without more than two bounces. But, as it happened, Simon caught the impact of his weight on one arm and shoulder, lifted him to his feet, and had a good look at his face.
“Why, Karl!” Simon greeted him affably, keeping a firm grip on the dazed thug’s lapel. “How you do get around.”
Recognition and fear flared simultaneously in the gunman’s eyes. With a sudden turn he jerked away and leaped the rest of the way down the stairs and disappeared out the door, leaving his coat in the Saint’s hands.
“The Saint!” Connie Grady gasped.
There was a pale thread of repressed panic in her startled voice. She was standing in the doorway of Steve Nelson’s apartment, staring down at Simon over one of Steve Nelson’s broad shoulders.
The Saint went on up the stairs, with Karl’s coat over his arm.
“Your playmate must have been in a hurry,” he murmured. “Doesn’t he know there’s a clothing shortage?”
Nelson, blond and slim-waisted, gazed at the Saint puzzledly. He turned to Connie.
“It’s the Saint.” she said. “Simon Templar. I told you I met him yesterday... My fiancé, Steve Nelson,” she introduced them.