The girl at the switchboard called out as they entered Mike’s office, “There’s been several calls from your daughter, Mr Grady, and from Mr Mullins...”
“Okay,” Grady grunted, and picked up the stack of letters and messages piled upon his desk. “Wonder what Whitey Mullins wants,” he muttered, thumbing through the sheaf. “According to this pile of call notes, he’s phoned about six times.”
The telephone rang. Grady lifted the receiver.
“Who?... Okay, put him on... Hello, Whitey?...” Mike Grady suddenly stiffened as he listened. He paled visibly and for a few seconds listened in silence. Presently he asked, “In the Saint’s apartment? What was he doing there?... Yes, of course. I’ll be down as soon as I possibly can.”
He hung up and turned to the Saint.
“Steve Nelson has been shot,” he said. “In your apartment.”
The Saint’s whole being seemed to stand still in the same timeless stasis that affected the expansion of his ribs.
“Karl,” he said slowly and bitterly. “Waiting for me in my apartment...”
Grady looked stupidly at him.
“No... At least Whitey says the police don’t think it was anyone layin’ for you at your place. Whoever did it they think was waitin’ for you on the roof of the apartment house across the street. There’s a bullet hole in the window of the room where Connie found him.”