Chapter eleven
Mr Uniatz’s heavy breathing reverberated in Simon’s ear.
“Dey got Whitey!” His head jerked up suddenly at Karl and Spangler, his gun lifting. “Whitey was me pal!” he snarled. “Why you—”
Simon stopped him.
“Don’t shoot the Doc — yet. Whitey may need him.” The Saint’s eyes were cold blue chips. “Let’s have the score, Spangler, and make it fast.”
“He isn’t dead,” wheezed the fat man damply. “It’s only a graze. He brought it on himself, coming here to my home to assault me. Karl had to stop him, but he didn’t hurt him much. You can see that for yourself. The bullet just grazed his scalp and went into the wall there — see?”
He pointed a plump finger to a hole in the wall above Mr Mullins’s prostrate form.
Whitey moaned and opened his eyes.
“Saint!” he mumbled feverishly.
Simon pocketed his automatic and bent over him.