Hoppy finally dragged out his kicking clawing captive by the collar of its turtle-neck sweater.
“He tries to pull dis rod on me!” he said, and handed the gun to Simon. He yanked the man to his feet, as Fernack broke through the final barrier of humanity. “Stand up, youse!”
As the Saint had expected, it was Whitey Mullins.
“What the hell goes on here?” Fernack demanded, and Simon handed him the gun.
“Take this, John Henry. I’ve got a slug I dug out of a pawnshop doorframe that I think’ll fit it. And I’ll give you odds that the bullet that laid out Steve Nelson will also fit Whitey’s gun.”
Chapter seventeen
Simon and Patricia were in Steve Nelson’s hospital room next morning when Inspector Fernack arrived. Connie Grady was also there, accompanied by a subdued and sympathetic Michael. Mr Uniatz was also present, accompanied by a breakfast bottle of bourbon. It was like Old Home Week.
“I hear you’re doing fine, Champ,” Fernack said. “How soon is Grady going to match you with the Saint?”
“From what I heard on the radio,” Nelson answered, “maybe it’s a good thing I’m retiring.”
Connie squeezed his hand.