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.
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.