The Saint Meets the Tiger (12 page)

Orace looked doubtful, but eventually he obeyed, clambering lamely over the sill and treating Bloem to a menacing glare as he did so.

“Yessir?”

“A simple case of mistaken identity,” remarked the Saint to the assembled company, in the manner of counsel opening the defence. “But Mr. Bloem was so very obstinate…. Well, this is Orace, late of His Majesty’s Royal Marines, and my servant for years. Orace will now testify that I reached home just after eleven, and didn’t leave again until about twenty to twelve.”

The Saint did not even look at Orace as he spoke, for he knew his man. Carn, however, did, and saw Orace register surprise.

“Tha’s so,” said Orace. ” ‘Oo said yer didn’t?”

“You see,” Simon explained, “Mr. Bloem there was held up by an armed man to-night, and he had the idea that it was me, so he’s been trying to arrest me.”

Orace nodded, tilting his head away from Bloem as if the man offended his nostrils.

“Ar,” said Orace derisively. “The idea!”

The Saint turned to Bloem.

“Perhaps you will now apologize?” he suggested. “Come, Mr. Bloem, admit that you didn’t get a good view of your assailant, and for reasons of your own you jumped to the conclusion that it was me. He might even have been masked….”

The two men’s eyes met. There was no misconstruing the Saint’s meaning. He was offering Bloem a graceful retreat. Bloem knew that he had weakened his case by confessing that no one but himself had seen the bandit, and his story would never hold water in the face of Simon’s alibi. Orace was the one factor which the Tiger, by some incomprehensible oversight, had utterly overlooked. It might even be said that only Grace’s arrival at that precise moment made him a factor to be considered: if any time had elapsed between the arrest and its coming to Grace’s ears, Orace might by then have been trapped into admitting that he had not seen the Saint since dinner, and possibly the Tiger had banked on some such manoeuvre. But Orace had turned up just when he was wanted, which he had an uncanny gift for doing, and thereby he had upset the Tiger’s applecart irretrievably.

And Bloem knew it. He did not show it with a muscle of his face, but his eyes glowed venomously. And the Saint, smiling a little, gazed back with a little blue devil of unholy glee dancing about just behind his lazily lowered lids. For the Saint was thinking of the whack behind the ear which Bloem had suffered for the good of the cause, and that thought made his ribs ache with noiseless laughter ….

“I am deeply humiliated,” said Bloem in a strangled voice. “As a matter of fact, the man was masked. I let him leave the room, and then followed. When I came out of the garden, I saw Mr. Templar walking away, and immediately concluded that it was he. The real man must have gone off in another direction. I apologize.”

“I accept your apology, Mr. Bloem,” said the Saint stiffly. “Don’t let it occur again.”

His dignity was terrific, and for that shrewd cut he was rewarded with a look from Bloem which ought by rights to have made him vanish in a puff of smoke, leaving a small greasy stain on the carpet, but the Saint’s armour was impregnable.

“I’m very sorry. Doctor,” said Bloem unevenly. “Try to forgive me, Miss Holm. I’d better go.”

The Saint stepped up with the automatic.

“You might need this, with a hold-up man in the neighbourhood,” he murmured mockingly. “If you meet him again, I trust you will not spare the lead.”

Bloem gazed back malignantly.

“You need have no fear of that, Mr. Templar,” he replied.

He was just going out when Mr. Hopkins awoke to the realization that he had been cheated of the glory of arresting an armed desperado, and that this coolly smiling man who was getting off scot-free had flung him across the room, bruised and shaken him severely, and nearly broken his arm.

” ‘Ere,” said the constable, whose idiom was much the same as that of Orace, “wassal this? Whatever you say, that don’t dispose of the charge of assaultin’ the police.”

“When an innocent man is treated like a criminal,” said Simon virtuously, “he may be pardoned for losing his temper. I’m sure Mr. Bloem will agree with me? … In fact,” added the Saint, taking Mr. Hopkins coaxingly by the arm, “I’m sure that if you mentioned the matter to Mr. Bloem, he’d stand you a glass of milk and put a penny in your money box. Wouldn’t you, Mr. Bloem?”

“Naturally,” said Bloem, without enthusiasm, “naturally I must accept the responsibility for that.”

“Spoken like a gent,” approved the Saint. “Now toddle along and talk big business under the stars, like good children.”

And he urged Bloem and the constable toward the door. They went obediently, for different reasons. It was a victory that the Saint could not help rubbing in.

He slammed the front door on the pair, and returned hilariously,

“Honour is vindicated, mes enfants,” he said happily. “What about splitting another lemonade on it, Carn?”

The detective looked at the Saint and nodded slowly.

“I think we might,” he assented. “Such luck ought to be celebrated. I suppose it would be indiscreet to ask how Grace came to arrive so fortunately?”

“But why indiscreet?” cried the Saint. “All’s fair and above board. Orace, tell the gentleman how you happened to blow in on your cue.”

Orace cleared his throat.

“Being accustomed to take a constitooshnal,” he began, in the stilted language which he would have employed before his orderly officer, “I’m in the ‘abit of walking this wy of a nevenin’; and the winder bein’ open an’ me ‘avin’ good eyesight—”

“Of course I believe you,” said Carn. “You deserve to be believed. There’s some whisky in the kitchen, Orace.”

Orace saluted and marched out, and the Saint doubled up with silent mirth.

“Orace is unique,” he said.

“Orace is all that, and then some,” Carn returned ruefully.

Soon afterward Simon and Patricia left. They walked the short distance to the Manor without speaking, for the Saint was enjoying the novel experience of finding his flow of small talk entirely dried up. He had thought of nothing to say until the girl was opening the door, and then he could only make a postponement.

“May I see you to-morrow morning?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“I’ll come right after breakfast.”

Suddenly she remembered Agatha Girton.

“I think—would you mind if I came over to you instead?”

“I’d love you to. And if I haven’t bored you to tears by then, you can stay for lunch. Tell me what time you’ll be leaving, and I’ll send Orace over to fetch you.”

She was surprised.

“Is that necessary?”

“Very necessary,” replied the Saint gravely. “Tigers have nasty suspicious minds, just like me, and by this time one Tiger is wondering just how dangerous you are, Pat. Yes, I know it’s screamingly funny, but let me send Orace—for my own peace of mind.”

“Well—About half-past ten, if you like.” ‘

“I do. And Orace will adore it. One other thing. Will you do me a great favour?”

She had found the switch in the hall, and she turned on the light to see his face better, but he was not joking.

“Lock your door, and put the key under the pillow. Don’t open to anybody—not even your aunt. I don’t really think anything’ll happen so soon, but Tigers can hustle. Will you?”

She nodded.

“You’re very alarming,” she said.

“I’m full of ideas to-night,” he said. “I’ve had a taste of the Tiger’s speed, and nobody ever stung the Saint in the same way twice. Don’t believe any messages except they’re brought by Orace. Don’t trust anybody but me, Orace, or old Carn at a pinch. I know it’s a tall order, but there are one or two rough days—not to mention rough nights—in store for the old brigade. You’ve been perfectly marvellous so far. Can you keep it up?”

“I’ll try,” she said.

He took her hand.

“God bless you, Pat, old pal.”

“Saint—”

He was going when she stopped him. It was odd to hear that nickname fall from her lips—the name wherewith the Saint had been christened in strange and ugly places, by hard and godless men. He had grown so used to it that he had come to accept it without question, but now the sound of it brought a flood of memories. Once again he stood in the Bosun’s smoky bar at the back of Mexico City, looking from the huddled corpse of Senhor Miguel Grasiento to the girl called Cherry, and heard the rurales pounding on the door. He had got her away, on an English tramp bound for Liverpool. ” ‘Saint,’ ” she had said—“that was a true word spoken in jest.” And he had never heard that name uttered in the same tone since until that moment….

“Saint, did you really go to Bloem’s?”

“I did not,” he answered. “That was a frame-up, But Mynheer Bloem is certainly one of the Tiger Cubs. Watch him! I’ll tell you the whole yarn to-morrow. Bye-bye, kid,”

The Saint found Orace in the lane, curled up under the hedge, philosophically smoking his pipe.

“We’ll work inland round the village,” said Simon. “I’m hoping the Tiger’s had enough for one night, but you never know. Nobody’s got any proof that Bloem was lying about that hold-up merchant, except me, and a fairy tale like that cuts both ways. If our bodies were found in a field in the morning, the whole thing’d fit in beautifully.”

Nevertheless, they were not molested on the way back—a fact which might well have been due to the Saint’s foresight. It took an hour of the Saint’s killing pace to do the journey which would have lasted only fifteen minutes by the obvious route, and even then Simon was not satisfied.

When the outline of the Pill Box loomed dimly up against the dark sky, he stopped

“Booby traps have caught mugs before now,” he murmured. “Just park yourself in the nettles here, Orace, while I snoop round.”

The Saint could have given most shikars points when it came to moving across country without being noticed. Orace simply saw a tall shape melt soundlessly away into the gloom, and thereafter could trace nothing until the tall shape materialized again beside him.

“All clear,” said Simon. “That means our Tiger’s burning the midnight oil thinking out something really slick and deadly.”

The Saint was right. Although he and Orace never relaxed their vigilance, taking it in turns to sleep and keep watch, they were left in peace. The Tiger had taken one blind shot, and it had not come off. Moreover, if his organization had been only a shade less thorough, it might have landed him in the tureen. As it was, he had come out of the encounter none too well. And for the future he intended to have his moves mapped out well in ad-Stance, with every possible setback and development legislated for.

None of these reflections disturbed the Saint’s sleep. He had taken the first watch, and so the sun was shining gaily through the embrasures when he awoke for the second time, to find Orace setting a cup of tea down by his bedside.

“Nice morning,” remarked Orace, according to ritual, and vanished again.

Since the episode of the bullet out of the blue, Simon had reluctantly decided to forgo his morning dip until the air had become clearer. However, he skipped and shadow-boxed in the sun with especial vigour, and finished up with Orace splashing a couple of buckets of water over him, what time the Saint lay on the grass drawing deep grateful breaths and blessing his perfect condition. For the Saint saw a fierce and wearing scrap ahead, and he reckoned that he would need all his strength and stamina if he was going to be on his feet when the gong clanged for the last round.

“Brekfuss narf a minnit,” said Orace.

The Saint was grinning as he dressed. Orace was nearly too good to be true.

They were late that morning, and Orace left to fetch Patricia as soon as he had served “brekfuss.” The girl arrived in half an hour, to find the Saint spread-eagled in a deck chair outside the Pill Box. He had managed to unearth another pair of flannel bags and another shooting jacket that were nearly as disreputable as the outfit which had been wrecked in Bittle’s garden the night before, and he looked very fresh and comfortable, for his shirt, as usual, would have put snow to shame.

^He jumped up and held out both his hands, and She gave him both of hers.

“I haven’t seen you for ages,” he said. “How are we?”

“Fine,” she told him. “And nothing happened.”

She was cool and slim in white, and he thought he had never seen anyone half so lovely,

“Something might have,” he said. “And when I was a Boy Scout they taught me to Be Prepared.”

He rigged a chair for her and adjusted the cushions, and then he sat down again.

“I know you’re bursting with curiosity,” he said, “so I’ll come straight to the ‘osses.”

And without further ado he started on the long history. He told her about Fernando, dying out in the jungle with a Tiger Cub’s kris in him, and he told her Fernando’s story. He told her about the Tiger, who was for years Chicago’s most brilliant and terrible gang leader. He told her about some of the Tiger’s exploits, and finally came to the account of the breaking of the Confederate Bank. Some of the details Fernando had told him; the rest he had gathered together by patient investigation; the accumulation worked up into a plot hair-raising enough to provide the basis of the wildest film serial that was ever made.

“The Tiger’s very nearly a genius,” he said. “The way he got away with that mint of money and carted it all the miles to here is just a sample of his brain.”

Then he told her about the more recent events— the little he had learned while he had been in Baycombe. How he had been suspected from the day of his arrival, and how he had done his best to encourage that suspicion, in the hope that the other side would give themselves away trying to dispose of him. Gradually the lie of the land took shape in her mind, while the Saint talked on, putting in a touch of character here and there, recalling points that he had omitted, and referring to details that he had not yet given. The story was not told smoothly —it rattled out, paused, and rattled on again, decorated with the Saint’s typical racy idiom and humorous egotism. Nevertheless, it held her, and it was a convincing story, for the Saint had a gift for graphic description. She saw the scenes at which she had been present in a new light.