“Your signature,” said the Saint easily. He walked up to Spangler’s desk, fishing two cheques from his pocket. He laid them before Spangler. “You’ll notice that both of these are for the same amount. The amount, you can verify, is the total of the winner’s shares of all the purses that your masked moron has won through practices that are extremely illegal.”
Spangler looked up at him sharply, his hands slipping off the desk.
“You’re stark raving crazy!” he blared.
“Do keep your hands on top of the desk, Doctor,” Simon reminded him pleasantly. “That’s better... Both of these cheques, you’ll observe, are payable to the Simon Templar Foundation for the Relief of Distressed Pugilists.”
“What?” Spangler squealed incredulously.
“What kind of racket is this?” Grady demanded.
A ghost of a smile touched the Saint’s face. He stepped to one side and glanced at the door as Hoppy’s heavy footsteps pounded back through the outer door, into the hallway, and clomped to a halt in the doorway of the room.
Mr Uniatz stood there a moment, catching his breath.
“He got away,” he announced with dark disgust. “When I wasn’t lookin’.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Simon said. “We’ll put an ad in the paper.” He turned to Spangler, who had risen to his feet behind the desk as the massive frame of Mr Uniatz filled the doorway. “As you see, Doc, I’ve already signed one of those cheques. Now you are going to sign the other.”