Leslie Charteris - The Saint vs Scotland Yard

"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 flickered 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 wondered—"

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 interests 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."

Simon was lingering over a cigarette and his last breakfast 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 transported a new and virginal packet of spearmint into the detective'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 expenses 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 mutual 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 yourself!"

"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 Scorpion 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 advertise 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 Scotland 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 Scorpion".