“I’ll see that Kayo shells out with the Saint’s cut of the gymnasium gate, don’t worry.”
“Hoppy is my agent,” said the Saint.
He was thinking more about the slug he carried in his pocket — the slug he had dug out of the pawnshop doorframe. He had to ponder the fact that neither Karl’s guns nor Slim Mancini’s were of the same calibre — and in spite of what he had said, he couldn’t really visualise Doc Spangler doing his own torpedo work. There was at least negative support for Whitey’s evidence that Karl had been in the house during the time the Saint thought he’d seen him at the wheel of the gunmen’s car. Yet Simon found it impossible to reconcile his indelibly photographic impression of the man who had driven that car with the possibility that it had been someone other than Karl... If it hadn’t been Karl, then it had certainly been his identical twin.
Chapter twelve
The dawning sun arched a causeway of golden light through the Saint’s bedroom window, glinting on his crisp dark hair as he laced on the heavy rubber-soled shoes in which he did his road-work with Steve every morning. Hoppy, bleary-eyed, leaned against the doorframe, watching him, unhappily.
“Chees,” he complained hoarsely, “will I be glad when de fight is over tomorrow night! I’m goddam sick of gettin’ up wit’ de boids every mornin’ to do road-work wit’ Nelson.” He yawned cavernously. “Dis at’letic life is moider.”
“ What athletic life?” the Saint inquired with mild irony. “The only road-work you do is follow behind in the car with Whitey.”
Hoppy sighed lugubriously.
“Dat ain’t de pernt, boss. It’s just I don’t get de sleep a guy needs at my age.”
“Well, I must say you wear the burden of your years with lavender and old dignity,” Simon complimented him. He stood up and headed for the door. “Come on, Steve and Whitey will be waiting for us.”