“Two attempts on your life!” he repeated. “By Spangler?”
The Saint, relaxed in one of Grady’s worn leather chairs, studied him through drifting cirrus clouds of cigarette smoke.
“Not by Spangler in person, perhaps. He’s too smart — and too fat for that.” He sent a playful smoke-ring soaring over Mike’s carroty dome like a pale blue halo. “He merely pays people to try to kill me. Of course,” he added thoughtfully, “when I say two attempts, I’m not counting the first try by brother Karl.
Let’s say he did that on his own and give the good Doc the benefit of any doubt I may have on that particular score... The other attempts were more up Doc Spangler’s alley. One showed organised effort. The other — well, it could have been an accident, you know, giving Mancini an out if he got caught. Both those last tries had brains behind them.”
A confused scowl furrowed Grady’s brow.
“Any why,” he asked, “should you be so quick to make a case against Doc Spangler? He told me all about your crashin’ his house and roughin’ up his hired help and then accusin’ him of those same things you’ve come to me about.”
“Really?” Simon flicked ash into a nearby tray. “The Doc is burning his candour at both ends these days.”
“There are men,” ‘Grady said sententiously, “who make more than a man’s proper share of enemies for no proper reason.” He pointed a stubby finger at the Saint. “And you, Mr Templar, are one of them.”
The Saint bowed graciously.
“I’ve always been rather proud of my enemies, Mike. They’re usually the sort that every man ought to make.” His mouth curved in a crooked smile. “Did your friend Spangler tell you that Karl also shot Whitey Mullins? We found him bleeding on the carpet when we got there.”