The Saint vs Scotland Yard by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online

of
disintegrates.” He gazed gloomily after the dwindling tail light
of the unwelcome interruption. “If only that four-wheeled
gas-crocodile had burst a blood-vessel two miles back, we
mightn’t have been on our way home yet.”
    “I heard you shoot once—— ”
    “And he’s still going—on the other three wheels. I’m not expecting
he’ll stop to mend that leak.”
    Patricia sighed.
    “It was short and sweet, anyway,” she said. “Couldn’t you have
stopped that other car and followed?”
    He shook his head.
    “Teal could have stopped it, but I’m not a policeman. I think this
is a bit early for us to start gingering up our publicity
campaign.”
    “I wish it had been a better show, boy,” said Patricia wistfully,
slipping her arm through his; and the Saint stopped to stare at her.
    In the darkness, this was not very effective, but he did it.
    “You bloodthirsty child!” he said.
    And then he laughed.
    “But that wasn’t the final curtain,” he said. “If you
like to note it down, I’ll make you a prophecy: the mortality among Scorpions
is going to rise one unit, and for once it will not be my fault.”
    They were back in Hatfield before she had made up her mind to ask
him if he was referring to Long Harry, and for once the Saint did
not look innocently outraged at the sugges tion.
    “Long Harry is alive and well, to the best of my knowledge and
belief,” he said, “but I arranged the rough outline of his decease
with Teal over the telephone. If we didn’t kill Long Harry, the Scorpion
would; and I figure our method will be less fatal. But as for the Scorpion
himself—well, Pat, I’m dread fully afraid
I’ve promised to let them hang him according to the law. I’m getting so respectable these days that I feel I may be removed to Heaven in a fiery chariot at any
moment.”
    He examined his souvenir of the evening in a corner of the deserted
hotel smoking-room a little later, over a final and benedictory tankard
of beer. It was an envelope, postmarked in the South-Western
district at 11 a.m. that morning, and addressed to Wilfred Garniman, Esq.,
28, Mallaby Road, Har row. From it the Saint extracted a single
sheet of paper, writt en in a feminine hand.
     
    Dear Mr. Garniman,
    Can you come round for dinner and a game of bridge on Tuesday
next? Colonel Barnes will be making a fourth. Yours    sincerely
    (Mrs.) R. Venables.
     
    For a space
he contemplated the missive with an exasperated scowl darkening the beauty of his features; then he passed it to Patricia, and reached out for the consolation of
draught Bass with one hand and for a
cigarette with the other. The scowl
continued to darken.
    Patricia read, and looked at him perplexedly.
    “It looks perfectly ordinary,” she said.
    “It looks a damned sight too ordinary!” exploded the Saint. “How
the devil can you blackmail a man for being invited to play bridge?”
    The girl frowned.
    “But I don’t see. Why should this be anyone else’s letter?”
    “And why shouldn’t Mr. Wilfred Garniman be the man I want?”
    “Of course. Didn’t you get it from that man in the car?”
    “I saw it on the seat beside him—it must have come out of his pocket
when he pulled his gun.”
    “Well?” she prompted.
    “Why shouldn’t this be the beginning of the Scorpion’s triumphal
march towards the high jump?” asked the Saint.
    “That’s what I want to know.”
    Simon surveyed her in silence. And, as he did so, the scowl faded
slowly from his face. Deep in his eyes a pair of little blue devils
roused up, executed a tentative double-shuffle, and paused with their heads on
one side.
    “Why not?” insisted Patricia.
    Slowly, gently, and with tremendous precision, the Saintly smile
twitched at the corners of Simon’s lips, expanded, grew, and
irradiated his whole face.
    “I’m blowed if I know why not,” said the Saint seraphically. “It’s
just that I have a weakness for getting both feet on the bus before
I tell the world I’m