and several of their number ventured to stand up and shriek insults from the safety of the fourth, seventh, and tenth rows.
Kalki, in what was apparently a trademark combination of gestures, faced the crowd, and rubbed the bald top of his head vigorously with his left hand while he grimaced and roared at the mob.
“Popular chap,” the Saint remarked.
“He might be funny if I didn’t know what he did in his spare time,” Tammy said. She forced her eyes from the spectacle on the television screen. “You saw him?” she asked. “When? Where?”
Simon told her about his arrival at the Golden Crescent—the van and the two men in the alley.
“Yes!” she interrupted eagerly. “That’s him. And the little one with him, that was Shortwave!”
“Shortwave?” asked Simon.
“Yes. He’s the other one whose name I know.”
The wrestling match began with conventional circling and chary grappling, but Simon was more interested in his conversation with Tammy.
“What’s the little one’s real name?” he asked.
“How would I know his real name?” she asked impatiently. “My sources know people by what they’re called, not by their birth certificates.”
“So Kalki is just plain Kalki?”
“Right. That’s his stage name, or whatever you call it, and that’s how he’s known.”
“If he wrestles on TV he must have had to sign his real name on quite a few papers.”
“Of course,” she said with self-defensive impatience. “I could have found out his name. Anybody could have, and it would be just one more Pakistani-Moslem name. I’m interested in what he does, not in what his middle initial is.” She leaned suddenly towards a side table and snatched a pack of cigarettes. She never did anything slowly. “Smoke?” she asked.
Simon shook his head and she lit one and left it between her lips as she talked.
“Of course I was going to find out his name,” she said. “And Shortwave’s, too, but I haven’t been on this story as long as that article of mine today might imply. I haven’t had time yet to go combing through other people’s files, and I don’t think I’ll find out anything very useful when I do.”
The Saint was watching the wrestling match as he listened to Tammy. Like other such displays it showed every symptom of being a preplanned ham performance which would be seen by the relatively sophisticated as a sadistically spiced athletic exhibition and by the dull-witted as an horrific battle between pure good and pure evil.
Kalki the Conqueror was, of course, pure evil. While his wholesome opponent remained calm in adversity, patient with every provocation, and obedient to the referee’s commands, Kalki brutally raked his foe’s neck over the ropes, twisted his ears, hit him in the lumbar region with his fist, tried to smother him by lying on his face and indulged in a multitude of other illegal atrocities. But even the most minute successful use of force on Cleancut’s part was enough to throw Kalki into titanic tantrums of lunatic rage.
The crowd adored hating him, and when suddenly Robin Goodfellow appeared to lose his temper and grabbed Kalki by his grandiose side-whiskers and hurled him over the ropes and out of the ring, the plebs went wild with delight. One righteous but emotional lady leapt from her seat and indignantly smote Kalki about the back and shoulders with her handbag as he crawled back onto the platform.
“You were going to tackle that with your 007 gas ring?” Simon asked, as the giant roared and shook his mighty fists at the audience.
“He’s all hot air,” Tammy said contemptuously. “Anyway, I knew he was on television tonight.”
“Three hundred pounds of hot air is a lot of hot air,” the Saint said. “A couple of hours ago I saw what it could do to a man’s right arm.”
She turned her head to look at him.
“How? What do you mean?”
“I didn’t finish telling you what happened after I saw Kalki and his pal outside the restaurant this
Kalki, in what was apparently a trademark combination of gestures, faced the crowd, and rubbed the bald top of his head vigorously with his left hand while he grimaced and roared at the mob.
“Popular chap,” the Saint remarked.
“He might be funny if I didn’t know what he did in his spare time,” Tammy said. She forced her eyes from the spectacle on the television screen. “You saw him?” she asked. “When? Where?”
Simon told her about his arrival at the Golden Crescent—the van and the two men in the alley.
“Yes!” she interrupted eagerly. “That’s him. And the little one with him, that was Shortwave!”
“Shortwave?” asked Simon.
“Yes. He’s the other one whose name I know.”
The wrestling match began with conventional circling and chary grappling, but Simon was more interested in his conversation with Tammy.
“What’s the little one’s real name?” he asked.
“How would I know his real name?” she asked impatiently. “My sources know people by what they’re called, not by their birth certificates.”
“So Kalki is just plain Kalki?”
“Right. That’s his stage name, or whatever you call it, and that’s how he’s known.”
“If he wrestles on TV he must have had to sign his real name on quite a few papers.”
“Of course,” she said with self-defensive impatience. “I could have found out his name. Anybody could have, and it would be just one more Pakistani-Moslem name. I’m interested in what he does, not in what his middle initial is.” She leaned suddenly towards a side table and snatched a pack of cigarettes. She never did anything slowly. “Smoke?” she asked.
Simon shook his head and she lit one and left it between her lips as she talked.
“Of course I was going to find out his name,” she said. “And Shortwave’s, too, but I haven’t been on this story as long as that article of mine today might imply. I haven’t had time yet to go combing through other people’s files, and I don’t think I’ll find out anything very useful when I do.”
The Saint was watching the wrestling match as he listened to Tammy. Like other such displays it showed every symptom of being a preplanned ham performance which would be seen by the relatively sophisticated as a sadistically spiced athletic exhibition and by the dull-witted as an horrific battle between pure good and pure evil.
Kalki the Conqueror was, of course, pure evil. While his wholesome opponent remained calm in adversity, patient with every provocation, and obedient to the referee’s commands, Kalki brutally raked his foe’s neck over the ropes, twisted his ears, hit him in the lumbar region with his fist, tried to smother him by lying on his face and indulged in a multitude of other illegal atrocities. But even the most minute successful use of force on Cleancut’s part was enough to throw Kalki into titanic tantrums of lunatic rage.
The crowd adored hating him, and when suddenly Robin Goodfellow appeared to lose his temper and grabbed Kalki by his grandiose side-whiskers and hurled him over the ropes and out of the ring, the plebs went wild with delight. One righteous but emotional lady leapt from her seat and indignantly smote Kalki about the back and shoulders with her handbag as he crawled back onto the platform.
“You were going to tackle that with your 007 gas ring?” Simon asked, as the giant roared and shook his mighty fists at the audience.
“He’s all hot air,” Tammy said contemptuously. “Anyway, I knew he was on television tonight.”
“Three hundred pounds of hot air is a lot of hot air,” the Saint said. “A couple of hours ago I saw what it could do to a man’s right arm.”
She turned her head to look at him.
“How? What do you mean?”
“I didn’t finish telling you what happened after I saw Kalki and his pal outside the restaurant this
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