The Saint Versus Scotland Yard
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Simon Templar is the Saint - daring, dazzling, and just a little disreputable. On the side of the law, but standing outside it, he dispenses his own brand of justice one criminal at a time.
In these three stories, the Saint finds himself embroiled in further plots and facing new enemies. The Inland Revenue sees him up against the most unyielding opponent ever - the taxman. In The Million Pound Scandal, a good deed leads Simon to uncover a plot to undermine the Italian economy, and in The Melancholy Journey of Mr Teal the Saint's retirement plans are scuppered when a couple of murderous diamond smugglers object to his scheme of taking their loot for his pension.
trip-wire had caught him across the knees. And then it must have been the last instinct of the hunted animal that made him turn and reel round into the little lane, and the Saint’s strong arms caught him as he fell. The man stared up into the Saint’s face. His lips tried to shape a word, but the breath whistled voicelessly in his throat. And then his eyes closed and his body went limp, and Simon lowered him gently to the ground. The Saint straightened up again, and vanished once more into the
difficult question to answer, is it? He is nothing to you—a man whom you met a few hours ago for the first time. If, say, you had never met him, and you had read in your newspaper that some fatal accident had overtaken him, you would not have been in the least disturbed. And if it is a decision between his temporary inconvenience and your own promising young life…” Kuzela shrugged. “I have no wish to use threats. But you, with your experience and imagination, must know that death does not always
admit it really was you I was talking to at Regent’s Park?” “Between ourselves—it was.” “Got some underground way out of here, haven’t you?” “The place is a rabbit-warren.” “And where’s Perrigo?” “He’s playing bunny.” Teal twiddled a button, and his eyelids lowered. The leading tentacles of a nasty cold sensation were starting to weave clammily up his spine. It was something akin to the sensation experienced by a man who, in the prelude to a nightmare, has been cavorting happily about in
forgiven him: Such things, though odd, have now and then Been done by perfect gentlemen; But Daniel’s foul iniquity Could hardly have been worse if he Had bought (or so it seemed to them) A chocolate after 9 p.m.” Patricia smiled. “Will you always be mad?” she asked. “Until the day I die, please God,” said the Saint. “But if you didn’t find Perrigo—” “But I did find him!” The girl gasped. “You found him?” Simon nodded, and she saw then that his eyes were laughing. “I did. He was
further between. However, he still enjoyed his creation: in 1941 he indulged himself in a spot of fun by playing the Saint—complete with monocle and moustache—in a photo story in Life magazine. In July 1944, he started collaborating under a pseudonym on Sherlock Holmes radio scripts, subsequently writing more adventures for Holmes than Conan Doyle. Not all his ventures were successful—a screenplay he was hired to write for Deanna Durbin, “Lady on a Train,” took him a year and ultimately bore