The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror)

'Tonight, at nine——'

'You'll be there?'

'I shall,' said the Saint, with the slightest tightening of his lips. 'Shot up by a bloody amateur! Good God! Suppose he'd hit me! Pat, believe papa—when I pass out, there's going to be a first-class professional, hall-marked on every link, at the thick end of the gun.'

Patricia, in the deep armchair, settled her sweet golden head among the cushions.

'What time do we start?' she asked calmly. For a second, glancing at him sidelong. She saw the old stubborn hardening of the line of his jaw. It happened instinc­tively, almost without his knowing it; and then suddenly he swung off the arm of the chair in the breath of an even older Saintly laughter.

'Why not?' he said. 'It's impossible—preposterous—unthinkable—but why not? The old gang have gone—Dicky, Archie, Roger—gone and got spliced on to women and come over all bowler-hat. There's only you left. It'd make the vicar's wife let out one piercing squawk and swallow her knitting-needles, but who cares? If you'd really like to have another sniff at the old brew——'

'Give me the chance!'

Simon grinned.

'And you'd flop after it like a homesick walrus down a water-chute, wouldn't you?'

'Faster,' she said.

'And so you shall,' said the Saint. 'The little date I've got for tonight will be all the merrier for an extra soul on the side of saintliness and soft drinks. And if things don't turn out exactly according to schedule, there may be an encore for your especial entertainment. Pat, I have a feeling that this is going to be our week!'

Chapter VI

It was one of the Saint's most charming characteristics that he never hurried and never worried. He insisted on spend­ing an idle hour in the cocktail bar of the May Fair Hotel, and seven-thirty had struck before he collected his car, inserted Patricia, and turned the Hirondel's long silver nose north­wards at an unwontedly moderate speed. They dined at Hatfield, after parking the Hirondel in the hotel garage, and after dinner the Saint commanded coffee and liqueurs and proceeded to incinerate two enormous cigars of a plutocrati­cally delicate bouquet. He had calculated exactly how long it would take to walk out to location, and he declined to start one moment before his time-table demanded it.

'I am a doomed man,' he said sombrely, 'and I have my privileges. If necessary, the Scorpion will wait for me.'

Actually he had no intention of being late, for the plan of campaign that he had spent the nicotinised interval after din­ner adapting to Patricia's presence required them to be at the rendezvous a shade in advance of the rest of the party.

But this the Scorpion did not know.

He drove up slowly, with his headlights dimmed, scanning the dark shadows at the side of the road. Exactly beside the point where his shaded lights picked up the grey-white blur of the appointed milestone, he saw the tiny red glow of a ciga­rette-end, and applied his brakes gently. The cigarette-end dropped and vanished under an invisible heel, and out of the gloom a tall dark shape stretched slowly upwards.

The Scorpion's right hand felt the cold bulk of the auto­matic pistol in his pocket as his other hand lowered the near­side window. He leaned over towards the opening.

'Garrot?'

The question came in a whisper to the man at the side of the road, and he stepped slowly forward and answered in a throaty undertone.

'Yes, sir?'

The Scorpion's head was bent low, so that the man out­side the car could only see the shape of his hat.

'You obeyed your orders. That is good. Come closer. . . .'

The gun slipped silently out of the Scorpion's pocket, his forefinger curling quickly round the trigger as he drew it. He brought it up without a sound, so that the tip of the barrel rested on the ledge of the open window directly in line with the chest of the man twelve inches away. One lightning glance to left and right told him that the road was deserted.

'Now there is just one thing more——'

'There is,' agreed Patricia Holm crisply. 'Don't move!'