“I warn you,” Spangler said bleakly, “that I shall hold both of you to the exact terms of that bet. If you try to welsh on it, the Betting Commissioner—”
“Your fadder’s moustache!” Mr Uniatz quoted delicately.
He spread a large horny hand over Spangler’s beefy face, and pushed with the force of a locomotive piston. Doc Spangler crashed backwards against his chair and toppled thunderously to the floor, chair and all. He was still lying there as Simon and Hoppy conducted Grady firmly out of the room and out of the house.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am,” the Saint said as they drove northward up Fifth Avenue, “to know that you’re not in cahoots with Spangler, Mike. That was the thing that bothered me most of all.”
“Thanks for the bill of health,” Grady responded caustically. “It’s that relieved I am.” He scowled. “But I can’t say I go for the high-handed way you have of ordering me about at the point of a gun!”
“Forgive me,” the Saint apologised, “but I couldn’t take any chances of being deprived of your company for lunch.”
“I got too many things to do, Saint. No time for lunch. Just get me back to the Arena as quick as you can.”
“It won’t take much time,” Simon smiled dreamily. “I’ve got a table at the Brevoort...”
Grady frowned. “Well — I’ll see if I can make it.”
They parked in front of the Arena and Simon accompanied Grady inside to his office.