“Flane rushed into his home, quite cockeyed apparently, and went straight to his bedroom. His housekeeper was trying to ask him about something, but he just didn’t pay any attention. He must have grabbed a gun out of a drawer and shot himself, bang, just like that. She rushed right in and there he was, falling down, with a gun in his hand.”
“That’s quite a relief to me,” said the Saint. “So now why did you want me?”
“I thought you might have done some more figuring since it happened.”
The police driver opened the car door and got out, as they stopped on the pavement. He kept moving towards them with short awkward steps, his face fixed and staring.
“If it happened the way you say it did,” Simon observed, “it might have been a genuine suicide. In fact, I should say it must have been. So it’s no use dreaming about your murderer following up to cover himself.”
“Unless he’s a genius,” said Condor.
The driver was right with them now. He was still staring at the Saint, his eyes popping a little. Suddenly his hand settled on to his gun.
“Is this Templar?” he interrupted hoarsely.
“Yes,” Condor said, glancing at him.
The driver’s mouth worked.