Spangler turned sharply to Grady.
“You’re a witness, Mike. It’s blackmail, extortion!”
“Hardly that,” Simon corrected him. “Those are simply the stakes in our bet, Doctor. I’m betting that Barrelhouse Bilinski is knocked out tomorrow night.”
For a long narrow-lidded moment Doc Spangler gaped at the Saint. And then a slow glistening grin began to spread over his face.
“And that,” he queried softly, “is what you want me to sign?”
The Saint nodded amiably.
“Exactly. If you don’t I’m afraid our friend Inspector Fernack will have to drop in and ask you some awkward questions...”
A deep chuckle seemed to boil up deeply from within the fat man’s rotund belly. The chuckle broke into a laugh that shook his chins.
“My dear Mr Templar!” he said deprecatingly, waving a pudgy hand. “Put away that gun.” He wiped his eyes with his cuff as though overcome by some secret joke, and looked down at his desk, still chuckling. “Where’s my pen?” He found it and pulled the cheque toward him, leaning over the desk. He looked up. “Mike Grady will hold these cheques, of course?”
“That’s okay with me.”