The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror)

'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 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.'