He waited for what seemed minutes but was in reality no more than a few seconds. The sound came again, louder this time. His ears guided his eyes to the far end of the corridor where it formed a T junction with a similar passage leading towards the rear of the house, and in the deep gloom down there a hooded figure moved.
11
Simon smiled blissfully as he watched the dim shape of a Santa Claus disappear around the corner. And then he followed. Making less sound than a scavenging mouse, he reached the junction in time to see the figure enter a room a few yards to his right.
He edged along the wall towards the door, passing another as he did so, keeping close to the wall where the boards were less likely to creak.
Standing outside the door which he had seen the Santa Claus use, he listened to try and pinpoint whereabouts in the room the man was. By the time he heard the sound behind him it was already too late.
He felt the cold bluntness of a gun barrel against his neck.
“Inside,” said a voice in his ear.
The Saint opened the door and stepped into the room. He had been caught bending in the past but he would have been prepared to admit that he had never been quite as doubled up as then.
He glanced around the room and saw that it had two doors, the one he had just come through and another a few feet away which he had ignored in his haste to reach the door the Santa had used. It made the most beautifully simple setup for an ambush, and he was sportsman enough to acknowledge it.
“Very, very clever,” he said as he turned slowly to face his captor, being careful to make no sudden movement that might precipitate a bullet.
The Santa Claus was standing beside the now closed door. He reached out and switched on the light. He wore a full Santa Claus mask, from bushy white eyebrows to ruddy cheeks to white moustache and beard, but the Saint was not deceived.
“Merry Christmas, Godfrey,” he said.
Nyall’s eyes blinked through the holes in his mask. In his hand was a .38 revolver and it was levelled unwaveringly at the Saint’s abdomen.
Simon looked at the gun with polite interest.
“A war souvenir?” he enquired pleasantly.
“That’s right,” said Nyall in an equally matter-of-fact tone. “Not as accurate as Denzil’s match pistol, but good enough at this distance.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Simon said.
The two men considered each other warily. The Saint had no illusions about the danger he faced, but the smile never left his lips even if it had left his eyes. Godfrey Nyall was the tenser of the two. He would obviously have to kill the Saint but his curiosity needed to be satisfied.
“You must be as clever as they say you are,” he said. “How did you guess it was me?”
“I am even cleverer than they say I am,” Simon replied. “I had my suspicions when I remembered that photo in your office and thought about how Casden had been killed. Then I thought it strange that the police should find the pistol in Rosco’s room. It wasn’t there when I looked, but of course you were going to replace it when I bumped into you in the corridor.”
He paused. Nyall said nothing but continued to blink steadily at him. The Saint went on:
“I still couldn’t find a motive. But there was Darslow’s crack about economists. And that made me think back to those papers on your desk and the stories that had been ringed. Gilts and blue chip shares, you’d said. But those stories would have affected commodities, and they’re too risky for a college to speculate in. Doing some dabbling on your own? Then his lordship mentioned an upcoming audit, and suddenly I saw the light.”
Nyall continued to stare without speaking at the Saint, who, conscious that his one hope lay in playing for time, said: “Commodities are dangerous things. Buy or sell at a fixed price now for payment and delivery in a few months. If the price goes the way you’re betting, you make a packet. But if it doesn’t...”
“I was unlucky,” Nyall broke in.
“So you borrowed from the college funds to make up the difference,” said the Saint. “Easy enough for someone in your position. Until you heard about Sir Basil’s plans and the audit.”
“I had no alternative,” said Nyall defensively. “It would have meant ruin, prison. There was only one way out.”
“Good scheme, dressing as Father Christmas to kill them all,” Simon said. “But then I showed up and it began to go wrong.”
“Why didn’t you say anything before?” the bursar wanted to know.
“Because I needed some kind of proof, more than just the sort of clever theory that wraps up a storybook whodunit. The best way seemed to be to catch you red-handed on your next job. Which is what I’ve done.”
“And much good it’ll do you,” Nyall said, now very coldly.
The Saint watched him deliberately raise the revolver to heart level.
“That thing makes quite a noise when it goes off,” he ventured to remark.
“Nothing that’s likely to be heard from this part of the house, through these walls,” Nyall said.
Simon Templar stared death in the face and seemed to find it amusing. He brought his left hand up unhurriedly, his right hand pushing back his left cuff as if to give him a sight of his wrist watch. At the same time the fingers of his right hand slid into the sleeve to find the chased ivory hilt of the knife sheathed against his left forearm.
“I wonder if that fortune teller was right about the exact time I’d get it,” he murmured.
Nyall’s knuckle whitened on the trigger, and in that split instant the Saint dived aside. His knife flashed through the air in the same second as the pistol cracked.
He felt the bullet pass his ear as he went down. He hit the deck and rolled over, conscious only that he was still alive, that the gamble had paid off.
He heard Nyall curse and the gun thud to the floor. As he rolled over he could see why. The razor-sharp blade had slashed the tendons at the base of the bursar’s fingers. Which was not bad throwing, Simon told himself.
Nyall stared for a second at the blood that was dripping from his hand. And then he went after the gun. But that breathing spell had been all that the Saint needed. He flung himself across the floor and his fingertips touched the butt of the revolver first. Nyall, realising he could never pick it up before the Saint, did the only thing he could. He kicked out wildly. His toe caught the trigger guard, and the gun spun through the air to fall in the far corner of the room.
The Saint twisted around and his other hand cupped behind Nyall’s ankle and pulled. Nyall tottered for a moment, his arms flailing as he tried to keep his balance, before he fell backwards. Simon maintained his grip and began to rise, but Nyall lashed out with his other foot and the heel of his shoe caught the Saint on the side of the head.
The stark lighting of the room was suddenly enhanced by a shower of tumbling golden stars. But the Saint was the only one who saw them. Involuntarily his hold weakened, and Nyall tore his other ankle free.
With a reflex action the Saint threw himself in the direction of the revolver, trying desperately to clear his head and brush away the sparks that still danced before his eyes as he prepared to meet a follow-up attack. But the attack never came.
Perhaps Nyall panicked. Perhaps his spirit was broken by having one hand made useless. Perhaps he remembered what he had heard about the Saint and realised he would ultimately have no chance against him anyway in single unarmed combat. Perhaps it was a combination of all three. All he positively knew was that Nyall hesitated and then turned and fled.