Superintendent Nutkin had apparently been dining out when the news reached him and had not welcomed being disturbed. Simon guessed that the celebration had been with Mrs. Nutkin. He played with the vision of a candlelit supper with a young well-proportioned blonde, but understood that a man like Superintendent Nutkin would never consider such a liaison in case it jeopardised his ambition to join the Parochial Church Council. He looked like a man whose ambition was to be a parochial church councillor: he was in his late forties, tall, wiry of frame, and sparse of hair, and exuded an aura of pomposity and pride.
Simon waited patiently for him to finish his reading. At last the superintendent laid the statement on the table between them and fixed the Saint with a suspicious stare.
“And this is everything that happened from the time you left the Crown?”
“To the last dotted i,” the Saint said.
Nutkin scratched his chin as his eyes travelled down the typescript. Simon found the gesture annoying. Finally the detective located the passage he was looking for and read it aloud in the same dry tone he would have used for giving evidence in court.
“I was crossing the main courtyard and had just passed the pond when I saw a figure in the archway leading to the adjoining court. I ran towards the figure.”
Nutkin looked searchingly at the Saint.
“Why? Do you normally go chasing after everyone you see?”
“His actions appeared suspicious,” Simon said blandly.
“But you say you saw this man only for a fraction of a second,” Nutkin countered. “That’s a very short time in which to consider him suspicious, don’t you think?”
“Yes and no. Yes, I do think, and no, it isn’t a short time,” the Saint replied, the weariness in his voice conveying the fact that he considered the question irrelevant.
“Could it have been his clothes that made you think there was something wrong?” Nutkin asked, and the Saint showed his surprise only by the raising of a solitary eyebrow.
“The person I caught a glimpse of looked like a monk,” he said evenly. “And if that sounds crazy you’ll just have to believe that I’d only had two pints.”
The superintendent sat back in his chair and recommenced scratching his chin.
Simon continued: “He appeared to be wearing a habit and cowl.”
For a while Nutkin chewed over the information and then slowly shook his head.
“A monk, you say? Or a Father Christmas perhaps?”
Simon smiled tolerantly at the detective.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, Mr. Nuthatch, but Santa Claus doesn’t actually exist. Now I realise this may come as a shock but on Christmas Eve...”
Nutkin ignored for the moment the misrendering of his name. He waved an impatient hand, but his voice never varied its monotone.
“Very amusing. Miss Williams reports that, as she and her carol singers were entering the court where the body was found, a man dressed as Father Christmas pushed past them and ran off.”
The Saint said seriously: “That would tie in. But why should someone dress themselves like that to commit murder? It seems a strange sort of disguise.”
Nutkin shrugged.
“Perhaps, but effective. No one saw his face.”
“Who was the dead man, anyway?”
“Sir Basil Lazentree, the Master of St. Enoch’s College. He only took over at the start of the autumn term.”
“I’ve heard of him. Doesn’t he appear on one of those radio quizzes?”
“That’s right,” Nutkin said, and steered the interview back to the murder. “There’s nothing else you can tell me?”
“Absolutely nothing, I’m afraid,” said the Saint firmly. “I haven’t eaten since lunch, so if you’re finished with me I’d like to go.”
“Yes, you can go. We’ll contact you if we need you again.”
The superintendent stood up and the Saint followed suit.
“We have your address in London. You’ll be told when the inquest is to be opened.”
“I don’t think I’ll be leaving Cambridge just yet, Superintendent,” the Saint remarked with a smile.
Nutkin frowned.
“I can’t tell you to leave the town, and I can’t stop you staying,” he said heavily. “But this is now a police matter, Mr. Templar. We don’t need any help from you. I know your reputation, and I’m warning you not to meddle.”
“Meddle, Superintendent?” said the Saint in a tone of pained surprise. “Why should I be interested in a homicidal Santa Claus who strangles people with silver twine?”
Nutkin’s gaze followed the Saint down the corridor. He felt uneasy and irritable. He had often read of how Simon Templar had made the bigwigs at Scotland Yard look like so many bungling amateurs, and his official frown had masked a self-satisfied smile. It would, he had always maintained, never happen to him. The Saint’s parting comments had bruised that confidence and left him strangely deflated. Suddenly it did not look like being such a happy Christmas after all.
For his part, Simon Templar hardly spared the superintendent a thought as he ate his dinner and then returned to his hotel. Nor did he wonder at the whim of the Fates who had delivered him into the hands of such an intriguing mystery; it was enough that they had. Instead, he concerned himself with the problem of where to begin looking for the murderous Mr. Claus.
Which was why, after breakfast the following morning, he entered the premises of Messrs. Drake & Humbolt. He had been directed to the small bow-windowed shop in Market Street by the hotel manager after enquiring where he might hire a costume for a fancy-dress party. Their main business came from renting out formal morning and evening wear, but he had been told that a variety of costumes were also available.
A small delicate-featured man came forward to greet him as he entered. Simon explained the purpose of his visit and the man looked doubtful.
“You’re a bit late, sir, I’m afraid. Most of our customers reserve their costumes some time in advance. But we should be able to find something to suit you. What about a Roman senator or a pirate?”
“What about Father Christmas?” Simon suggested, but the assistant shook his head.
“I’m sorry, they’ve all gone, sir. We rent them to the department stores at the end of November, and then there are church bazaars and charity functions and so on. Regulars, you see, same people every year.”
“You know most of your customers, then?”
“As I said, sir, regulars.”
“Has anyone hired a Santa Claus outfit recently whom you did not know?”
The assistant looked keenly at the Saint.
“Why should you be interested in that, sir?”
“Just curious,” Simon replied casually.
“The police were here this morning, sir, asking the same question. I gave them the list of customers but, as I told the officer, they were all known to us. Now, sir, about your costume.”
The Saint shook his head.
“I’ve had another idea. Perhaps I’ll cut the cost and go as Adam. Fig leaves are quite in vogue this year.”
Back on the pavement he strolled idly towards St. Andrew’s Street. He was not particularly disappointed. It had been the longest of long shots and he had not really expected to be told, “We had a homicidal maniac in here yesterday hiring one.” But it had been worth trying.
His conversation had at least given him an idea of how to spend the rest of his morning: in the unexciting but necessary business of buying Christmas presents.