Leslie Charteris - The Saint 49 Count On The Saint

Darslow tapped the side of his nose with his finger in an exaggerated gesture of conspiratorial wisdom.

“Physician, heal thyself,” he lisped. “latre, therapeuson seauton.”

His display of erudition was somewhat marred by his enunciation, which phoneticised the transliterated Greek according to the atrocious British academic tradition, and with the accent invariably in the wrong places. Neither St. Luke nor Archbishop Makarios would have had the faintest idea what he was trying to say.

Had Chantek not slipped a restraining arm beneath his shoulder as he began to slip forward he would have crumpled gently to the floor. As she pulled him into a more upright pose he emitted a loud snore.

The dean regarded him with distaste.

“Dreadful. Quite dreadful.”

“I think perhaps we had better get Professor Darslow home,” suggested Nyall.

The Saint nodded sympathetically.

“I think you had,” he agreed.

He was not sorry that the party was breaking up. He had gleaned more than he had originally hoped. He helped Nyall get Darslow downstairs and loaded into a taxi. The dean walked a few paces behind as if trying to dissociate himself from them. They said their goodbyes and thanks on the pavement, and Simon returned upstairs to Chantek.

“Will Professor Darslow be all right?” she asked.

He smiled.

“Fine, but I wouldn’t like to have his head when he wakes up.”

Chantek’s eyes roamed over the remains of the luncheon table.

“I was surprised at Dr. Burridge,” she said. “He was so angry. He almost made me feel afraid.”

“Yes, it was an interesting little revelation, wasn’t it?” he agreed thoughtfully.

“What do we do now?” Chantek asked.

He looked at his watch. It was almost three-thirty, still two and a half hours before his appointment with Brian Casden.

“Let’s get some fresh air. A walk around town to get rid of some of the calories is called for. I may even get around to buying some Christmas presents.”

“Not from a Santa, I hope,” she laughed.

The Saint smiled as he slipped his arm through hers.

“No, definitely not from a Santa,” he agreed.

The dashboard clock showed one minute to six when the Hirondel drew up to the gates of the Happy Time Toy Co. The Saint sounded the klaxon and the strident blast brought a figure in blue uniform and peaked cap from a kiosk just the other side of the barrier.

Simon spoke to the man from his driving seat.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Casden.”

“Name?”

Simon told him, and the man checked it against the sheet of paper on his clipboard.

“Drive round to the side of the building over there, Mr. Casden’s office is on the top floor. Can’t miss it.”

The Saint did as he was instructed, driving slowly and taking in the topography as he followed the road around, and braked outside a door marked staff entrance.

The factory and offices of the Happy Time Toy Co. were situated on a new industrial estate on the edge of the city. The factory comprised three linked single storey buildings that reminded him of aircraft hangars. The offices were housed in a three-storey block of concrete and glass tacked onto the end nearest the gates.

A high wire-mesh fence encircled the site, dividing it from the road at the front and similar style factories on either side, and a few rubble-strewn acres at the rear where another factory was being built. It certainly looked secure enough.

He had spent the afternoon with Chantek wandering around the Cambridge shops and finally being fleeced for an afternoon tea of scones and jam in a dimly lit shoppe where the cost was in inverse proportion to the height of the ceiling. They had talked no further of the murders. The Saint had long since cultivated the ability to switch off his problems and relax in the same way that he could sleep at any time like a cat. Now, after the breathing space he had permitted himself, his thoughts were completely back with the matter in hand.

He climbed out of the car and tried the door. It was unlocked. Both factory and offices appeared to be totally deserted. He followed the stairs up to the top-floor landing without meeting anyone. The lack of any form of security, even the most ancient of night watchmen, worried him. In ordinary circumstances he would have expected to be challenged. And these were not ordinary circumstances.

As the guard on the gate had said, it would have been difficult to miss Casden’s office, which stood at the end of the corridor. But there was an additional reason why it could not be overlooked that night.

The watchman lay face down across the closed doorway.

Simon knelt and searched for a pulse. He smiled grimly as his fingers located the tiny beat. It was weak, but not dangerously so. There was no wound to be seen, only a rapidly swelling purple bruise on the side of the man’s neck.

The Saint straightened up and as he did so his fingers slipped under his left cuff and drew out the throwing knife that was strapped along his forearm. He had not brought a gun with him and events had moved too quickly to allow him to return to London to fetch one. He was not unduly concerned. He could do tricks with that six-inch blade that would have won him top billing in any circus. And if a reception committee was waiting for him he was sure that it had a membership of no more than one.

His hand closed on the door handle and stayed there for a moment while he listened for any sound of movement on the other side of the door. Hearing nothing, he turned the handle and went in.

A man who could only have been Brian Casden lay in a similar pose to that of his employee outside, except for the red pool that spread from the left side of his body. This time Simon did not bother to feel for a sign of life. Casden lay a few feet inside his secretary’s office, and the Saint had to step over his body to enter the room beyond. It was empty, and he sheathed his knife.

He stood for a while in the open doorway between the two offices and appraised the scene. It was clear at a glance how the murder had happened. It was the oldest trick in the oldest book since Genesis. Which was probably why it so often worked so well. Casden had heard a noise in the outer office and had gone to investigate. The murderer had waited behind the door, and Casden probably never knew what hit him.

But what was even more interesting was the fact that the contents of the personal filing cabinet behind Casden’s desk were scattered across the carpet. The killer had lingered long enough to remove some evidence. And that confirmed the Saint in his belief that Casden had known more than he had said on the telephone.

There were three telephones on the secretary’s desk. At the second attempt he found the one with an outside line and dialled the police. He asked for Superintendent Nutkin.

He grinned as the detective came on the line.

“Hullo, Nutcase,” he murmured. “This is Simon Templar.

I’ve got another body for you.”

“You’ve got a what? ” Nutkin almost shouted.

“A body. You know, a corpse, a late-lamented, a cadaver, a dearly departed, a...”

“Who, for God’s sake?” Nutkin’s voice gave the impression that he was being strangled.

“Brian Casden. Late boss man of the Happy Time Toy Co.”

“Templar, if this is some kind of a joke—“

“Oh, it’s hysterically funny,” said the Saint caustically. “Dear old Brian is laughing himself silly, or he would be if someone hadn’t shoved a knife into his back.”

He dropped the handset back into its cradle. Instinct told him that little was likely to be gained by searching the office. But it might be interesting to see if there were any clues to how the killer got in.