“I told you. In my apartment last night. After my little interview with Spangler last night, some character broke into our little ivory tower with the apparent idea of air-conditioning us with your heater. Unfortunately we had just booby trapped the door in preparation for a visit from the tax collector. This other character didn’t have a sense of humour so he went away in a sort of huff.”
Grady thrust himself from his chair and walked to the window. He stared out blindly, his hands folded across his chest, his face a thundercloud.
“I don’t understand,” he muttered. “Unless he sold it, or—”
He turned to Simon abruptly. “That gun was stolen from me,” he said flatly, “by Steve Nelson!”
The Saint tapped the ash from his cigarette dispassionately.
“Stolen?” he murmured.
“Yes, stolen!” Grady returned to his chair. “Last week. Right in this office. He took the gun and I’ve never seen it since — that is, until this moment.”
“How do you know he took it?” the Saint asked.
“How do I know he took it!” Grady bawled. “The lowser nearly broke my arm!”
“Oh,” Simon deduced innocently. “This, I take it, was during the quarrel you didn’t have.”