“I have a feeling you’ve been calling poor Inspector Teal off and on all day,” Simon said. “Why don’t you give the switchboard a rest. I’ve already called him anyway.”
The elevator doors opened yet again, and two more policemen emerged and stood appalled for a moment. The clerk managed to get to them and scream a general idea of what was going on.
The uniformed men began moving against the crowd, quietly but firmly. Slowly the storm subsided. Dancers were separated. The record player was unplugged. Unruly beatniks were isolated in various parts of the room. Some of the merry-makers, realizing that the tide had turned, simply sat down on the floor and waited to see what would happen next. A few had fallen asleep, clutching one another, or embracing half-emptied whiskey bottles.
When Chief Inspector Claud Teal arrived, the scene was fairly calm.
“Now then,” he said, “what’s going on here?”
He spoke the words as he stepped from the elevator and swaggered into the living room, bearing a transitory resemblance to Charles Laughton in his celebrated role of Captain Bligh. The policemen respectfully straightened their spines, while Timonaides and his staff glared from one side of the room, and Simon and the party-goers watched from the other.
The clerk began his version of the tale.
“These people broke in, forced their way into the elevators...”
“And they’ve done serious damage to my furniture,” Timonaides interrupted. “I thought England was a civilized country, where a man could go to bed at night without fear of being attacked by screaming savages.”
“There’s going to be damage done to a lot more than your furniture before this is over,” the Saint said quietly.
“You see!” bawled Timonaides. “He threatens me, even now! Please take him away!”
Teal glowered at Simon and raised his hand to gesture for one of the officers. The Saint stepped back and relaxed against the wall.
“You’d like to catch the man who murdered Perry Loudon, wouldn’t you, Claud?”
“I thought you denied he was ever killed?” the detective said.
“I’m not sure I ever said that, but anyway, it turns out now that he has been. He was killed on the orders of Mr. Timonaides, here, who happens to be the man who’s been calling you anonymously. The actual stabbing was done by one of those men over there.”
“Lies!” Timonaides howled. “He is telling all lies! Trying to save his own skin...”
Simon reached into his pocket and produced a box of video tape which he had taken from Timonaides’ desk. He gave it to Teal.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a tape made by a television camera which Timonaides managed to get into the private office of a man named Thorpe-Jones. You’ve probably heard of him.”
“Of course,” said Teal.
The Saint continued.
“The whole thing is a blackmail scheme — Mr Timonaides’ specialty.
“Timonaides bribed Perry Loudon to incorporate cameras and microphones into certain pieces of his sculpture. Then, when Loudon began to ask for too much money, or because he knew too much, Timonaides had him killed. There was also a man who looked rather like me, who was thrown out of a window in Newkirk Street, as your man Longbottom must have told you—”
The Greek managed to control his voice and adopt some semblance of scornful calm.
“Insane,” he said, shaking his head. “There is absolutely no basis for this story. If you will investigate you will probably find that this man Templar had some personal quarrel with this Loudon and killed him himself. Now he’s merely trying to drag in innocent parties in order to throw suspicion off himself.”
“You’ll find at least one television camera in Thorpe-Jones’ club right now,” Simon said. “There’s also a monitoring van involved. I can give you its description and license. I’m sure it shouldn’t be hard for a great detective like you to trace good concrete evidence of that kind to the man who paid for it. And in the desk in the study here, there are video tapes which came from that set-up.”
Teal knew better than to take such detailed and direct accusations lightly when Simon Templar made them. They had proved correct too often in the past. The detective looked at Timonaides, who snorted.
“This is ridiculous,” said the Greek.
“It’s not ridiculous to me,” the Saint said.
His voice had lost any trace of banter and he looked at Timonaides with piercing eyes the color of clear arctic skies.
“As you know, Claud, I’ve been in this snake’s way before,” he continued. “To get revenge, he arranged for someone to impersonate me and steal Loudon’s girl. Possibly he even arranged for the girl to work her way into Loudon’s life to begin with. Then, when Loudon was killed, you were supposed to believe that his old pal Simon Templar murdered him while they were fighting over a woman.”
“This man is insane,” Timonaides said, turning up his palms.
Teal looked at the Saint.
“If Loudon is dead, where’s his body?”
“Somewhere in this apartment, I believe,” said Simon.
Timonaides looked incredulous, faintly worried, and then tremendously relieved. He opened his mouth — threw back his head, and guffawed.
“Where?” Teal asked the Saint.
“Claud,” Simon said reproachfully. “What did I tell you about asking me to do all your work? I don’t know where, but I don’t think they’ve had time yet to get rid of it.”
Teal turned to Timonaides.
“It would be simple to check this,” he said. “Would you mind?”
Timonaides shook his head.
“Not in the least! Please.” He spread his arms. “Search. Look everywhere.”
Teal nodded to the uniformed men, who began dutifully trooping through the penthouse looking into and under things. Simon enjoyed the brief wait. This was one of those mountain-peak moments which belonged just to him, and for which he lived.
“A nice bluff,” Simon said to Timonaides, “pretending not to care if they looked. Too bad it didn’t work.”
“It’s a lie,” the Greek said, hut an awful and uncanny presentiment, born of the Saint’s astounding confidence, seemed to begin to shake him. “If you do find a body, he brought it here. I know nothing about it.”
“If Templar is lying, you have nothing to fear,” Teal said stolidly. “We’ll begin checking on the rest of his story right away.”
There were several more minutes of what to Simon Templar was delicious suspense, before he heard a muffled far-off shout from the direction of the kitchen, and soon after that the first constable came hurrying back, red-faced and almost incoherent with his news.
10
The Saint drove Cassie hack to her flat, and went upstairs with her. She fell on her knees beside Caspar and George, the dummies.
“Oh, my poor boys!” she cried. “Were you worried about Cassie? Well, don’t feel bad. It’s all over now.”
“No, it isn’t,” Simon said.
He pulled her to her feet.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
He took her in his arms, and she stared up at him, wide-eyed.
“I mean you’re not going to creep back into that little shell of yours and shut the door,” he said. “Can George or Caspar do this?”
And he kissed her gently on the lips.
She pondered his face for a minute, then slipped her arms around his neck.
Without moving away from him, she reached behind her with one foot and shoved Caspar from his sitting position so that he slumped face down on to the floor.
“Close your eyes, boys,” she said. “You’ve just been replaced.”