Leslie Charteris - The Saint vs Scotland Yard

"I suppose you'll have to pay," said Patricia.

"Someone will," said the Saint significantly.

He propped the printed buff envelope that had accompanied the Final Demand against the coffee-pot, and his eyes rested on it for a space with a gentle thoughtfulness — amazingly clear, devil-may-care blue eyes with a growing glimmer of mischief lurking somewhere behind the lazily drooping lids.

And slowly the old Saintly smile came to his lips as he contemplated the address.

"Someone will have to pay," repeated the Saint thoughtfully; and Patricia Holm sighed, for she knew the signs.

And suddenly the Saint stood up, with his swift soft laugh, and took the Final Demand and the envelope over to the fireplace. On the wall close by hung a plain block calendar, and on the mantelpiece lay an old Corsican stiletto. "Che la mia ferita sia mortale," said the inscription on the blade.

The Saint rapidly flicked over the pages of the calendar and tore out the sheet which showed in solid red figures the day on which Mr. Lionel Delborn's patience would expire. He placed the sheet on top of the other papers, and with one quick thrust he drove the stiletto through the collection and speared it deep into the panelled overmantel.

"Lest we forget," he said, and turned with another laugh to smile seraphically into Patricia's outraged face. "I just wasn't born to be respectable, lass, and that's all there is to it. And the time has come for us to remember the old days."

As a matter of fact, he had made that decision two full weeks before, and Patricia had known it; but not until then had he made his open declaration of war.

At eight o'clock that evening he was sallying forth in quest of an evening's innocent amusement, and a car that had been standing in the darkness at the end of the cul-de-sac of Upper Berkeley Mews suddenly switched on its headlights and roared towards him. The Saint leapt back and fell on his face in the doorway, and he heard the plop of a silenced gun and the thud of a bullet burying itself in the woodwork above his head. He slid out into the mews again as the car went past, and fired twice as it swung into Berkeley Square, but he could not tell whether he did any damage.

He returned to brush his clothes, and then continued calmly on his way; and when he met Patricia later he did not think it necessary to mention the incident that had delayed him. But it was the third time since the episode chez Bird that the Scorpion had tried to kill him, and no one knew better than Simon Templar that it would not be the last attempt.

For some days past, the well-peeled eye might at intervals have observed a cadaverous and lantern-jawed individual protruding about six and a half feet upwards from the cobbled paving of Upper Berkeley Mews. Simon Templar, having that sort of eye, had in fact noticed the apparition on its first and in all its subsequent visits; and anyone less well-informed than himself might pardonably have suspected some connection between the lanky boulevardier and the recent disturbances of the peace. Simon Templar, however, was not deceived.

"That," he said once, in answer to Patricia's question, "is Mr. Harold Garrot, better known as Long Harry. He is a moderately proficient burglar; and we have met before, but not professionally. He is trying to make up his mind to come and tell me something, and one of these days he will take the plunge."

The Saint's deductions were vindicated twenty-four hours after the last firework display.

Simon was alone. The continued political activities of a certain newspaper proprietor had driven him to verse, and he was covering a sheet of foolscap with the beginning of a minor epic expressing his own views on the subject:

At this point, the trend of his inspiration led the Saint on a brief excursion to the barrel in one corner of the room. He replenished his tankard, drank deeply, and continued:

And there, for the moment, he stuck; and he was cogitating the possible developments of the next stanza when he was interrupted by the zing! of the front door bell.

As he stepped out into the hall, he glanced up through the fanlight above the door at the mirror that was cunningly fixed to the underneath of the hanging lantern outside. He recognised the caller at once, and opened the door without hesitation.

"Come in, Harry," invited the Saint cordially, and led the way back to the sitting-room. "I was busy with a work of art that is going to make Milton look like a distant relative of the gargle, but I can spare you a few minutes."

Long Harry glanced at the sheet half-covered with the Saint's neat handwriting.

"Poetry, Mr. Templar? We used to learn poetry at school," he said reminiscently.

Simon looked at him thoughtfully for two or three seconds, and then he beamed.

"Harry, you hit the nail on the head. For that suggestion, I pray that your shadow may always be jointed at the elbows. Excuse me one moment."

He plumped himself back in his chair and wrote at speed. Then he cleared his throat, and read aloud:

He laid the sheet down reverently.

"A mere pastime for me, but I believe Milton used to sweat blood over it," he remarked complacently. "Soda or water, Harry?"

"Neat, please, Mr. Templar."

Simon brought over the glass of Highland cream, and Long Harry sipped it, and crossed and uncrossed his legs awkwardly.

"I hope you don't mind my coming to see you, sir," he ventured at last.

"Not at all," responded the Saint heartily. "Always glad to see any Eton boys here. What's the trouble?"

Long Harry fidgeted, twiddling his fingers and corrugating his brow. He was the typical "old lag," or habitual criminal, which is to say that outside of business hours he was a perfectly ordinary man of slightly less than average intelligence and rather more than average cunning. On this occasion he was plainly and ordinarily ill at ease, and the Saint surmised that he had only begun to solve his worries when he mustered up the courage to give that single, brief, and symptomatic ring at the front door bell.

Simon lighted a cigarette and waited impassively, and presently his patience reaped its harvest.

"I wondered — I thought maybe I could tell you something that might interest you, Mr. Templar."