“I’ve a few things to attend to myself,” said the Saint. “Move in whenever you’re ready.”
They let Steve Nelson out at the Fifty-Ninth Street end of the park where he’d parked his car. He put a hand on the Saint’s arm, leaning over the door of the convertible.
“Tell me,” he asked worriedly, “what goes on between you and Spangler? Why does he hate you so?”
A bantering smile touched the Saint’s lean, cynical face.
“We’re allergic, I guess,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
Steve sighed and shook his head perplexedly. He turned and walked to his car.
“Where to now, boss?” Hoppy inquired as the Saint drove the car out into the tide of Fifth Avenue.
“Mike Grady’s,” Simon Templar said flatly.
Chapter thirteen
Mr Michael Grady was incredulous. He leaned forward in his swivel chair, his mouth open and his eyebrows lifted in soaring arches.