The Saint vs Scotland Yard Read Online Free PDF Page A

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 Scor pion”.
    “Basher” Tope—thief, motor-bandit, brute, and worse—was sent for.
He boasted in his cups of how he was going to solve the mystery of the
Scorpion, and went alone to his appoint ment. What happened
there he never told; he was absent from his usual haunts for
three weeks, and when he was seen again he had a pink scar on
his temple and a surly disinclination to discuss the matter.
Since he had earned his nickname, questions were not showered upon him; but
once again the word went round… .
    And so it was with half a dozen subsequent incidents; and the legend
of the Scorpion grew up and was passed from hand to hand in queer places,
unmarked by sensation-hunting jour nalists, a mystery for police and
criminals alike. Jack Wilbey, ladder larcenist, died and won his niche in
the structure; but the newspapers noted his death only as another unsolved crime on
which to peg their perennial criticisms of police efficiency, and only
those who had heard other chapters of the story linked up that
murder with the suicide of a certain wealthy peer. Even Chief Inspector
Teal, whose finger was on the pulse of every unlawful activity in the
Metropolis, had not visualized such a connecting link as the Saint had just
forged before his eyes; and he pondered over it in a ruminative silence
before he resumed his interrogation.
    “How much else do you know?” he asked at length, with the mere
ghost of a quickening of interest in his perpetually weary voice.
    The Saint picked up a sheet of paper.
    “Listen,” he said.
     
    “His faith was true: though once misled
    By an appeal that he had read
    To honour with his patronage
    Crusades for better Auction Bridge
    He was not long deceived; he found
    No other paladins around
    Prepared to perish, sword in hand,
    While storming in one reckless band
    Those strongholds of Beelzebub
    The portals of the Portland Club.
    His chance came later; one fine day
    Another paper blew his way:
    Charles wrote; Charles had an interview;
    And Charles, an uncrowned jousting Blue,
    Still spellbound by the word Crusade,
    Espoused the cause of Empire Trade.”
     
    “What on earth’s that?” demanded the startled detective.
    “A little masterpiece of mine,” said the Saint modestly. “There’s
rather an uncertain rhyme in it, if you noticed. Do you think the Poet
Laureate would pass patronge and Bridge? I’d like your
opinion.”
    Teal’s eyelids lowered again.
    “Have you stopped talking?” he sighed.
    “Very nearly, Teal,” said the Saint, putting the paper down again.
“In case that miracle of tact was too subtle for you, let me explain
that I was changing the subject.”
    “I see.”
    “Do you?”
    Teal glanced at the automatic on the table and then again at the papers
on the wall, and sighed a second time.
    “I think so. You’re going to ask the Scorpion to pay your income
tax.”
    “I am.”
    “How?”
    The Saint laughed. He pointed to the desecrated over mantel.
    “One thousand three hundred and thirty-seven pounds, nine teen and fivepence,” he said. “That’s my sentence for being a useful
wage-earning citizen instead of a prolific parasite, according to the laws of
this spavined country. Am I supposed to pay you and do your
work as well? If so, I shall emigrate on the next boat and
become a naturalised Venezuelan.”
    “I wish you would,” said Teal, from his heart.
    He picked up his hat.
    “Do you know the Scorpion?” he asked suddenly.
    Simon shook
his head.
    “Not yet. But I’m going to. His donation is not yet assessed, but I can
tell you where one thousand three hundred and thirty-eight pounds of
it are going to travel. And that is to wards the offices of
Mr. Lionel Delborn,