The Saint vs Scotland Yard (4 page)

“Be hunting scorpions?”

“That’s the way I thought it out, sir.”

“And?”

“I was hanging around last night, Mr. Templar, trying to
make up my
mind to come and see you, and I saw the shoot
ing.”

“And?”

“That car—it was just like the car that met me out beyond
Hatfield,
sir.”

“And?”

“I thought p’raps it
was
the same car.”

“And?”

Simon prompted him for the fourth time from the corner
table
where he was replenishing Long Harry’s glass. His back
was turned, but there
was an inconspicuous little mirror just
above the level of
the eyes—the room was covered from every
angle by those
inconspicuous little mirrors. And he saw the twitching of Long Harry’s mouth.

“I came because I thought you might be able to stop the Scorpion
getting me, Mr. Templar,” said Long Harry, in one
jerk.

“Ah!” The Saint swung round. “That’s more like it! So
you’re on
the list, are you?”

“I think so.” Long Harry nodded. “There was a shot aimed
at me last night, too, but I suppose you wouldn’t ‘ve noticed
it.”

Simon Templar lighted another cigarette.

“I see. The Scorpion spotted you hanging around here, and
tried to
bump you off. That’s natural. But, Harry, you never even started hanging around
here until you got the idea you
might like to tell me the story of your
life—and still you
haven’t told me where that idea came from. Sing on, Harry—
I’m listening, and I’m certainly patient.”

Long Harry absorbed a gill of Maison Dewar in comparative silence, and
wiped his lips on the back of his hand.

“I had another letter on Monday morning, telling me to be
at the
same place at midnight tomorrow.”

“And?”

“Monday afternoon I was talking to some friends. I didn’t
tell ‘em
anything, but I sort of steered the conversation
around, not bringing
myself in personal. You remember Wilbey
?”

“Found full of bullets on the Portsmouth Road three
months ago? Yes—I
remember.”

“I heard—it’s just a story, but I heard the last job he did was
for the
Scorpion. He talked about it. The bloke shot himself
that time, too. An’ I
began thinking. It may surprise you, Mr.
Templar, but
sometimes I’m very si-chick.”

“You worked it out that as long as the victims paid up, everything
was all right. But if they did anything desperate,
there was always a
chance of trouble; and the Scorpion
wouldn’t want anyone who could talk
running about without
a muzzle. That right?”

Long Harry nodded, and his prominent Adam’s apple flick
ered once
up and down.

“Yes, I think if I keep that appointment tomorrow I’ll be—
what’s
that American word?—on the spot. Even if I don’t
go——
” The
man broke off with a shrug that made a feeble
attempt at bravado.
“I couldn’t take that story of mine to
the police, Mr.
Templar, as you’ll understand, and I won
dered——
”

Simon Templar settled a little deeper into his chair and sent
a couple of
perfect smoke-rings chasing each other up towards
the ceiling.

He understood Long Harry’s thought processes quite clearly.
Long Harry
was a commonplace and more or less peaceful
yegg, and violence
was not among the most prominent inter
ests of his life. Long
Harry, as the Saint knew, had never even
carried so much as a
life-preserver… . The situation was
obvious.

But how the situation was to be turned to account—that required a second
or two’s meditation. Perhaps two seconds.
And then the little
matter of spoon-feeding that squirming
young pup of a plan up
to a full-sized man-eating carnivore
hopping around on its own pads …. maybe five seconds
more. And then ——

“We deduce,” said the Saint dreamily, “that our friend
had
arranged for you to die tomorrow; but when he found you on
the
outskirts of the scenery last night, he thought he might
save
himself a journey.”

“That’s the way I see it, Mr. Templar.”

“From the evidence before us, we deduce that he isn’t the
greatest
snap shot in the world. And so——
”

“Yes, Mr. Templar?”

“It looks to me, Harry,” said the Saint pleasantly, “as if
you’ll have to die tomorrow after all.”

Chapter IV

Simon was lingering over a cigarette and his last break
fast cup
of coffee when Mr. Teal dropped in at half-past
eleven next morning.

“Have you breakfasted?” asked the Saint hospitably. “I can
easily hash you up
an egg or something——”

“Thanks,” said Teal, “I had breakfast at eight.”

“A positively obscene hour,” said the Saint

He went to an inlaid smoking-cabinet, and solemnly trans
ported a
new and virginal packet of spearmint into the detec
tive’s vicinity.

“Make yourself at home, Claud Eustace. And why are we
thus
honoured?”

There was a gleaming automatic, freshly cleaned and oiled,
beside the
breakfast-tray, and Teal’s sleepy eyes fell on it as he
undressed
some Wrigley. He made no comment at that point,
and continued his
somnambulation round the room. Before
the papers pinned to the overmantel,
he paused.

“You going to contribute your just share towards the ex
penses of
the nation?” he inquired.

“Someone is going to,” answered the Saint calmly.

“Who?”

“Talking of scorpions, Teal——
”

The detective revolved slowly, and his baby eyes suddenly
drooped as
if in intolerable ennui.

“What scorpions?” he demanded, and the Saint laughed.

“Pass it up, Teal, old stoat. That one’s my copyright.”

Teal frowned heavily.

“Does this mean the old game again, Saint?”

“Teal! Why bring that up?”

The detective gravitated into a pew.

“What have you got to say about scorpions?”

“They have stings in their tails.”

Teal’s chewing continued with rhythmic monotonousness.

“When did you become interested in the Scorpion?” he
questioned casually.

“I’ve been interested for some time,” murmured the Saint.
“Just
recently, though, the interest’s become a shade too mu
tual to be healthy.
Did you know the Scorpion was an
amateur?” he added abruptly.

“Why do you think that?”

“I don’t think it—I know it. The Scorpion is raw. That’s one
reason why
I shall have to tread on him. I object to being shot
up by amateurs—I feel
it’s liable to lower my stock. And as for
being finally killed
by an amateur … Teal, put it to your
self!”

“How do you know this?”

The Saint renewed his cigarette at leisure.

“Deduction. The Sherlock Holmes stuff again. I’ll teach you
the trick
one day, but I can give you this result out flat. Do
you want chapter and
verse?”

“I’d be interested.”

“O.K.” The Saint leaned back. “A man came and gave me
some news
about the Scorpion last night, after hanging around for three days—and he’s
still alive. I was talking to him on the phone only half an hour ago. If the
Scorpion had been a real
professional, that man would never even have
seen me—let
alone have been alive to ring me up this morning. That’s
one
point.”

“What’s the next?”

“You remember the Portsmouth Road murder?”

“Yes.”

“Wilbey had worked for the Scorpion, and he was a possible
danger. If
you’ll consult your records, you’ll find that Wilbey
was acquitted on a
charge of felonious loitering six days before he died. It was exactly the same
with the bird who came to see
me last night. He had also worked for the
Scorpion, and he
was discharged at Bow Street only two days before the
Scor
pion sent for him. Does that spell anything to you?”

Teal crinkled his forehead.

“Not yet, but I’m trying.”

“Let me save you the trouble.”

“No—just a minute. The Scorpion was in court when the
charges
were dismissed——
”

“Exactly. And he followed them home. It’s obvious. If you
or I wanted
someone to do a specialised bit of crime—say
burglary, for
instance—in thirty hours we could lay our hands
on thirty men we could
commission. But the genuine aged-in-
the-wood amateur hasn’t got those
advantages, however clever
he
may be. He simply
hasn’t got the connections. You can’t
apply for cracksmen to the ordinary
labour exchange, or adver
tise for them in
The Times,
and if
you’re a respectable
amateur you haven’t any among your intimate
friends. What’s
the only way you can get hold of them?”

Teal nodded slowly.

“It’s an idea,” he admitted. “I don’t mind telling you
we’ve
looked over all the regulars long ago. The Scorpion doesn’t
come into
the catalogue. There isn’t a nose on the pay-roll who
can get a whiff of
him. He’s something right outside our
register of established clients.”

The name of the Scorpion had first been mentioned nine
months
before, when a prominent Midland cotton-broker had put his head in a gas-oven
and forgotten to turn off the gas. In
a letter that was read at the inquest
occurred the words:
“I have been bled for years, and now I can endure
no more.
When the Scorpion stings, there is no antidote but
death.”

And in the brief report of the proceedings:

The Coroner:
Have you any idea
what the deceased meant
by that reference to a scorpion?

Witness:
No.

Is there any professional blackmailer known to the police by
that
name?—I have never heard it before.

And thereafter, for the general run of respectable citizens
from whom
the Saint expressly dissociated Teal and himself,
the rest had been a
suavely expanding blank… .

But through that vast yet nebulous area popularly called
“the
underworld” began to voyage vague rumours, growing
more and
more wild and fantastic as they passed from mouth to
mouth, but still
coming at last to the respective ears of Scot
land Yard with enough
credible vitality to be interesting. Kate
Allfield, “the
Mug”, entered a railway carriage in which a
Member of Parliament
was travelling alone on a flying visit to
his constituency: he
stopped the train at Newbury and gave
her in charge, and when her
counter-charge of assault broke
down under ruthless cross-examination she
“confessed” that she
had acted on the instigation of an unknown
accomplice. Kate had tried many ways of making easy money, and the fact that
the case
in question was a new one in her history meant little.
But round the
underworld travelled two words of comment
and explanation, and
those two words said simply “The Scor
pion”.

“Basher” Tope—thief, motor-bandit, brute, and worse—was
sent for.
He boasted in his cups of how he was going to solve
the mystery of the
Scorpion, and went alone to his appoint
ment. What happened
there he never told; he was absent from
his usual haunts for
three weeks, and when he was seen again
he had a pink scar on
his temple and a surly disinclination to
discuss the matter.
Since he had earned his nickname, questions were not showered upon him; but
once again the word
went round… .