The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror)

To the maid who opened the door he gave a card bearing the name of Mr. Andrew Herrick and the official imprint of the Daily Record. Simon Templar had no right whatever to either of these decorations, which were the exclusive property of a reporter whom he had once interviewed, but a little thing like that never bothered the Saint. He kept every visiting card that was ever given him and a few that had not been con­sciously donated, and drew appropriately upon his stock in time of need.

'Mr. Garniman is just finishing breakfast, sir,' said the maid doubtfully, 'but I'll ask him if he'll see you.'

'I'm sure he will,' said the Saint, and he said it so win­ningly that if the maid's name had been Mrs. Garniman the prophecy would have passed automatically into the realm of sublimely concrete certainties.

As it was, the prophecy merely proved to be correct.

Mr. Garniman saw the Saint, and the Saint saw Mr. Garni­man. These things happened simultaneously, but the Saint won on points. There was a lot of Mr. Garniman.

'I'm afraid I can't spare you very long, Mr. Herrick,' he said. 'I have to go out in a few minutes. What did you want to see me about?'

His restless grey eyes flittered shrewdly over the Saint as he spoke, but Simon endured the scrutiny with the peaceful calm which only the man who wears the suits of Anderson and Shepphard, the shirts of Harman, the shoes of Lobb, and self-refrigerating conscience can achieve.

'I came to ask you if you could tell us anything about the Scorpion,' said the Saint calmly.

Well, that is one way of putting it. On the other hand, one could say with equal truth that his manner would have made a sheet of plate glass look like a futurist sculptor's impression of a bit of the Pacific Ocean during a hurricane. And the inno­cence of the Saintly face would have made a Botticelli angel look positively sinister in comparison.

His gaze rested on Mr. Wilfred Garniman's fleshy prow with no more than a reasonable directness; but he saw the momentary flicker of expression that preceded Mr. Garniman's blandly puzzled frown, and wistfully wondered whether, if he unsheathed his swordstick and prodded it vigorously into Mr. Garniman's immediate future, there would be a loud pop, or merely a faint sizzling sound. That he overcame this insidious temptation, and allowed no sign of the soul-shattering struggle to register itself on his face, was merely a tribute to the persist­ently sobering influence of Mr. Lionel Delborn's official proc­lamation and the Saint's sternly practical devotion to business.

'Scorpion?' repeated Mr. Garniman, frowning. 'I'm afraid I don't quite——'

'Understand. Exactly. Well, I expected I should have to explain.'

'I wish you would. I really don't know——'

'Why we should consider you an authority on scorpions. Precisely. The Editor told me you'd say that.'

'If you'd——'

'Tell you the reason for this rather extraordinary procedure——'

'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