The Saint Meets the Tiger (11 page)

“Half-time!” begged the Saint dazedly. “We’re getting all tied up. Let’s call it quits.”

Carn nodded.

“Saint,” he said, “it wasn’t fair. I’m taking this game seriously, and that’s quite bad enough without tangling it any more.”

“That’ll be all right,” said the Saint heartily. “And now what about that Baby Polly we were going to split?”

Carn busied himself with decanter and glasses, and the Saint offered up a short prayer of thanksgiving. That was a nasty corner taken on two wheels in the devil of a skid, but they were round it somehow with the old bus still right side up, and the road looked pretty clear—at least as far ^as the next bend.

Simon caught the girl’s eye while Carn’s back was turned. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders helplessly. The Saint grinned back and spread out his hands. Then, quite shamelessly, he blew her a “kiss.

Carn brought the drinks, and the Saint raised his glass.

“Bung-no troops,” he said. “Here’s to a good race, Carn.”

The detective looked back.

””Reasonably good hunting, Saint,” he replied grimly, and Simon grinned and drank.

“All things considered, worthy chirurgeon, I think—”

The Saint broke off at the sound ofa thunderous knocking on the front door. Then a bell pealed long and insistently at the back of the house, and the knocking was resumed. Simon set down his glass carefully.

“You’re popular to-night, son,” he murmured. “Someone in a tearing hurry, too. Birth or death— what’s the betting?”

“Hanged if I know,” said Carn, and went out. The Saint crossed the room swiftly and opened the casement windows wide, as an elementary precaution. Apparently the evening’s party was not yet over. He had not the vaguest idea what the next move was going to be, but the air tingled with an electric foreboding that something was about to happen. The girl looked at him inquiringly. He dared not speak, but he signed to her to keep her end up and go on trusting him.

Outside, a voice which the Saint did not know was asking if Mr. Templar was there, and Carn answered. There was a tramp of heavy feet, and somebody arrived in the doorway. Simon was leaning on the mantelpiece, looking the-other way, a study in disinterested innocence.

“Ho,” said the voice. “There’e is.”

The Saint looked up.

A man in uniform had entered, and the symptoms pointed to his being the village constable. Simon had not even realized that such an official existed in Baycombe, but that was undoubtedly what the gentleman with the pink face and the ill-fitting uniform was. The constable had clearly been dragged out of bed and rushed into his uniform— he was dishevelled, and his tunic was buttoned lopsidedly.

All these details the Saint observed in a slow surprised once-over. Then the policeman advanced importantly and clapped a hand on Simon’s shoulder.

“I am Constable George ‘Opkins,” he said, “and if the Doctor will hixcuse me I shall arrest you on a charge of burglary annassault.”

“Smoke!” said the Saint to himself.

That was a move! Simon seemed astonished and rather annoyed, as if he were wondering how the mistake had been made and was quite satisfied that it would be cleared up in a moment, but beneath his outward poise his mind was working at breakneck speed. The counter-attack and the rapidity with which it had been launched were worthy of the Tiger, but it was fighting over very thin ice.

“My good man, you’re dippy!” said the Saint languidly. “Who makes this charge, anyway?”

“I do.”

It was Bloem. Bloem with his leathery face perfectly composed, and just the ghost of a light of triumph in his slitted eyes betraying him. Bloem, walking past Carn into the room with just the right shade of deference and just the right suggestion of regret for having to make a scen6—but quite firmly the law-abiding citizen determined to do his duty and bring the criminal to justice.

“A thousand pardons, Doctor.” Bloem bowed to Carn, and then turned and bowed to the girl. “I am deeply sorry, Miss Holm, that I should be compelled to do this in your presence. Perhaps you would like to retire for a minute….”

Patricia tossed her head.

“Thanks—I’ll stay,” she said. “I’m sure there’s a mistake, and perhaps I can help. I’ve been with Mr. Templar most of the evening.”

Bloem’s eyes rested long and significantly on the girl’s torn frock arid Scratched arms, but she met his gaze boldly, and at last he turned away with a lift of shoulder and eyebrow.

“I’ll explain,” he said. “I was reading in my study, shortly after eleven this evening, when this man walked in. He threatened me with a revolver, making some remark which I did not understand. I am not a young man, but I have led a hard life, and I? did not hesitate to grapple with him. He is very strong, however, and he managed to hit me with the butt of the revolver. I remember nothing more until the time when I came to and found him rifling my desk. Since he was armed, and had already beaten me once in a hand-to-hand tussle, I pretended to be still unconscious. He searched the room minutely, but apparently failed to find whatever it was he was looking for. When he left I followed him, and traced him here. Then I went and fetched Hopkins. That is the complete story.”

“Anjew better come along quietly,” advised the policeman, tightening his grip on the Saint’s shoulder and holding his truncheon at the ready.

“Fine,” said the Saint softly. “I should like to be searched now, so that your statement about the revolver can be verified.”

Bloem smiled.

“You left it behind,” he said. “Here it is.”

Carn took the weapon from Bloem’s hand and examined it.

“Belgian make,” he said. “Is this yours, Mr. Templar?”

“It is not,” answered Simon promptly. “I object to firearms on principle. They make such a noise.”

“Come along,” urged the constable, jerking the Saint forward.

Simon was not easily peeved, but one thing that made him see red was anybody trying to haze him. For a second he forgot his Saintly pose. He caught the policeman’s wrist with both hands and twisted like an eel. There was a flurry of arms and legs, a yell, and George Hopkins landed with a crash on the other side of the room, with most of the breath knocked out of him.

The Saint straightened his tie, and looked bang into the muzzle of an automatic in Bloem’s hand, but that he ignored.

“Anyone who wants a quiet life is advised to keep his filthy hands off me,” murmured the Saint. “Don’t do it again, son.”

The constable was getting shakily to his feet.

“That’s assaulting the police,” he stormed.

“Oh, don’t be childish,” drawled the Saint, cool again. “When we want your little chatter we’ll ask for it. Just now, Bloem, we’ll argue this out by ourselves. We can soon smash this cock-and-bull yarn of yours. One: were you alone in the house?”

“I was.”

“Where was Algy?”

“He’d gone over to see Miss Holm,”

That knocked the bottom out of a neat little alibi that the Saint had thought of trying to put over, but he did not show his disappointment.

“Two: didn’t anyone follow me here with you?”

“I refuse to be cross-examined. I’ve told you I was alone—”

“You’re talking,” said the Saint coldly. “Don’t. Be a good boy and just answer when you’re spoken to. And the point is, if you’ve been quite alone all this time, as you say you have, what’s your word against mine? Suppose I say I called in for a chat, and you stuck me up with that gun and tried to pinch my watch? Why shouldn’t you be run in yourself?”

“Let ‘im tell that to the judge,” growled the constable.

“I think,” said Bloem acidly, “that my reputation will survive your wild accusations.”

The Saint was not impressed.

“We had a stand-up fight, did we?” he went on. “I grant you I look as if I’d been in some rough stuff. Now suppose you take off that mac and let’s see how you came out of it.”

Bloem smiled, a little wearily, and unbuttoned his coat. The Saint’s lips tightened. Bloem certainly had a convincing air of having been violently handled, and that put the Tiger another point to the good. Simon saw the Tiger’s score soaring skyward at an alarming rate, but the only effect of that was to key up his own nerves, while his easy and confident manner never faltered. There were still a few more minutes to play.

“It’s rather hopeless, isn’t it?” said Bloem.

He was appealing to the audience, and the constable grunted his agreement.

“What was this remark you didn’t understand?” asked Carn. “When he—as you say—threatened you with the revolver.”

“It was most mysterious,” said Bloem. “He said:

‘I’m looking for the tiger’s den, and I think I’m getting warm.’ I still can’t make out what he meant.”

Simon fished out his cigarette case and began to tap a cigarette thoughtfully on his thumbnail. Apparently bored with the whole proceeding, he nevertheless saw Carn’s face become a mask. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Bloem, and the Boer’s bland demeanour almost took his breath away. The colossal audacity of that last statement was the crowning stroke to a truly masterly bluff. The Saint wondered if Carn himself was suspect, but Bloem’s gaze rested only on the Saint. No—the gang knew nothing about Carn’s real profession. Bloem was simply taking a vindictive pleasure in kicking the man whom he thought he had got where he wanted him.

And it looked dangerously as if he had got the Saint tied hand and foot and gagged. Patricia could not help him, and Carn could not—even if he cared to. It was Bloem’s word against Simon’s, and there was no doubt which the Bench would prefer to accept. And Bloem knew that the Saint knew that any reference to the evening’s entertainment at Bittle’s would be futile. Bittle would lie like a Trojan, and the Tiger was sure to have provided him with a plausible explanation of the noise that had occurred earlier that night.

The Saint grasped the consummate efficiency of the Tiger’s tactics. Simon was to be shopped, and the shopping had been slickly done. He would be lucky to get away with six months’ hard—and taken in conjunction with the assault upon the police in the execution of its duty the whole charge sheet might well put the Saint behind bars for upward of a year. And in that time T. T. Deeps could be salted, and the Tiger Cubs could fade gracefully away. The Saint lounged even more languidly against the mantelpiece. This last deal had certainly given the Tiger one Hades of a hand.

Yet indisputably the Saint dominated the situation. They were all waiting for him. Bloem, watching him through narrowed lids, and still training the automatic upon him, was utterly confident of the strength of his combination. He was just waiting for the Saint to confess defeat. The constable, more wary after his taste of the Saint’s anger, was hanging about in the background waiting for somebody else to start the next dance. Patricia was looking anxiously at the Saint, powerless to help him, and wondering if any daring sideslip was being planned behind that lazy exterior. The one certain thing was that she did not believe Bloem’s story for an instant. At any other time she might have credited it, but seen in the light of previous events that evening it savoured of nothing but the complicated web of mystery which had caught her up in its meshes and which threatened her Saint with the most sinister things. And Carn had nothing to say. As far as Bloem’s story was concerned it might or might not be true—his knowledge of the Saint inclined him to believe it. But in any case the Saint was working against him, even if he was also working against the Tiger. And to have disclosed himself as Central Detective Inspector Carn of Scotland Yard would have written Finis to every chance he had of succeeding on his mission.

“We’re waiting,” said Bloem at last.

“So I see,” drawled Simon. “If you can wait a bit longer, there are just one or two more points to clear up. The first is that I’m sure you won’t mind the Doctor just examining the bump I must have raised on your cranium when I knocked you out.”

He was watching Bloem closely as he spoke, and his heart sank when he saw that the man was not at all put out. Carn walked up to Bloem with a query, and Bloem nodded.

“Just behind my left ear,” he said.

“Sweetest lamb,” said the Saint through his teeth, “I’ll bet you just hated getting that bit of realism!”

Carn looked at the Saint and shrugged.

“Someone certainly hit him very hard,” he said. “Saint, you’ve put your foot in it this time.”

“So I don’t think we’ll prolong this unpleasant duty,” said Bloem briskly. “Constable—you have the handcuffs? I’m covering him, and I shall shoot if he attacks you again.”

And then the congregation was increased by one, for a man strutted out of the darkness and stood framed in the open window.

” ‘Ere, wassal this?” demanded Grace truculently.

Chapter VIII

THE SAINT IS DENSE

Bloem wheeled with a smothered exclamation, for the interruption came from behind him. Then the Boer slowly lowered his automatic—because Grace was carrying the enormous revolver which was his pride and joy, and that fearsome weapon was waving in a gentle semicircle so that it covered everyone in the room in turn. Orace leaned on the windowsill, well pleased with the timeliness of his entrance and the sensation it had caused.

“Snoldup,” declared Orace brightly. “Ni jus’ come in the nicker time. Looks like a dangerous carrickter, too. Orfcer,” said Orace, with a lordly sweep of his free hand, “you ‘ave the bracelets. Do yer dooty!”

“My good fellow—”

Orace waggled the blunderbuss threateningly in Bloem’s direction.

“Lay orf ‘me good fellerin” me!” commanded Orace ferociously. “Caught in the yack, that’s wot you are, an’ jer carn’t wriggle out av it! Constible! Wot the thunderin’ ‘ell are yer wytin’ for? Look slippy an’ clap the joolry on ‘im! An’ jew jusurryup an’ leggo that popgun, or I’ll plugya!”

Bloem let the automatic fall, and the Saint picked it up, in case of accidents.

“I can explain,” persisted Bloem.

“Corse yer can,” agreed Orace, scornful. “Never knew a crook ‘oo couldn’t.”

“Oh, but he can,” said the Saint. “You can stop flourishing that cannon, Orace, and come right in. I was just wondering how to get hold of you.”