“Yeah, boss?”
“This is important,” Simon said quickly. “Keep the cork in that water-bottle — understand? Don’t let anyone try to spill the water that’s left in it. Do you get that, Hoppy?”
Hoppy nodded foggily.
“Yeah, but... but...”
“Hold on to that bottle!” Simon said urgently, obsessed with the nightmare problem of impressing a course of action on Mr Uniatz’s reflexes beyond any possibility of confusion. “Don’t let it get away from you. I want it after the fight. Put it in your pocket or in that robe — and keep it under your arm. Don’t drink out of it whatever you do. If anyone tries to spill it or break it, grab him and hold on to him! Is that clear?”
“Sure, but I don’t get it, boss. Why—”
The warning whistle blew its shrill alarm, and Simon sprang to his feet as Hoppy ducked out of the ring, taking the stool with him.
The bell clanged and the Saint moved out... He could only hope that his hunch was right, that he had really penetrated the mundane secret of Doc Spangler’s psycho-hypnotic technique. If he guessed wrong, there might still be catastrophic surprises in store. He was answering a gambit of whose ultimate denouement he was not at all certain.
Now the Saint opened up. He darted in with the effortless speed and cold-eyed ferocity of a jungle cat, his lithe body moving in a fierce harmony of scientific destruction, his shoulders flinging a shower of straight javelin-like blows, striving to penetrate the fortress wall of wrists, arms, and gloves that guarded the Angel’s head...
Bilinski began to give ground, crouching lower and lower beneath the onslaught. Suddenly the Saint changed his mode of attack, his fists winging up from beneath in a series of whiplash uppercuts. One of them managed to catch the Angel on his nominal forehead, jarring his head back momentarily. Almost simultaneously with the first blow, another crashed through the Angel’s guard and left the little bulb of nose a bloody splotch.