There was nothing inside.
Teal went unbelievingly over and put his head in the hollow space and looked up and looked down. He turned around and his chin began to tremble.
“I don’t know what that was supposed to prove,” said the Saint, “but if you can’t stick it back together again that’s six months of your precious salary gone up the spout.”
He took Cassie’s arm.
“Shall we go?” he said to her. “I think our party should be a lot more interesting than this.”
He turned back at the door and looked at Teal, whose eyes had taken a strange glaze and whose jaw was working soundlessly even though he was chewing no gum.
“If we seem unappreciative about the show, Claud, don’t feel bad. You can’t expect us laymen to comprehend all the deeper mysteries of police work.”
As soon as he and Cassie were in his car, the Saint became all seriousness.
“That penthouse is going to be no easy fortress to attack,” he said.
“What do we do?” Cassie asked. “Hire an army?”
“I had in mind something like that.”
They were on the road again, continuing their interrupted journey towards Cassie’s flat.
“As soon as we get to your place,” Simon said, “call all the weirdo people you can think of — you must know plenty — and invite them to a big party at Timonaides’ penthouse. Say he’s your rich uncle or something, and he’s giving away free booze by the gallon. Say you’re celebrating a sale he’s arranged for some of your dummies. You can also say that the doorman and clerk are terribly stuffy and suspicious of people they don’t know, so you should all meet on the sidewalk here and then go to the apartment house en masse so you’ll be given a pleasant reception. Right?”
“I guess so. But why?”
“To give me a cover, and for other reasons I’ll explain later. Can you do that? Can you find enough people?”
Cassie grinned.
“All I’d have to do on Pinter Street is whisper ‘free booze’ behind my hand and there’d be a riot.”
Pinter Street, whatever its riot potential, showed few signs even of life when the Saint parked his car in front of the house where Cassie lived. It was nearly midnight, and only a sprinkling of lighted windows up and down the block indicated that some of the creative inhabitants of the area were still awake smoking pot or — hopefully — doing their artistic bit for western culture.
Cassie hesitated at the front door of the house with her key in the lock.
“I don’t want to go up,” she said soberly.
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“I’ll be right beside you,” he said. “Anybody who can live up there with those dummies can take anything.”
He took an encouraging grip on her arm, and she opened the door. A tiny bulb showed the way upstairs. Unlike Perry Loudon’s home next door, which had been a single unit, this house had been divided into small flats. Cassie stopped beside the door at the foot of the stairs and banged on it loudly. A moment later a shaggy dark head, with long beard, like an illustration from Robinson Crusoe, protruded blearily into the hall.
“Say, Sam,” said Cassie, with forced enthusiasm, “my rich uncle’s giving a party, with all the free booze you can drink. Everybody’s invited.”
It was impossible to determine visually what Sam’s reaction was, since there was no skin discernible under the hair, but his eyes seemed to glitter more wildly in the undergrowth, and with a sound undoubtedly connoting pleasure and gratitude he turned and vanished into his rooms.
“Do you think he’s coming or not?” Simon asked.
He and Cassie hurried up the stairs.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “He’s just going to get some clothes on, I imagine. He generally never wears any.”
“With all that fur, he probably doesn’t need any, but I’m glad he’s going formal tonight.”
Cassie knocked on another door down the hall from her own and delivered her message, and then she and Simon went into her flat. They had scarcely entered and turned on the light when the neighbor just aroused by Cassie came running down the hall and through the door behind them. She was an attractive girl with long brown hair, and she wore a brilliantly flowered shift. Cassie introduced her to Simon as Annie.
“Is it all right if I call Ned?” she asked breathlessly.
“If he doesn’t bring his wolfhound,” Cassie answered.
“Oh, let him bring his wolfhound,” Simon interceded. “Wolfhounds don’t drink much, and your uncle can afford it.”
“He’ll have to have vodka,” giggled the girl. “He’s a Russian wolfhound.”
Suddenly she stared at the wall on the other side of the room, and Simon could sense the terrible tension which gripped Cassie’s body.
“Oh, you’ve made a new one!” the girl exclaimed. “Isn’t that groovy? It... it’s much more real looking than the others ever were.”
She was on her way to examine the object more closely when Cassie cut out the light with the switch beside the door.
“No time for that now,” she said. “My uncle might change his mind if we keep him waiting.”
Annie went back out into the dimly lit hall with a shrug and returned to her own flat. Cassie spoke with a voice calculated to carry.
“Oh, I forgot something!”
She and Simon went back into her flat, locked the door, and turned on the light. Cassie sagged against the wall and closed her eyes. Simon put a comforting arm around her shoulders.
“Quick thinking,” he said.
“I don’t believe I can stand much more,” she moaned.
“You won’t have to. Soon you’ll be in the clear. But the last step is the hardest.”
He went over to the body of Perry Loudon, which sat propped against the wall like a brother of the dummy, Caspar. Loudon’s face was coated white with a smearing of plaster, and his features were painted in. Dark glasses covered his eyes, and there was a straw hat on his head.
Simon indicated an open box nearby.
“These are big sacks for wrapping your dummies, aren’t they?” he asked.
Cassie nodded weakly.
“Fine.” The Saint went to the box and pulled out a bag, holding it up to check the size.
“Do I... have to watch?” asked Cassie.
“No. You’re looking a little green. Some fresh air would do you good. While I’m taking care of this you can run across the roof to Loudon’s studio and bring me back a hook and a rope. You can’t miss them — they’re part of some kind of pulley he had rigged for lifting those sculptures of his.”
Cassie nodded and gratefully headed for the door to the roof.
“Shouldn’t you call some more people, too?” Simon inquired. “We need more than four or five.”
“Don’t worry,” said Cassie. “The word is already travelling. We’ll have more than enough. Believe me.”
As she disappeared into the darkness outside, the Saint wet a cloth at the washbasin and prepared to remove all traces of Cassie’s art from Perry Loudon’s corpse.
Ten minutes later Simon, with Cassie helping to ease a little of the burden, came out on to the sidewalk carrying a bulky bag on his back.
It was then that Simon discovered that Cassie’s assurance about having an adequate number of guests for her fictitious uncle’s party had been very well founded. The formerly quiet street in front of her house had been transformed into open air bedlam. At least two dozen males and females were laughing, shouting, arguing, playing guitars, dancing, or engaging in the early stages of lovemaking. Their costumes proclaimed their eccentricity, or poverty, or both. Sandals were the predominant footwear, and jeans were the most generally popular article of clothing, but the Saint was not unhappy to see that miniskirts had several adherents among the girls.