It was nearly the truth and the sight of Chantek had made it so. Within the college walls he felt unnaturally cramped, and although there were still questions he wished to ask he would prefer to put them on his own or neutral ground.
“I was wondering,” he continued pleasantly, “if you gentlemen could have lunch with me. Perhaps you would also invite Professor Darslow and Professor Rosco. Since you invited me to apply myself to the recent goings-on, I’ve had some more thoughts which might be worth kicking around.”
Both men looked at each other as if hoping the other would make the first refusal. The Saint could sense that neither found the invitation over welcome but both appeared at a loss for a plausible excuse. He looked at his watch and saw that it still needed a few minutes to noon.
“Shall we say one o’clock at my hotel?” he asked.
Nyall nodded mutely. Burridge’s voice was strained.
“That is very kind of you.”
“I hope you’ll still think so this afternoon,” said the Saint cordially.
He caught up with Chantek on the far side of the quadrangle.
“What have you been doing?” she asked eagerly.
“Just nosing around,” he said evasively. “I found some circumstantial evidence, which is notoriously unreliable. So I won’t confuse you with it in advance. Meanwhile, you are invited to lunch.”
He explained who would be there, and Chantek looked as uneasy at the prospect as Burridge and Nyall had done. She did not relish the idea of being surrounded by those who had seemed like demigods for most of the year. But the Saint brushed aside her fears and after making her promise not to be late drove back to the University Arms.
He felt as if he had already done a full day’s work, and welcomed the reviving properties of a shower and a change of clothes. He was unhappily contemplating the imminent obligation to select a necktie when the telephone rang.
The voice on the other end of the line was brisk and businesslike.
“Mr. Templar?”
Simon admitted his identity and enquired that of his caller.
“My name is Casden. Brian Casden. I run a company called Happy Time Toys.”
“Sounds like fun,” said the Saint.
Casden ignored the interpolation and continued: “I understand you are investigating the murders of Sir Basil Lazentree and Stanton Wakeforth.”
“You could say I’m slightly involved,” the Saint admitted guardedly. “Why?”
There was a lengthy pause before the question was answered, and then Casden’s voice sounded strained.
“I think I may be next.”
8
Simon Templar frequently found his reputation a hindrance. Fame, he sometimes felt, brought with it more problems than an already overworked outlaw should reasonably be asked to contend with, and he could become wistful for the days when only a small privileged band of fellow adventurers had known his baptismal name, and the world outside heard only of a mysterious figure who passed like an avenging wraith across the paths of the unrighteous.
But notoriety also had its advantages. Fate had obligingly delivered him to the right spot at the correct o’clock, but the aura surrounding his name had done much of the rest. Without it, Superintendent Nutkin might have treated him with less undeserved suspicion and more civility and thereby not invited him to puncture the detective’s pomposity. Without it, Godfrey Nyall would not have approached him and he would not so easily have made the acquaintance of the St. Enoch hierarchy. And without it Brian Casden would not have telephoned and held out a possible solution to the mystery.
With a slow pensive smile the Saint relaxed into a chair and rested his feet on the counterpane of the bed.
“You don’t say?” he drawled. “And why should you consider yourself the next candidate for the hereafter?”
Again several seconds of silence passed while Brian Casden carefully shaped his reply. The businessman’s natural caution vying with personal anxiety, Simon thought. He waited patiently, confident that, having decided to make contact, the other would not hang up now.
“Sir Basil and I were discussing a donation to the college,” Casden said finally. “When he was murdered I didn’t imagine for a moment that it had anything to do with our plans. Stanton Wakeforth was also involved and when he was killed I began to wonder. It seemed like too much of a coincidence. But now that Harker has been murdered...”
“How did you know Colonel Harker was dead?” Simon cut in quickly.
“It was on the radio news. Nothing much, just that a report has been received that he had been shot while hunting.”
The Saint nodded to himself, satisfied with the explanation. The murder had taken place early enough for word of it to have reached the reporters who were already in Cambridge following up the previous killings.
He returned to his original line of questioning.
“What exactly were the four of you planning?”
“Wakeforth and I were to endow a new faculty for business studies.”
“And Colonel Harker?”
“He owns — owned — some land near the college. He was prepared to let St. Enoch’s have it at a nominal price providing his company was given the building contract.”
All of which, Simon judged, made sense. Even if it still did not provide him with the motive he sought, it did at least link the three dead men.
“Have you spoken to the police yet?” he asked.
“No.”
It was too curt an answer to pass unchallenged.
“Why not?”
“I didn’t want to get involved,” said Casden hesitantly. “It wouldn’t be good publicity for a company such as ours. I had read that you were investigating and I thought I would talk to you first. One of the stories in the newspapers mentioned where you were staying.”
Again the Saint was satisfied with the explanation.
“Tell me,” he said thoughtfully. “You say you have been discussing all this with Sir Basil and the other two — for how long?”
“Since October, soon after Sir Basil came to Cambridge. It was all finally agreed last week, and we were due to sign the necessary papers tomorrow.”
“On Christmas Eve? Why the rush?”
“Both my company and Wakeforth’s end our financial years on January 31,” Casden replied. “There were certain tax advantages to be considered regarding the funds we were making available.”
“And who else knew about these plans of yours?”
As he put the question Simon heard other voices in the background and guessed that Casden was no longer alone. The businessman’s sudden vagueness confirmed the impression.
“I can’t go into details now,” he answered abruptly.
“How soon can we meet?” Simon asked.
“Come to my office at six this evening.”
The Saint consulted his watch.
“That gives you five and a quarter hours in which to get yourself killed,” he pointed out.
“I can’t see you before then.”
Casden sounded irritable, and the volume of background noise suggested that his company had increased. Without prompting he continued: “Every year we hold a Christmas party in our canteen for deprived children. It’s this afternoon. I shan’t be free until six, but I also won’t be alone.”
The Saint was unimpressed by the degree of safety such a gathering would provide and sensed that Casden too was more hopeful than confident. But at least he was prepared for danger, which was an advantage none of the others had enjoyed.
“Where is your office?” Simon asked resignedly, convinced by the other’s tone that there would be little point in pressing for an earlier meeting.
Casden told him and the Saint repeated the directions, both to confirm them and to commit them to memory.