The name of the Scorpion had first been mentioned nine months before, when a prominent Midland cotton-broker had put his head in a gas-oven and forgotten to turn off the gas. In a letter that was read at the inquest occurred the words: "I have been bled for years, and now I can endure no more. When the Scorpion stings, there is no antidote but death."
And in the brief report of the proceedings:
The Coroner: Have you any idea what the deceased meant by that reference to a scorpion?
Witness: No.
Is there any professional blackmailer known to the police by that name?—I have never heard it before.
And thereafter, for the general run of respectable citizens from whom the Saint expressly dissociated Teal and himself, the rest had been a suavely expanding blank. . . .
But through that vast yet nebulous area popularly called "the underworld" began to voyage vague rumours, growing more and more wild and fantastic as they passed from mouth to mouth, but still coming at last to the respective ears of Scotland Yard with enough credible vitality to be interesting. Kate Allfield, "the Mug", entered a railway carriage in which a Member of Parliament was travelling alone on a flying visit to his constituency: he stopped the train at Newbury and gave her in charge, and when her counter-charge of assault broke down under ruthless cross-examination she "confessed" that she had acted 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 Scorpion".
"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 appointment. 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 journalists, 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 overmantel.
"One thousand three hundred and thirty-seven pounds, nineteen 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 towards the offices of Mr. Lionel Delborn, collector of extortions —may his teeth fall out and his legs putrefy! I'll stand the odd sevenpence out of my own pocket."
"And what do you think you're going to do with the man himself?"
The Saint smiled.
"That's a little difficult to say," he murmured. "Accidents sort of—er—happen, don't they? I mean, I don't want you to start getting back any of your naughty old ideas about me, but——"
Teal nodded; then he met the Saint's mocking eyes seriously.
"They'd have the coat off my back if it ever got round," he said, "but between you and me and these four walls, I'll make a deal—if you'll make one too."
Simon settled on the edge of the table, his cigarette slanting quizzically upwards between his lips, and one whimsically sardonic eyebrow arched.
"What is it?"
"Save the Scorpion for me, and I won't ask how you paid your income tax."
For a few moments the Saint's noncommittal gaze rested on the detective's round red face; then it wandered back to the impaled memorandum above the mantelpiece. And then the Saint looked Teal in the eyes and smiled again.
"O.K.," he drawled. "That's O.K. with me, Claud."
"It's a deal?"
"It is. There's a murder charge against the Scorpion, and I don't see why the hangman shouldn't earn his fiver. I guess it's time you had a break, Claud Eustace. Yes—you can have the Scorpion. Any advance on fourpence?"
Teal nodded, and held out his hand.
"Fourpence halfpenny—I'll buy you a glass of beer at any pub inside the three-mile radius on the day you bring him in," he said.
Chapter V
Patricia Holm came in shortly after four-thirty. Simon Templar had lunched at what he always referred to as "the pub round the corner"—the Berkeley—and had ambled elegantly about the purlieus of Piccadilly for an hour thereafter; for he had scarcely learned to walk two consecutive steps when his dear old grandmother had taken him on her knee and enjoined him to "eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow is Shrove Tuesday".