A new face sat behind Mr Ufferlitz’s desk. It was a lined face of indeterminate age, with a yellowish kind of tan as if it had once had a bronze which was wearing off. It had close-cropped gray-black hair and heavy black brows over a long curved nose like a scimitar. Its whole sculpture had an air of passive despondency that was a curious contrast to its bright black eyes.
“Hullo,” murmured Simon amiably. “Do you work here too?”
“Condor’s the name,” said the face pessimistically. “Ed Condor. Yours?”
“Templar. Simon Templar.”
The face moved a toothpick from one side of its mouth to the other.
“Mr Ufferlitz won’t be in today,” it said.
“Oh.”
“In fact, Mr Ufferlitz won’t be around here anymore.”
“No?”
“Mr Ufferlitz is dead.”