The stairs behind him had horizontal treads but no solid rises. Thus a man concealed behind them had a good vantage point. The unmistakable nozzle of a sub-machine-gun projected through one of the openings, and behind the Saint, Monica Varing lay directly in the line of fire.
“Drop your guns and reach,” Frankie said.
Simon obeyed.
Hoppy said, “Boss—”
“No,” said the Saint. “You haven’t a chance. Do what Frankie tells you.”
Hoppy’s Betsy clattered ignominiously on the floor.
The gross bulk of Big Hazel Green came out from behind the stairs. She circled around them, kicked their guns out of reach, and searched them with competent hamlike hands. Then she stepped aside again, and Frankie Weiss moved out into the open.
There was a small dew of perspiration on his face, but the weapon he held was perfectly steady.
“How nice to see you, Frankie,” Simon drawled. “You’re looking well, too. That work-out we had together must have done you good.”
“You think you’re smart, don’t you?” Frankie bit out of the side of his mouth. “Well, when I get through giving you a work-out—”