The Saint Meets the Tiger (15 page)

She nodded.

“If you say so. Saint, I shan’t funk it.”

“Good Scout’” he approved. “The other item is old Lapping. He’s been lying doggo since the beginning of the piece, but there are so darn few possible winning numbers in this lottery that I think we ought to get a line on Lapping. On the face of it, he’s right out of the running—but then, so’s everyone else in Baycombe. And I’m just wondering about a lad called Harry the Duke.”

“‘Harry the Duke’?” she repeated, mystified. “Whoever’s he?”

“A swell mobsman that Lapping sent dowa for seven years when he was a judge. It was a nasty piece of work—I’ll spare you the details—but Harry escaped six years ago, and he never was a forgiving man, from all accounts. In fact, knowing what’s said about Harry at the Yard, I’m surprised he hasn’t taken it out of Lapping before now. There’s a story that Harry followed the first magistrate who convicted him halfway round the world —and got him. Since when there was no other, Harry being miles and miles above the common run of crooks in brains, until Lapping. It’s a long shot, I know, but bad men run pretty much to pattern, and the Tiger’s acknowledged to be an Englishman. And the hunch got me recently—suppose Harry the Duke is the Tiger?”

“Wouldn’t he have been recognized?”

“Harry’s face is pure plasticene, and he’s forgotten more about make-up than most actors ever learn. And Harry’s one of the few men I’d credit with brains enough to wear the Tiger’s hat… .It’s all speculation, and long odds against it on probability, but it’s worth a flutter. You see, if the Tiger did happen to be Harry the Duke—and the Tiger ‘started operations not so long after Harry broke jail—it accounts for Lapping’s continued health. The Tiger’ll just be waiting till he’s ready to skedaddle with the Swag, since Lapping’s right where he can lay his hands on him any time, and then he’ll pay off the old score and sail away.”

She was still puzzled.

“But what do you want me to do?” she asked.

“If you’ve got time and energy left after pasting Auntie, go over and be sweet and winsome to Sir Mike,” replied Simon. “You know him quite well—lay it on with a spade. Ask him to advise you about me. That’s sound! If he happened to be in with the Tiger, it might put you on safer ground if you can kid them you’re not in my confidence after all. If he’s harmless, it can’t hurt us. Talk to him as the old friend and honorary uncle. Tell him about l’affaire Bittle—noting how he reacts and lead from that to my eccentric self. You might say that you felt attracted, and wondered if it was wise to let it go any further. The blushing, ingenuous maiden act.”

“I’ll do it,” she said, and he leaned across, the table and touched her hand.

“You’re a partner in a million, old Pat.”

After lunch Orace served coffee outside, and they sat and smoked while they, discussed the final arrangements.

“I’ll send Orace over to fetch you after dinner,” he said. “I think it’d be better if I didn’t appear. Put a bathing costume on under your frock; and when the time comes I’ll give you a belt and the neatest waterproof holster, that’ll just carry your fit in guns. But I’ll give you the shooter now.”

He took a little automatic from his pocket, slipped the jacket to bring a cartridge into the chamber, and clicked over the safety catch.

“And it’s not for ornament,” he added. “If the occasion calls for it, let fly, and apologize to the body. Have you ever handled this sort of gadget?”

“Often. I used to go and shoot in revolver ranges on piers.”

“Then that’s all to the good. Put it away in your pocket—but don’t flourish it about unnecessarily, because it belongs to Bloem. I picked his pocket when I was showing him out last night, thinking it might be handy to have around the house.”

She rose.

“I’d better be getting along,” she said. “I shall have a lot to do this afternoon. And we assemble after dinner?”

“Eightish,” he said. “Don’t take any risks till then. I just hate having to let you out of my sight even for as long as that. You never know what Tigers are up to. All the help I can give you is, distrust everybody and everything, keep your head and use it, and don’t go and walk into the first trap that’s set for you like any fool heroine in a novel.”

Her arms went round his neck, and he held her close to him for a while. And then she drew back her head and looked up at him with a smile, though her eyes were brimming.

“Oh, I’m silly,” she said. “But love’s like that, old boy. What about me letting you out of my sight for so long?”

“I’m safer than the Bank of England,” he reassured her. “The gypsy told me I’d die in my bed at the ripe old age of ninety-nine. And d’you think I’m going to let the Tiger or anyone else book me to Kingdom Come when I’ve got you waiting for me here? I am not!”

And then there had to be a further delay, which need not be reported. For those who have lost their hearts know all about these things, and those who haven’t don’t deserve to be told….

But at last he had to let her go, so he kissed her again and then took her hand and kissed that. And afterward he took her shoulders and squared them up, and drew himself up in front of her.

“Soldiers’ wives. Pat!” he commanded. “Cheerio—and the best of luck!”

“Cheerio, Saint!” she answered. “God bless you….”

She flung him a brave smile, and turned and walked off down the hill with Orace ambling behind like a faithful dog. Just before the path led her round a bend and out of sight she stopped and waved her handkerchief, and the Saint waved back. Then she was gone, and he wondered if he would ever see her again.

He went back into the Pill Box, took off his coat, rolled up his left sleeve, and strapped Anna securely to his forearm. That was for emergencies; but now that the Tiger knew all about Anna the Saint had to rummage in his bag for her twin sister, and this dangerous woman he fixed to his left calf in a similar manner, where it would be quite likely to be overlooked if he were caught and searched. He made sure that he had his first-aid cigarette case in his hip pocket, and as an afterthought added to the kit a telescopic rod of the finest steel with a claw at one end.

As a final precaution, he sat down and scribbled a note:

If I don’t turn up by seven-thirty look for me at the Old House—the place behind the village that used to be an inn. Failing that, try Bloem’s or Kittle s. Don’t go to Carn till you’ve drawn blank at all those three places. And BE CAREFUL. If they get me they’ll be on the lookout for you.

This he folded, addressed to Orace, and left in a conspicuous position in the kitchen, where his man would be sure to find it when he returned.

Then the Saint went swinging down the track toward the village.

It was a ticklish job he was embarking on. In broad daylight stealth was out of the question. It would mean walking boldly up to the enemy fortress and trying to get as far as he wanted in one dash, before the opposition could collect their wits. And then there would be ructions—but that would have to take care of itself

The Saint did not remember the Old House very distinctly, and he paused at the edge of a spinney lower down the hill to survey the land. And then he gave thanks once again for the continuance of his phenomenal luck. There it was—the blessing out of the blue that he’d never dared to hope or pray for—a long low wall that sprang from one corner of the Old House and ran north toward the straggly outskirts of the village, losing itself behind a couple of sheds belonging to a small farm. Hardly believing his good fortune, the Saint hurried down the slope and passed through the village. He worked round the farm outbuildings, and found that he was not deceived. The wall started there, and it was just high enough to screen his advance if he bent almost double.

That was not a very difficult feat, and Simon plunged straight on into his adventure. Stooping down, he trotted rapidly along under cover of the wall till he had nearly reached the nearest corner of the Old House. At that point he slowed up and proceeded with more caution, travelling on his toes and fingertips, in case there should be a watcher posted at an upper window. When he actually came to the Old House itself he flattened down on his stomach and lay prone for a moment while he planned his entrance.

He could see one wall of the Old House—a dead flat facade of chipped and mouldering brick, broken only by four symmetrically placed windows and a door. The door was a godsend. The windows themselves were roughly boarded up, and to prize off those boards, though it could be done in a brace of shakes, would be rather too audible for the Saint’s taste; whereas a mere door could probably be dealt with, by an expert, almost noiselessly.

The Saint wormed his way forward, fitting himself as snugly as he could into the angle between the wall and the ground and taking infinite pains to make no sound that might betray his approach to a keen ear within. From the moment he left the shelter of the wall, however, he was in danger of discovery, for if any sentinel had elected to peer out of a window the Saint would be lucky to be overlooked. The watcher would probably scrutinize the nearest cover, in which case his gaze would pass right above the Saint; but on the other hand the enemy might be well aware of the possibilities of that too convenient wall, and in that case anyone who was taking a peek round would certainly cast an eye downward, and then the Saint wouldn’t have an earthly chance. That salutary realization made him wriggle along as fast as he could with safety, and it must be admitted that his spine was tingling and the short hairs on the scruff of his neck bristling throughout that dozen yards’ crawl. It is not pleasant to have visions of a man sticking a gun out of an upper window and plugging a chunk of lead down into your back.

But his head came on a level with the door at last, and nothing so disastrous had happened. The Saint crept up into a squatting position and, tentatively, began to breathe again, while he inspected the door at close quarters.

He found that the handle had snapped off short—in fact, he discovered the tarnished brass ball lying under a bush a few yards away. The lock was rusty, and the door sagged on its hinges. The Saint scratched his head. Either the Old House was not the goods at all, or the Tiger Cubs were banking a lot on its reputation of being haunted. He looked again and more closely at the broken end of the handle lever protruding from the door, and caught his breath. The jagged metal was shining—not a trace of the rust that flaked over the rest of the metal dulled its brilliance. That was a new break! Even in forty-eight hours the exposed steel would have lost some of that sheen. Therefore, someone had been there recently. And unless the village children were less superstitious than their elders, that meant that the Tiger Cubs had graced the premises.

Simon put his hand on the door and pushed gently. It gave back smoothly at his touch.

The Saint took his hand away as if the wood had burned it. The door yielded smoothly! It wasn’t locked, or bolted, or barred, and there wasn’t a creak anywhere. And the doors of houses that haven’t been inhabited since the year Dot don’t do things like that—for one thing, the hinges are so rusted up that it takes a thundering good push to shift them; but these hinges turned like brand-new ones freshly oiled. That meant that someone certainly was using the Old House. And, plus the fact that there was apparently nothing to stop anyone else using it as well, the complete scenery had a howling warning scrawled all over it. A tight little smile moved the Saint’s mouth.

” ‘Will you walk into my parlour?’ said the spider to the fly,” murmured the Saint. “Surest thing you know, son—but not exactly like that sort of boob.”

He drew back to think it over, and cast a thoughtful glance at the boarded windows. But the same difficulty presented itself: to break away a plank makes a noise at the best of times, and he could now see that the planks in question were not simply nailed to the frame but solidly riveted in place. That seemed to rule out the windows, which left only the door—with someone waiting for him inside, as like as not. Well, Simon decided, that had got to be faced, and it was better to tackle something you had a line on than something you hadn’t. It wasn’t a time for humming and hawing and eventually leaving your card and promising to look them up next walk you took that way. He was more than ever determined to get inside the Old House that afternoon, and the door was the only way in that presented itself. Therefore, it must be the door.

The Saint pushed the door a little farther. Nothing happened. Then he slowly edged one eye round at a point where no one within would expect a man to appear—only a few inches off the ground. But inside was darkness, and he could distinguish nothing. The Saint swung the door again, until it was over a foot ajar.

Plop!

Just the noise that a big stone makes falling into a well; and something nicked the door, breaking a burst of splinters out of the rotten wood. The Saint looked up at the wound, and saw that it would have been on a level with his chest if he had been standing up.

That was enough—ultimatum, declaration of war, and attack, all together. And it meant also that, whatever was waiting for him inside, it would probably be healthier to charge right in and take it on than to stick around in the open where half-a-dozen Tiger Cubs could take pot shots at him from the windows. The Saint gathered himself for the rush and slid Anna out other sheath. He tested his muscles, drew a deep breath, and jumped.

One leap took him well inside the door, and in a flash he had banged it shut again behind him. That evened things up a bit, for it stopped him being a target against the light outside for any sniper hidden in the darkness. Then, almost in the same movement, he had flung back again against the door, in a corner.

He had half expected to find someone waiting just behind the door to put him down as he passed, but his groping fingers touched nothing but dust. First mistake. Well, that meant that anything that was coming to him would arrive out of the blackness in front.

The Saint stood motionless, listening intently and straining his eyes to try and locate the gentleman who had fired that single shot—and had been too surprised at the suddenness of the Saint’s reaction to loose off another round at the critical instant when the Saint was silhouetted in the doorway on his way in. It was at least a comfort to have your back to a wall, and to know that the other man was literally as much in the dark as you were; but there were such things as electric torches, and the Saint was tensely prepared for a beam of light to shoot from the obscurity and pick him out for the benefit of the man with the gun. Simon had Anna held in his deft fingers ready to send her whistling through the hand of any man who turned a spotlight on him, and equally ready to hamstring anyone who might creep up and jump on him.