bullet would probably have taken. It carried his eyes to a fresh scar gouged in the panelling opposite. He walked over to it, and had no doubt that it had been made by the spent bullet. But either the slug had not had enough force left to embed itself properly in the woodwork, or else it had been carefully pried out: it was not in the hole, or on the floor below it. There was no way to tell even the caliber of the gun which had been used. The murderer seemed to have been quite efficient.
And he had not left behind any muddy footprints, buttons, shreds of cloth, hairs, hats, scraps of paper, cigarette lightнers, handkerchiefs, keys, match booklets, cuff links, specнtacles, gloves, combs, wallets, rings, fraternity pins, fobs, nail files, false teeth, tie clips, overcoats, ticket stubs, hairнpins, garters, wigs, or any of the other souvenirs which murderers in fiction are wont to strew around with such self-sacrificing generosity. He had just walked in and smoked a few cigarettes and fired his gun and emptied the ashtrays and walked out again, without leaving any more traces than any normal visitor would leave.
'Which is Unfair to Disorganised Detectives,' said the Saint to himself. 'If I knew where the guy lived I'd picket him.'
But the flippancy was just a ripple on the surface of his mind, and underneath it his brain was working with the steady flow of an assembly line, putting together the prefabнricated pieces that he had been collecting without knowing what they were for. If he was right, and the murderer was someone whom Mr. Ufferlitz had known well enough to enнtertain in his study at that hour, there was at least a fair chance that it was someone whom Simon had already met. It might even be more than a chance. The Saint was probing back through the threads that he had once tried to weave toнgether when there was nothing to tie them to. And the note in his pocket, the note that had brought him there, with its hurried scrawl and emphatic capitals, came into his mind as clearly as if he had taken it out to look at it. Had Byron Uffнerlitz written it because something had happened to warn him that he would be in danger that night?
Or hadn't he written it?
Had somebody seen the Saint's entrance-literally-into the picture as the heaven-sent gift of a readymade scapegoat, and cashed in on it without one day's delay? Had it been sent only to bring him there at the right moment, so that...
All at once Simon was aware of the silence again. The whole house was wrapped in an empty hush that seemed to close in on him with an intangible pressure, while he tried to strain through it for any sound that would crystallise this reawakened vigilance. He was very cool now, utterly limber and relaxed, with the triggered stillness of a cat.
There was no sound even yet.
He went out of the study and crossed the hall, moving with the same supple noiselessness. The front door had a small glass panel in it, and he looked out through that without touching anything. There was a car parked outside now, withнout lights, and two dark figures stood beside it. While he looked, a flashlight beam stabbed out from one of them, swept over the lawn, flicked across the front of the house, and wavered nosily over palm trees and shrubbery. The two figures began to move up the paved walk. The Saint didn't have to see them any better to know what they were.
'Ay tank we go home,' he murmured, and turned rapidly back.
He didn't hesitate for a moment over the idea of flinging the door open and congratulating them on their prompt arrival. If the police were already preparing to take an inнterest in the premises, they must have already received a hint that there was something there to merit their profesнsional attention; and with the Saint's unfortunate reputation there were inclined to be certain technical complications about being caught in strange houses with dead bodies spillнing their brains over the furniture. The Saint knew better than anyone how sceptical policemen could be in circumнstances like that, and he had no great faith now that the note which he might have produced from his pocket to substantiate part of his story would stand up to unfriendly scrutiny.
He wrapped a handkerchief round his right hand again as he went back through the study, where he had already noticed a glazed door to the garden. It was bolted on the inside- another partial confirmation of his theory that the murderer had not crept in on Mr. Ufferlitz unseen. Simon opened it, and stepped out into a paved patio, closing the door silently again behind him. A wooden gate in the wall to his left let him out on to a lawn with a swimming pool in the center. The wall around this lawn was six feet high, with no gates. Even more like a prowling cat, Simon swung himself to the top of the wall without an effort and dropped like a feather on to the lawn of the house next door. This was the corner house. He turned to the right, where the grounds were bordered by a high thick hedge. A well aged and artistically planted elm exнtended a massive branch at just the right height and angle for him to catch with his hands and jackknife his long legs over the hedge. This time he landed on concrete, in the black shadow of the big tree, and found that he was at the side of the house around the corner, in the drive leading to the gaнrages at the back.
As he came to the corner of the building he walked into a babble of cheerful voices that ended with a chorus of good-nights. A door closed; and he saw two couples straggling away in search of their cars. Without hesitation he set off in a brisk curve that carried him first towards them and then away from them, as though he had left the party at the same time and branched off towards his own car.
A flashlight sweeping over from some yards away touched on him as he reached the pavement.
Simon squinted at it, and turned away to call a loud 'Goodнnight' after the other departing guests. Then without a pause he opened the door of his car and ducked in. An automatic answering 'Goodnight!' echoed back to him as he did it. And with that pleasant exchange of courtesies he drove away.
As he turned on to Sunset he had an abrupt distinct recolнlection of a previous goodnight, and a car that had driven slowly by while he was outside April Quest's. That could have been a coincidence, and the recent timely arrival of the police could have been another; but when they were put toнgether it began to look as if somebody was quite anxious to make sure that Hollywood wouldn't be dull for him.
5
SIMON WALKED inno Mr. Ufferlitz's outer office at eleven o'clock in the morning and said: 'Hullo, Peggy.'
'Hullo.' Peggy Warden's smile was a little vague, and her voice didn't sound quite certain. 'How are you today?'
'Fine.'
'Did you have a good time last night?'
'Mm-hm.' The Saint nodded. 'But I still want a date with you.'
'Well --'
'What about lunch?'
'I don't know--'
Her face was paler than it had been yesterday, but he gave no sign of noticing it.
'It's a date,' he said, and glanced towards the communiнcating door. It was half open. He had seen that when he came in. 'Has the Great Man arrived yet?'
'Will you go right in?'
Simon nodded, and strolled through.
A new face sat behind Mr. Ufferlitz's desk. It was a lined face of indeterminate age, with a yellowish kind of tan as if it had once had a bronze which was wearing off. It had close-cropped gray-black hair and heavy black brows over a long curved nose like a scimitar. Its whole sculpture had an air of passive despondency that was a curious contrast to its bright black eyes.
'Hullo,' murmured Simon amiably. 'Do you work here too?'
'Condor's the name,' said the face pessimistically. 'Ed Condor. Yours?'
'Templar. Simon Templar.'
The face moved a toothpick from one side of its mouth to the other.
'Mr. Ufferlitz won't be in today,' it said.
'Oh.'
'In fact, Mr. Ufferlitz won't be around here any more.'
'No?'
'Mr. Ufferlitz is dead.'
Simon allowed the faint frown of perplexity which had beнgun to gather on his brow to tighten up.
'What?'
