But he had to reckon with more thoroughness on the part of the Metropolitan Police than he had hoped they would think necessary. As he approached the fence and got a glimpse of the ground below, he saw the blue helmets of two constables bobbing up the alley toward the back door of Loudon’s house. There was no way to get around the fence to the next roof without moving into their field of view — and to be discovered making an acrobatic escape from the scene of the crime would have a prima facie implication of guilt.
Without a moment of hesitation, Simon dashed back into Loudon’s studio. He had noticed before that there was a trapdoor in the ceiling. It was one of those types which, when pulled down with a hanging cord, automatically lowers a kind of folding stairway — as the Saint verified to his relief when he tested it.
Down at the front of the house the police had begun knocking at the door — patiently, at first.
Simon quickly lifted the body from the floor and saw that the blood which had not been absorbed by the fabric of the shirt had pooled in the leather apron. He managed to clasp the apron tightly enough as he backed up the ladder carrying Loudon that not even one drop splattered down on the bare floor.
There was no time, though, for any further precautions, once he had pulled his burden up into the attic. The police had given up knocking, and he could hear their steps inside the house on the ground floor. He did not actually climb down the ladder. He slid from the stuffy heat of the attic down the handrails and sent the apparatus up through the ceiling again with a single strong shove. Then, as he heard steps ascending the stairs, he snatched Loudon’s goggles from the floor, sprinted to the welding machine, and ignited the torch with the flint and steel device lying on the fuel cylinders.
When the official visitors arrived, he was leaning intently over one of Loudon’s unfinished sculptures, sending dribbles of metal down one of the irregular twisted outcroppings. “Mr Loudon?”
Simon pretended not to hear the voice, and went on with his doodling.
“I beg your pardon, Mr Loudon.”
The Saint straightened up and turned his blue goggles toward the stout figure in the hall doorway.
“If you’re the plumber,” he said, “the stopped-up drain is in the...”
The tone of the voice which interrupted him was considerably less polite than it had been a moment before. “What’re you doing in that getup, Templar?” Simon raised the goggles from his eyes and peered at the abundant form of Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal of Scotland Yard.
The detective looked overheated and damp, but triumphant. This was one of the few occasions in the long history of his frustrating contacts with Simon Templar when he might reasonably have expected his appearance to come as a complete surprise. For that reason, if for no other, the Saint showed no surprise at all.
“Oh, hullo, Claud,” he said offhandedly. “I thought you were the plumber.”
Teal made an effort not to swell or change color. He had often dreamed of imitating the perfect self-possession of his legendary nemesis, but when the moment of truth came he always found himself wanting.
“Where is Perry Loudon?” he blared. The Saint looked around the room.
“He must have popped out. I’ve been so absorbed in my work that I hardly notice what’s happening around me.”
“When did he leave?” Teal persisted doggedly.
“Now, Claud, I just told you I didn’t notice. That’s why you’ve never been anything but a plodding gumshoe all your dreamy life. You don’t remember things people tell you.”
“Why didn’t I see him leave?” Simon laughed, almost incredulously. “Claud,” he said, “now you’re really asking for it.”
“If you were with Loudon here, you must have some idea where he went.”
“Probably to get some beer. He ran out, and I believe he said something about being thirsty a few minutes ago. This torch, and all this heat you know.”
“I think you’re lying.”
“Dear, old skeptic, you can’t blame me for what goes on in that thing you call your train. Look around. You won’t find a single can of beer in this room.”
Teal did not look around the room for beer. Instead he turned to the door and called down the stairs. “Did you men find him?”
“No, sir.”
The fat detective, his hands jammed in his jacket pockets, which had developed capacious bulges to match his jowls because of months and possibly years of such mistreatment, devoted his attention to the Saint again.
“I have reason to believe that something has happened to Perry Loudon.”
“What reason?” asked Simon.
“A phone call.”
“Who from?”
“Uh... anonymous.”
The Saint shook his head.
“Really, Claud Eustace, for such an old bloodhound you certainly are easy to fool. I suppose tomorrow you’ll be out trying to find a left-handed screwdriver.”
“The caller claimed to be one of the neighbors. Said you and this sculptor were fighting, and they heard somebody scream.”
“Loudon has a lot of weirdo friends,” said Simon. “Probably one of them was just playing a joke.”
“And how do you explain the fact that you’re here?” the detective asked.
The Saint cocked his head thoughtfully as he considered the question.
“How do I explain the fact that I’m here,” he repeated. “Claud, you’re getting almost metaphysical in your declining years.”
Teal opened his mouth, but Simon waved him lightly into continued silence and sat back to rest his hip gracefully on top of one of Loudon’s more smoothly rounded creations.
“We could start with cogito ergo sum, I suppose. Or maybe ‘existence precedes essence’ if Sartre is more up your alley — although that’s a blind alley I’d rather stay out of. Get it, Claud? No Exit. Or does your taste run to modern drama?”
Inspector Teal was standing there stoically like a silent film comedian being showered with whipped cream.
“Why are you in Loudon’s house?” he asked.
“I’ve taken up sculpting. You know what a sedentary life I’ve always led. I figured a little creative activity might give me something to do between meals and solving crimes for you.”
“So you claim you’re taking lessons from Loudon?”
The Saint winked approvingly and raised a finger.
“Astute, Claud. You’re coming right along.”
“And you claim you weren’t fighting with him?”
Simon shook his head.
“Not a bit of it. If that was a neighbor who called, he probably heard this.”
The Saint picked up a hammer and began banging on one of the sculptures until Teal held his hands over his ears and backed toward the .door. A uniformed policeman appeared behind him and Simon stopped his noise in order to hear the report which was obviously about to be made.
“I spoke to an old lady across the street, sir,” the policeman said. “She’s been by her window all afternoon. She saw one fellow come in, but no one came out.”