Leslie Charteris - The Saint 49 Count On The Saint

Simon Templar was not numbered among the ranks of those who believe that early rising leads to health, wealth, and wisdom, and he was the last customer left in the restaurant when he was finally thinking of leaving the breakfast table and officially acknowledging that the day had begun. At that moment what is commonly termed a discreet cough sounded in close proximity.

“I should take something for that,” he murmured without looking up from the article he was finishing.

There was a brief pause before the intruder spoke.

“Are you Mr. Simon Templar?”

There was an officious undertone to the voice which matched the abruptness of the cough. The Saint folded his paper and eyed the newcomer speculatively.

“That depends on whether you are (a) from the Inland Revenue, (b) from a news agency, (c) from the police, or (d) looking for a donation,” he replied.

On reflection, the other could not have been any of those alternatives, except just possibly the first. His pinstriped suit was too severely cut to belong to a reporter, and at around five feet seven he was a shade too small for the constabulary. There was a sharpness about the eyes and a tightness about the lips which did not suit the image of a charity worker. But rather than a tax collector he reminded the Saint of a bank manager.

The man smiled, or, to be precise, his lips twitched in what was an effort to produce a smile.

“I am Godfrey Nyall, bursar of St. Enoch’s College,” he stated formally. “I wonder if I might have a word with you.”

Simon gestured towards the vacant chair beside him.

“Wonder no more. Sit down and have as many words as you wish. Would you like some coffee?”

Nyall accepted the chair but declined the coffee. He came immediately to the reason for his visit.

“I read in the paper this morning that it was you who found Sir Basil’s body.”

“That’s right.”

“And you were also present when Mr. Wakeforth was murdered.”

“Just a knack, really,” smiled the Saint, with a dismissive shrug of his shoulders.

Having established his facts, Nyall appeared uncertain how to continue, and Simon had to prompt him.

“What can I do for you?”

“I, that is, we — the senior members of the faculty-would like to talk to you. Naturally we have already spoken with the police, but with a person such as yourself involved — quite innocently of course — we thought it might be...”

Nyall floundered, and again the Saint came to the rescue.

“Useful? Advantageous?” he suggested.

The bursar nodded.

“Yes. It’s not that we lack confidence in the police, you understand — just that a man of your reputation — that is, your experience in such matters — might be able to give us some suggestions, or — er — advice...”

It was one of the most roundabout invitations Simon had received for a long time, but none the less welcome for being so. Evidently the dons of St. Enoch’s had not been overimpressed with the good superintendent. And it solved the first of his problems as perfectly as if he had written the script himself.

“If there’s anything I can do to help, I shall certainly be glad to do it,” he said.

Nyall looked relieved.

“Thank you, Mr. Templar. Unfortunately the dean is in London today but we expect him back early this evening. Would it be convenient for you to come to the college at half past eight tonight?”

“Fine by me,” Simon agreed.

He had been prepared to go with the bursar immediately but was not sorry about the delay. He had had his own plans for the day which had nothing to do with solving crime but everything to do with developing his acquaintance with Chantek, whose day off it happened to be.

The bursar took his leave, and the Saint ushered him out of the breakfast room into the hotel lobby, but after one glance at the crowd of reporters gathered between the reception desk and the door turned on his heel and eventually made a less hazardous exit via the kitchens.

A slow thaw had started and the city streets had been reduced to dirty grey strips of slush, but the flat lands of the Cambridgeshire countryside were still carpeted in white with a thin mist blurring the edges of the fields. The Saint allowed the Hirondel to idle along winding lanes, letting the starkness of the scenery be warmed by the vivacity of the girl beside him. They lunched at Newmarket and motored back in a wide loop via Bury St. Edmunds and Haverhill at a speed lazy enough to bring them back to Chantek’s digs in a house near the college soon after dark, where she insisted that he come in for tea. It was cosy by the small coal fire, and when she offered to fix a snack it was difficult to remind himself that sometimes business had to be put before pleasure. But her good night was long and lingering enough to force him to hurry the last few yards to be on time at St. Enoch’s for his appointment.

Godfrey Nyall collected him from the gatekeeper’s lodge and led him into the central block of the college and through a labyrinth of corridors to the senior common room. It was spacious and elegant with oak-panelled walls, a deep-pile carpet, and rows of bookshelves holding richly bound volumes. The overall effect was more reminiscent of the smoking room in a St. James’s club than a staff room in a university.

Two men rose to greet them as they entered, and Nyall performed the introductions.

“Professor Edwin Darslow. Professor Denzil Rosco.”

The Saint shook hands and let himself be planted in a wing armchair at the hearthside. He accepted the whisky they offered, and took advantage of the pause while it was poured to observe his hosts.

Edwin Darslow looked to be about fifty, but he had that type of timeless face which is hard to date accurately. His hair was white but plentiful, and the lines that etched his features were more the furrows of concentration than the mark of passing years. He was thin to the point of gauntness, and his movements were jerky and hesitant. He perched rather than sat on his chair, and his eyes darted continually around the room as if he constantly expected to be surprised.

Denzil Rosco was a complete contrast. Dressed in comfortably rumpled slacks and a leather-patched tweed jacket, he lounged in his chair and seemed to regard both his colleagues and the Saint with a detached air of vague amusement. He was the youngest of the St. Enoch’s trio, probably in his thirties, and from his build and the slight misalignment of his nose it seemed likely that he had not long ago hung up his rugby shirt for the last time.

Nyall handed round the drinks and then sat in the chair facing the Saint.

“Professor Burridge, the dean, has been delayed, I’m afraid, but he should be here shortly,” Nyall informed him.

“Well, Mr. Templar, what do you make of it all?” asked Rosco with a smile. “How long before we catch this slaying Santa?”

Simon returned the grin. There was something immediately likeable about the man, perhaps because he appeared less dusty and formal than his colleagues.

“I don’t make anything of it — yet. And I haven’t got the faintest idea how long it will take to catch him,” Simon said truthfully.

Nyall looked slightly offended by the Saint’s bluntness.

“You mean they may never catch this madman?”

The Saint shook his head.

“Oh, he’ll probably get caught sometime, if he makes a mistake, and most murderers eventually do. But I wouldn’t dismiss him as a madman if I were you. He may be obsessed, he may even be slightly deranged, but he’s sane enough to know exactly what he’s doing and plan it well beforehand.”

“How do you mean, exactly?” Nyall asked.

“Madmen don’t time their murders so well. He knew when Sir Basil would be alone and where. He knew Wakeforth was visiting his Cambridge store, he knew how to get into the loading bay, use the internal telephone to contact him, and what excuse to use to put him on the spot. Not only that, he’s intelligent and cunning enough to work out a brilliant disguise. A Santa Claus costume is a practically total cover-up, and yet at this time of year it doesn’t arouse any suspicion. He could use it again and still get away with it, because nobody would expect him to make himself so conspicuous.”