The Saint sank into a deep leather armchair and exhaled a long drift of smoke.
“Well I’m damned,” he said. “What did he die of?”
“Murder.”
Simon blinked.
“Good God — how?”
“Shot through the head. From behind. In his study, at his house.” Condor seemed to resign himself to the conviction that he wasn’t going to catch any revelations of premature knowledge, and opened up a bit. “Sometime around half-past one. The cook thought she heard a noise about that time, but she didn’t wake up properly and figured it was probably a car backfiring outside. Miss Warden was working there until about midnight, when he came in, and she says he was all right when she left about half an hour later.”
Simon nodded.
“I saw him at Giro’s before that.”
“What time did he leave there?”
“I wouldn’t know. It was probably around eight-thirty when I saw him, but I don’t know how much longer he stayed. I wasn’t paying much attention.”