“This is the Saint,” Steve Nelson introduced. “You’ve heard of him.”
Whitey Mullins’s pale eyes widened a trifle; his mouth formed a nominal smile.
“You bet I have.”
He thrust out a narrow monkey-like hand. “I seen you at the fights last night, didn’t I?”
The Saint nodded, shaking the hand.
“I was there.”
“Sure you seen us,” Hoppy said. “You’re de foist one tells us de Torpedo is crocked, remember?”
“I never wanna have nuttin’ like that happen to me again,” Mullins said grimly. “It’s awful. I still can’t figure how it coulda happened. The Torpedo was in great condition. The poor guy musta had a weak ticker — or sump’n.” He turned to Simon, a faint gleam coming alive in his pale eyes. “I heard you raised a stink with that louse Spangler after the fight.”
The Saint launched a smoke-ring in the direction of the gun lying on the table and smiled dreamily.
“The stench you mention,” he said, “was already there. Hoppy and I merely went to investigate its source.”