Leslie Charteris - The Saint vs Scotland Yard

"I should certainly see if I could help you in any way, but at the same time—"

"You don't see what use you could be. Absolutely. Now, shall we go on like this or shall we sing the rest in chorus?"

Mr. Garniman blinked.

"Do you want to ask me some questions?"

"I should love to," said the Saint heartily. "You don't think Mrs. Garniman will object?"

"Mrs. Garniman?"

"Mrs. Garniman."

Mr. Garniman blinked again.

"Are you—"

"Certain—"

"Are you certain you haven't made a mistake? There is no Mrs. Garniman."

"Don't mention it," said the Saint affably.

He turned the pages of an enormous notebook.

" 'Interviewed Luis Cartaro. Diamond rings and Marcel wave. Query — Do Pimples Make Good Mothers? Said—'

Sorry, wrong page… Here we are: 'Memo. See Wilfred Garniman and ask the big — ask him about scorpions. 28 Mallaby Road, Harrow'. That's right, isn't it?"

"That's my name and address," said.Garniman shortly. "But I have still to learn the reason for this — er—"

"Visit," supplied the Saint. He was certainly feeling helpful this morning.

He closed his book and returned it to his pocket.

"As a matter of fact," he said, "we heard that the Saint was interested in you."

He was not even looking at Garniman as he spoke. But the mirror over the mantelpiece was in the tail of his eyes, and thus he saw the other's hands, which were clasped behind his back, close and unclose — once.

"The Saint?" said Garniman. "Really—"

"Are you sure I'm not detaining you?" asked the Saint, suddenly very brisk and solicitous. "If your staff will be anxious…"

"My staff can wait a few minutes."

"That's very good of you. But if we telephoned them—"

"I assure you — that is quite unnecessary."

"I shouldn't like to think of your office being disorganised—"

"You need not trouble," said Garniman. He moved across the room. "Will you smoke?"

"Thanks," said the Saint.

He had just taken the first puff from a cigarette when Garniman turned round with a carved ebony box in his hand.

"Oh," said Mr. Garniman, a trifle blankly.

"Not at all," said the Saint, who was never embarrassed. "Have one of mine?"

He extended his case, but Garniman shook his head.

"I never smoke during the day. Would it be too early to offer you a drink?"

"I'm afraid so — much too late," agreed Simon blandly.

Garniman returned the ebony box to the side table from which he had taken it. Then he swung round abruptly.

"Well?" he demanded. "What's the idea?"

The Saint appeared perplexed.

"What's what idea?" he inquired innocently.

Garniman's eyebrows came down a little.

"What's all this about scorpions — and the Saint?"

"According to the Saint —"

"I don't understand you. I thought the Saint had disappeared long ago."

"Then you were grievously in error, dear heart," murmured Simon Templar coolly. "Because I am myself the Saint."

He lounged against a book-case, smiling and debonair, and his lazy blue eyes rested mockingly on the other's pale plump face.

"And I'm afraid you're the Scorpion, Wilfred," he said.

For a moment Mr. Garniman stood quite still. And then he shrugged.

"I believe I read in the newspapers that you had been pardoned and had retired from business," he said, "so I suppose it would be useless for me to communicate your confession to the police. As for this scorpion that you have referred to several times—"

"Yourself," the Saint corrected him gently, and Garniman shrugged again.

"Whatever delusion you are suffering from "

"Not a delusion, Wilfred."

"It is immaterial to me what you call it."

The Saint seemed to lounge even more languidly, his hands deep in his pockets, a thoughtful and reckless smile playing lightly about his lips.

"I call it a fact," he said softly. "And you will keep your hands away from that bell until I've finished talking… You are the Scorpion, Wilfred, and you're probably the most successful blackmailer of the age. I grant you that — your technique is novel and thorough. But blackmail is a nasty crime. Your ingenuity has already driven two men to suicide. That was stupid of them, but it was also very naughty of you. In fact, it would really give me great pleasure to peg you in your front garden and push this highly desirable residence over on top of you; but for one thing I've promised to reserve you for the hangman and for another thing I've got my income tax to pay, so — Excuse me one moment."

Something like a flying chip of frozen quicksilver flashed across the room and plonked crisply into the wooden panel around the bell-push towards which Garniman's fingers were sidling. It actually passed between his second and third fingers, so that he felt the swift chill of its passage and snatched his hand away as if it had received an electric shock. But the Saint continued his languid propping up of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, and he did not appear to have moved.

"Just do what you're told, Wilfred, and everything will be quite all right — but I've got lots more of them there missiles packed in my pants," murmured the Saint soothingly, warningly, and untruthfully — though Mr. Garniman had no means of perceiving this last adverb. "What was I saying?… Oh yes. I have my income tax to pay—"

Garniman took a sudden step forward, and his lips twisted in a snarl.

"Look here—"

"Where?" asked the Saint excitedly.

Mr. Garniman swallowed. The Saint heard him distinctly.

"You thrust yourself in here under a false name — you behave like a raving lunatic — then you make the most wild and fantastic accusations — you—"

"Throw knives about the place—"

"What the devil," bellowed Mr. Garniman, "do you mean by it?"

"Sir," suggested the Saint mildly.

"What the devil," bellowed Mr. Garniman, "do you mean — 'sir'?"

"Thank you," said the Saint.

Mr. Garniman glared. "What the—"

"O.K.," said the Saint pleasantly. "I heard you the second time. So long as you go on calling me 'sir', I shall know that everything is perfectly respectable and polite. And now we've lost the place again. Half a minute… Here we are: 'I have my income tax to pay'— "

"Will you get out at once," asked Garniman, rather quietly, "or must I send for the police?"

Simon considered the question.

"I should send for the police," he suggested at length.

He hitched himself off the book-case and sauntered leisurely across the room. He detached his little knife from the bell panel, tested the point delicately on his thumb, and restored the weapon to the sheath under his left sleeve; and Wilfred Garniman watched him without speaking. And then the Saint turned.

"Certainly — I should send for the police," he drawled. "They will be interested. It's quite true that I had a pardon for some old offences; but whether I've gone out of business, or whether I'm simply just a little cleverer than Chief Inspector Teal, is a point that is often debated at Scotland Yard. I think that any light you could throw on the problem would be welcomed."

Garniman was still silent; and the Saint looked at him, and laughed caressingly.

"On the other hand — if you're bright enough to see a few objections to that idea — you might prefer to push quietly on to your beautiful office and think over some of the other things I've said. Particularly those pregnant words about my income tax."

"Is that all you have to say?" asked Garniman, in the same low voice; and the Saint nodded.

"It'll do for now," he said lightly. "And since you seem to have decided against the police, I think I'll beetle off and concentrate on the method by which you're going to be induced to contribute to the Inland Revenue."