“Now wait.” Grady frowned, plagued by a vague troubled puzzlement. “I don’t want no part—”
“Of course you do,” the Saint insisted persuasively. “I assure you this is on the up-and-up, Mike.”
“At least,” Spangler agreed genially, “I know I can trust you.”
He bent over and signed the other cheque with a flourish and held them both out to Grady. “If you please, Mike.”
Grady took them reluctantly.
“Nothing would please me more,” Spangler gurgled, “than to have your cheque bounce, Mr Templar. I should enjoy sending you to jail for something like that. It would certainly look well in the newspapers.” He licked his lips as if already tasting the Saint’s ignominy. “ ‘Famous Adventurer Sentenced to a Year and a Day in County Hoosegow!’ ”
“That wouldn’t be nearly so embarrassing,” the Saint said imperturbably, “as twenty years in Sing Sing for second-degree murder. I don’t think you really wanted to kill Torpedo Smith. But nevertheless he died on account of you.”
Spangler’s jaw fell open. He started to speak.
“Now look here,” Grady tried again. “I don’t like this a bit, Saint. I just don’t want to be mixed up in any—”
“Just the same, you’re going to hold those bets,” said the Saint. “And you want me to drive you back to your office — now. Come along.”