“Call Chief Inspector Teal of Scotland Yard,” Simon said to the secretary. “He knows I’ve been working with Liskard on a problem of his. He’ll want to know about this, I’m sure. I’m surprised you haven’t heard from him already this evening.”
“We have,” the secretary said. “I took a call from him to Mr Liskard about twenty minutes ago. I’m to monitor calls, you know, and take notes. It seems the police had just picked up a man named Peterson, who was suspected of being in on some scheme about the Prime Minister.”
“Who else knew about the call?” Simon asked.
“Todd and I were saying good night to him in his room when the call was put through,” Stewart said. “But really — you’re taking a lot on yourself, questioning us as if we were...”
“The Prime Minister asked me yesterday evening to help him,” Simon replied. “He’ll confirm that if he’s able.”
“But why would he do this?” Stewart wanted to know.
“It’s my fault!” Anne Liskard blurted suddenly. “He and I had a scene tonight, when we were alone, and I wouldn’t listen to any explanations from him, or forgive him. I...”
“He’d hardly kill himself over a family quarrel,” Stewart said gently.
“It was more than that,” the woman said. “You’ll all know anyway. The newspapers know. There were letters... from Tom to... another woman.” Her voice broke, and then she went on. “Somebody sent some of them to me, with a note saying others were going to the newspapers. Tom asked me to keep it quiet, but I... I lost my temper, of course. I told him this was the end of his career.”
She began to cry, and sank down into a chair. The secretary, meanwhile, had completed his call to Scotland Yard. He went to the hall to speak to members of the delegation and staff who were being kept from the study by some senior member of the group.
“In any case,” Todd said heavily, “it does seem to be the end of his career.” He picked up a stack of papers near Liskard’s elbow. “These apparently are photostats of the letters. Just the first one’s enough to...”
He broke off, with a glance at the Prime Minister’s wife.
“But the papers would think twice about printing that kind of thing, unless they had absolute proof that it wasn’t forged,” Simon said. “And I don’t mind saying this next in front of Mrs Liskard, since it ought to make her feel better. When you think of it, honestly, what sort of shocking news is it when a man, even a man in politics, got himself involved in a personal entanglement of this kind?”
“It could ruin him politically,” Todd insisted. “Especially at this point.”
“I’ve heard those sorts of rumors about almost every head of state in the world,” Simon said, “and I’m sure I’m not the only citizen who hears them. Something like this actually might be good for a man in Liskard’s place. People are more sympathetic with the victim of a blackmail plot than they are disgusted with a man who shows some manly weaknesses.”
A siren was approaching, growing louder along the street in front of Nagawi House.
“Well what exactly is your point?” Stewart asked.
“That we keep all this quiet — about the letters?” Todd speculated dubiously.
“I’m suggesting that there’s much more to this supposed blackmail plot than we seem to be assuming,” the Saint answered. “It never made a lot of sense anyway. Now it’s coming clearer what’s really going on.”
“What?” Stewart asked.
A still partially unbuttoned butler let himself back into the room.
“The ambulance is here. They’re on their way in.”
The next ten minutes were taken up with the removal of Liskard on a stretcher to the ambulance. At the end of that time, as the ambulance was pulling out of the drive, its blue light spinning above the driver’s compartment, a police car with a similar spinning light pulled in the other side. Simon, who was standing on the steps of the house with the others, watched expectantly as the rotund form of Chief Inspector Teal evacuated itself from the car and puffed heavily up to the group. As he was about to speak, Teal’s eyes fell on the Saint and his preparatory air of self-importance collapsed to a semblance of mere controlled dignity.
“I’m sorry to hear about this,” he said to Liskard’s countrymen in general. “Where did it happen?”
They led the way through the house, and Teal spoke to Simon.
“I got your message, and we found Peterson at Mary Bannerman’s apartment. But now it looks as if he wasn’t any threat at all — and you’re going to have a lot to explain.” Teal’s pink face grew almost tomato colored as he strode along the hallway. “While we were wasting our time there—”
“Somebody else shot Liskard,” Simon supplied. “But Peterson is in on it. You weren’t wasting your time — for once.”
Teal faced him at the study door.
“Shot Liskard? He shot himself, didn’t he?”
“No,” Simon said. “He wasn’t the type. Much too levelheaded to be thrown this far by a lot of old love letters. And besides, he has a sense of duty. He wouldn’t just bow out and let his country fall into chaos.”
“This way,” Todd said.
Teal went into the, study, received a complete rundown on events, and looked over the evidence. When he had examined the gun, the blotter, the furniture, the suicide note, and the photostats, he pondered the situation as he stood in the center of the room with his thumbs hooked in the belt of his capacious dark blue coat.
“Pity he was moved,” he grumbled. “If there’s any doubt about the question of suicide...”
“That’s true,” Simon said thoughtfully. “We could have let him bleed to death so as to keep the evidence tidy.”
“What do you mean, doubt?” Anne Liskard asked.
She had regained control of herself and was showing more poise and energy than Simon had seen in her since their first meeting.
“Mr Templar here seems to believe your husband may have been shot,” Teal said.
Simon nodded. Teal’s assistants, Stewart, and Anne Liskard looked toward the desk as he spoke.
“If you’d seen the way he was lying, even you would have noticed it yourself, Claud. It was an amateurish job, done in a hurry. If you’re going to kill yourself you don’t go through the discomfort of twisting your arm around and shooting yourself from some odd angle behind the ear.”
“You might,” Teal said, instinctively rejecting anything the Saint proposed.
“You might,” Simon said to him, “but Liskard was never an idiot.”
Teal walked stolidly to the window.
“And there’s this,” he continued. “Was this window open when you found him? It’s a cold night. He wouldn’t have left it open, would he?”
“Not likely,” Stewart said. “In fact he was very sensitive to cold. Most of us are, raised in a tropical climate.”
“So,” said Teal, “someone may have come in, shot him, left the note, and escaped through the window.”
“Great Scot!” the Saint exclaimed admiringly. “I think he’s got it!”
The detective looked at Simon with the face of a soured persimmon.
“Is there any reason for Mr Templar to be here?” he enquired stiffly.
“He and my husband were working to catch these blackmailers,” Anne Liskard explained. “Mr Stewart and Mr Todd will tell you the rest. I must get dressed and go to the hospital. There may be something I can do for Tom.”
She went toward the door as Todd came back from the hall.
“I’ve phoned our P.R.O.,” he said to the group in general. “He’ll do what he can to squelch any stories in the papers about the letters.”
Simon turned to Teal after Anne Liskard had gone on before him into the hall.