Simon allowed the faint frown of perplexity which had begun to gather on his brow to tighten up.
“What?”
“He’s dead.”
“Is this a gag?”
“Nope. He died last night. You won’t see him any more unless you go to the morgue.”
The Saint lighted a cigarette slowly, glancing back at the door through which he had just entered with the same puzzled frown deepening on his face.
It was a masterpiece of timing and restrained suggestion. If Condor was disappointed because he didn’t draw one of the conventional gaffes of the “Who shot him?” variety, he didn’t show it. He said, “I told her not to say anything. Wanted to see how you took it.”
“I may be dumb,” said the Saint, “but I think I’m missing something. Are you an undercover man for a Gallup Poll, or what is this?”
Condor flipped his lapel.
“Police,” he said gloomily. “Sit down, Mr Templar.”