"And?"
"I thought p'raps it was the same car."
"And?"
Simon prompted him for the fourth time from the corner table where he was replenishing Long Harry's glass. His back was turned, but there was an inconspicuous little mirror just above the level of the eyes—the room was covered from every angle by those inconspicuous little mirrors. And he saw the twitching of Long Harry's mouth.
"I came because I thought you might be able to stop the Scorpion getting me, Mr. Templar," said Long Harry, in one jerk.
"Ah!" The Saint swung round. "That's more like it! So you're on the list, are you?"
"I think so." Long Harry nodded. "There was a shot aimed at me last night, too, but I suppose you wouldn't 've noticed it."
Simon Templar lighted another cigarette.
"I see. The Scorpion spotted you hanging around here, and tried to bump you off. That's natural. But, Harry, you never even started hanging around here until you got the idea you might like to tell me the story of your life—and still you haven't told me where that idea came from. Sing on, Harry— I'm listening, and I'm certainly patient."
Long Harry absorbed a gill of Maison Dewar in comparative silence, and wiped his lips on the back of his hand.
"I had another letter on Monday morning, telling me to be at the same place at midnight tomorrow."
"And?"
"Monday afternoon I was talking to some friends. I didn't tell 'em anything, but I sort of steered the conversation around, not bringing myself in personal. You remember Wilbey?"
"Found full of bullets on the Portsmouth Road three months ago? Yes—I remember."
"I heard—it's just a story, but I heard the last job he did was for the Scorpion. He talked about it. The bloke shot himself that time, too. An' I began thinking. It may surprise you, Mr. Templar, but sometimes I'm very si-chick."
"You worked it out that as long as the victims paid up, everything was all right. But if they did anything desperate, there was always a chance of trouble; and the Scorpion wouldn't want anyone who could talk running about without a muzzle. That right?"
Long Harry nodded, and his prominent Adam's apple flickered once up and down.
"Yes, I think if I keep that appointment tomorrow I'll be— what's that American word?—on the spot. Even if I don't go——" The man broke off with a shrug that made a feeble attempt at bravado. "I couldn't take that story of mine to the police, Mr. Templar, as you'll understand, and I wondered——"
Simon Templar settled a little deeper into his chair and sent a couple of perfect smoke-rings chasing each other up towards the ceiling.
He understood Long Harry's thought processes quite clearly. Long Harry was a commonplace and more or less peaceful yegg, and violence was not among the most prominent interests of his life. Long Harry, as the Saint knew, had never even carried so much as a life-preserver. . . . The situation was obvious.
But how the situation was to be turned to account—that required a second or two's meditation. Perhaps two seconds. And then the little matter of spoon-feeding that squirming young pup of a plan up to a full-sized man-eating carnivore hopping around on its own pads .... maybe five seconds
more. And then ——
"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."
"What's the next?"
"You remember the Portsmouth Road murder?"
"Yes."
"Wilbey had worked for the Scorpion, and he was a possible danger. If you'll consult your records, you'll find that Wilbey was acquitted on a charge of felonious loitering six days before he died. It was exactly the same with the bird who came to see me last night. He had also worked for the Scorpion, and he was discharged at Bow Street only two days before the Scorpion sent for him. Does that spell anything to you?"
Teal crinkled his forehead.
"Not yet, but I'm trying."
"Let me save you the trouble."
"No—just a minute. The Scorpion was in court when the charges were dismissed——"
"Exactly. And he followed them home. It's obvious. If you or I wanted someone to do a specialised bit of crime—say burglary, for instance—in thirty hours we could lay our hands on thirty men we could commission. But the genuine aged-in-the-wood amateur hasn't got those advantages, however clever he may be. He simply hasn't got the connections. You can't apply for cracksmen to the ordinary labour exchange, or advertise for them in The Times, and if you're a respectable amateur you haven't any among your intimate friends. What's the only way you can get hold of them?"
Teal nodded slowly.
"It's an idea," he admitted. "I don't mind telling you we've looked over all the regulars long ago. The Scorpion doesn't come into the catalogue. There isn't a nose on the pay-roll who can get a whiff of him. He's something right outside our register of established clients."