Leslie Charteris - The Saint 49 Count On The Saint

Outside, the watchman was still sleeping and Simon did not disturb him. He made his way down to the ground level and walked across to the gate.

“Did Mr. Casden have any visitors before me?” he asked the guard.

The man’s automatic reaction was to be officious. Then he looked at the stern set of the Saint’s features and wisely decided to be cooperative.

“Not since the children left, and that was about half an hour ago.”

“What about the staff?”

“They all had the afternoon off, except for those who volunteered to help with the party.”

“And you saw them all leave?”

“Yes. What’s all this about?”

“You’ll find out very soon,” Simon told him, and turned on his heel to walk briskly along the line of the fence.

He found what he was searching for at the rear of the site: a large hole clipped through the mesh almost at ground level. And he found something else too. Caught on a sharp strand of wire was a tatter of red cloth. The Saint left it alone. It was something that Nutkin would be able to slip into a plastic bag and label as evidence. He would like that.

The Saint strolled back to the office block. So Santa had turned up despite Casden’s belief in his security, had done what he had come to do, and slipped away again. A children’s party must have seemed an irresistible opportunity and he had not missed it.

“But have I missed mine?” Simon asked himself as he re-entered Casden’s office.

He stood and looked down at the murdered man. On impulse he abandoned his previous intention of leaving the body alone and quickly rifled the pockets. In Casden’s jacket was a small leather-bound address book. Wakeforth, Harker, and Sir Basil were among the entries.

“And who else?” wondered the Saint as he slid the book into his own pocket.

And then came the pounding of heavy boots in the corridor, and with a resigned sigh he turned to greet Superintendent Nutkin.

The following hours were little more than a playback of the sequences that had followed the deaths of Lazentree and Wakeforth. Nutkin asked and Simon answered with discretion; Simon asked and Nutkin refused to answer. At the end of it all, the detective knew about Casden’s phone call but nothing about the plan to enlarge the college, he knew about the lunch party but not what had been said, and he knew everything about the finding of the body except for the address book that Simon had taken into his own safekeeping. And the Saint knew absolutely nothing about the detective’s own enquiries — which, he reckoned, made them about even.

The Saint’s own innocence had been established by the watchman, who came to a few minutes after the police arrived only to tell them that he had seen and heard nothing. He had been making a routine tour of the building when he had been hit from behind. All he could be definite about was the time, ten minutes before the Saint passed through the main gate — when, as Simon offered to prove, he had only just left Chantek.

And so, at last, the Saint was allowed to go on his way. But by that time there was nowhere else to go except back to the hotel, where the dining room had closed and the best the night staff could provide in the way of fodder was a round of ham sandwiches.

It had started snowing again midway through the evening, and the Saint lay in bed watching the flakes drift past his window and thinking back over all that had happened. He cursed himself for not having insisted on seeing Casden earlier but was slightly comforted by a hunch that told him that somewhere in everything he had seen and heard was to be found the last piece of the puzzle.

He had long since eliminated Darslow from his list of suspects. Not only could he absolve the professor of Harker’s murder, but he reckoned that Darslow would still have been sleeping off the effects of his drinking spree when Casden had been done in. That left Denzil Rosco, Dr. Burridge, and Godfrey Nyall.

Simon considered each in turn.

Rosco had been unseen for the whole day. He had the ability and the opportunity to kill Harker and Casden. But did he have any motive? He appeared to have liked the shake-up that Sir Basil’s arrival at St. Enoch’s had foreshadowed. So why kill him? On the other hand, it was almost certainly his gun that had despatched two of the victims. And the gun was missing. But then, why not shoot Casden instead of knifing him? Only Rosco could provide any of the answers, and Rosco wasn’t around to do so.

Burridge had shown signs of being a fanatic. And fanatics are always dangerous. His adherence to tradition and hatred of progress were clearly deep-rooted. But strong enough to force him to kill, not once but four times in as many days? He had been in London when Sir Basil and Stanton Wakeforth died, an easier place in which to set up an alibi than Cambridge. What had he been doing that morning and afternoon and could it be checked out? The Saint made a mental memo to give that an early priority.

And then there was Nyall. He appeared to have no axe worth grinding. But there was something about him which still didn’t quite fit. What was it Darslow had said? “Physician, heal thyself... Like a racing tipster.” An interesting comparison. The Saint added another mental note to ask Darslow for clarification.

“But there’s still something I must have overlooked, something so obvious that it’s blinding,” he told himself as he slipped into sleep.

He repeated the thought to Chantek the following midday over sausages and mash at the Crown. The press corps camped in the hotel lobby had become an increasing irritant, and even before the manager tactfully suggested that he might be more comfortable elsewhere he had decided to move. The Crown had been his immediate choice. It was off the main track yet could not have been nearer the college. And if the room and the food did not match the hotel’s standards, at least the management was friendly and he could come and go without subterfuge.

Chantek was idly toying with her knife as she listened to his account of the previous evening’s events. Suddenly he stopped and stared at her.

“Do that again,” he ordered.

She looked blank.

“Do what again?”

“Hold the knife the way you held it just now.”

Chantek obeyed as if preparing to cut off a piece of sausage.

“Now hold it as if you were going to stab me from behind.”

“Why?” Chantek asked in surprise.

“Never mind,” said the Saint. “Just do it.”

She reversed her grip on the handle, so that the blade projected beyond her little finger, raising her hand to head level as if to bring the point slashing downwards.

“Exactly,” Simon said triumphantly.

“Exactly what?” demanded Chantek, growing impatient with the game.

“Exactly the way any amateur would do it. But not the way a professional would do it. Casden was killed by somebody who knew his business. And there aren’t so many people around who know how to use a knife properly.”

“How do you mean, ‘properly’?”

“Your way would come down between the shoulder blades and probably miss any vital organs. An expert holds a knife pointing forward, something like a rapier, with his thumb on the flat of the blade to guide it.” He demonstrated. “Insert between the ribs at the right angle: knife pierces heart, victim dead in seconds.”

Chantek shuddered.

“How horrible!”

“But effective, very effective,” said the Saint. “And that is how Casden was killed. And men who are experts in that particular field usually have some special background in common.”

He stood up directly they had finished their plates. He seemed somehow larger than life, colder and more impersonal than the winter outside. There were still many things he did not understand, but at last he had a positive clue to follow and little doubt that it would lead him to his goal.