The Saint Meets the Tiger (21 page)

“Killed him, I hope,” said Agatha Girton coolly.

She was standing on tiptoe, gazing out into the gathering dusk, trying to see the result other shooting. But there was the hedge at the end of the Manor garden and the hedge that lined the field into which the man had passed, both hiding the more distant ground from her, and she could see no sign of him.

“Stay here while I go and see,” she commanded.

She walked quickly down the drive, and the automatic still swung in her hand. Patricia saw her enter the field.

The man was lying on the grass, sprawled out on his back. His hat had fallen off, and he stared at the sky with wide eyes. Miss Girton put down her gun and bent over him, feeling for the beating of his heart…

Patricia heard the woman’s shrill scream’, arid then she saw Agatha Girton standing up, swaying, with her hands over her face.

The girl’s fingers closed over tlie butt of the automatic in her pocket as she raced down the drive and out into the road. Miss Girton was still standing up with her face in her hands, and Patricia saw with a sudden dread that blood was streaming down between the woman’s fingers. There was no trace of the man.

“He was shamming,” gasped Agatha Girton. “I put down my gun—he caught me—he had a knife….”

“What’s he done?”

Miss Girton did not answer at once. Then she pointed to a clump of trees and bushes in the far corner of the field, which was not a big one.

“He took the gun and ran that way—there’s a sunken lane beyond.”

“I’ll go after him,” said Patricia, without stopping to think of the consequences, but Agatha Girton caught her arm in a terrible grip.

“Don’t be a little fool, child!” she grated. “That’s death…. I lost my head…. All he said was: ‘Don’t do it again!’ “

The woman’s hands were dripping red, and Patricia had to lead her back to the house and up the stairs.

Agatha Girton went to the basin and filled it. She bathed her face, and the water was hideously dyed. Then she turned so that the girl could see, and Patricia had to bite back an involuntary cry of horror, for Miss Girton’s forehead was cut to the bone in the shape of a capital T.

Chapter XIV

CAPTAIN PATRICIA

“He branded me—the Tiger—” Agatha Girton’s voice was pitched hysterically. “By God…”

Her face had become the face of a fiend. Hard and grim it always was—now, with smears of blood from brow to chin and her hair straggling damply over her temples, it was devilish.

“I’ll get even for this one day…. I’ll make him crawl…. Red-hot irons are too good for that–”

“But, Aunt Agatha—”

Patricia was full of questions, and it seemed the right moment to let some of them off, but Miss Girton turned on her like a wild beast, and the girl recoiled a step from the blaze of fury in those smouldering eyes.

“Go away.”

“Was that the man who’s been blackmailing you?”

“Go away.”

“And is he the Tiger?”

Miss Girton took a pace forward and pointed to the door.

“Leave me, child,” she said in a’terrible voice. “Go back to your Saint before I forget— If you aren’t outside in a second I’ll throw you out.”

She meant it. Patricia had never seen and hoped she would never see again a woman’s face so contorted with passion. There was nothing to do.

“Very well,” said Patricia steadily. “I’ll go I hope you won’t be sorry.”

“Go, then.”

The girl flung up her head and marched to the door.

Go back to Simon? She would. There wasn’t much risk about walking over to the Pill Box, she thought, and the feel of the automatic in her pocket gave her all the courage she needed. The Saint wouldn’t be expecting her, but he could hardly object, considering the news she was bringing him. It had been an eventful afternoon—more eventful than he could possibly have foreseen—and, since there was nothing more that she could achieve on her own, it was essential that he should be provided with all the news up to date.

The time had passed quickly. It was twenty to seven when she set out: she came in sight of the Pill Box toward a quarter past, having taken it easy, and by that time it was nearly dark.

The sea shone like dull silver, reflecting all the last rays of twilight, and from the top of the cliff Patricia strained to see the ship they had observed that morning. She thought she could make out the tiniest of black dots on the horizon, but she would not have sworn to it. That was the ship that the Saint and Orace and she were scheduled to capture by themselves, and the monumental audacity of the scheme made her smile. But it was just because the scheme was so impossible that the prospect of attempting to carry it out did not bother her at all: it was the sort of reckless dare-devil thing that people did in books and films, the forlorn hope that always materialized in time to provide a happy ending. She could think of no precedent for it in real life, and therefore the only thing to go by was the standard of fiction—according to which it was bound to succeed. But she wondered if any man living except the Saint—her Saint—would have had the imagination to think of it, the courage to work out the idea in all seriousness, the heroic foolhardiness to try and bring it off, and the personality to captain the adventure. She and Orace were nothing but his devoted lieutenants: the whole fate of the long hazard rested on the Saint’s broad shoulders.

With a shrug and a smile that showed her perfect teeth—a smile of utter fearlessness that Simon would have loved to see—the girl turned away and strolled across to the Pill Box. There was a light in the embrasure which she knew served for a window in the dining-drawing-smoking-sitting room, but when she peeped in she saw only Orace laying dinner. She went in and he swung round at the sound other footsteps.

She was amused but perplexed to see his face light up and then fall again as he recognized her.

“Where’s Mr. Templar?” she asked, and he almost glared at her.

“Baek ut art pas’sevin,” he growled.

He picked up his tray and stalked off toward the kitchen, and the girl stared after him in puzzlement. Orace, though a martinet, was only actually rude to Tiger Cubs and detectives: she had already seen through his mask of ferocity and discovered the kindly humanist underneath. On the last occasion of his escorting her home his manner had been even paternal, for Simon Templar’s friends were Grace’s friends. But this, now, was a ruffled Orace.

She followed him to the kitchen.

“Can I help you with anything? She inquired cheerfully.

“Naow, don’t think sa, miss,” he replied gruffly. “I’m use ter mannidging alone—thanks.”

“Then could you tell me where Mr. Templar’s gone? I could walk on and meet him.”

Orace hammered the point of a tin opener into a can of salmon with quite unnecessary violence.

“Dunno anythink about it,” he said. “You can betcha life, miss, ‘e’ll be ‘ome when ‘e said ‘e would, if ‘e can ‘umanly possibly do ut. Most thunderin’ punctual man alive, ‘e is, an ‘e’ll come in the door just when the clock strikes. So yer got nuffin ta worry about.”

He ended on a more gentle note, but there was no doubt that he was very upset.

“Why—has anything happened to make you think I’d be likely to worry?” Patricia queried, with her heart thumping a little faster. “Was he going to do anything special this afternoon?”

“Naaow!” snarled Orace, unconvincingly derisive, and went on hacking at the tin.

The girl went back to the sitting room and dropped into a chair. The Saint’s cigarette box was handy to her elbow, and she took a cigarette and lighted it thoughtfully.

Whether she was intended to worry or not, there could be no denying the obvious fact that Orace was distinctly agitated. She found it was twenty minutes and a bit past seven, and wondered if the Saint would be as punctual as Orace had predicted, and whether they would have to assume that something had happened to him if he hadn’t arrived within five minutes of the half-hour. Where could he have gone? There was nothing to be done about the Tiger’s ship at that hour. Had he gone on a preliminary reconnaissance of the island? Had he taken it into his head to inspect the Old House at closer quarters? Or had he gone over to beard Bittle or Bloem again—the sort of senseless bravado that would give a man like him a thrill?

She watched the minute hand of her watch travel down to the twenty-five-past mark, and reflected that she had been spending a good deal other time lately with one eye on the clock, wondering if the Saint was going to be punctual or not. Heavens; he wasn’t the only one who could be worried!

Orace came in and laid a place for her. Then he lugged an enormous silver turnip from his trousers pocket.

“In a minnit er two,” he said. “Thunderin’ punctual, ‘e always is.”

He nodded to her encouragingly, and strutted out. She heard his boots on the concrete floor outride, and guessed that he had gone to the entrance to see if he could spot the Saint coming up the hill.

At twenty-five to eight there was still no sign of the Saint.

Patricia took to moving restlessly about the room. She felt suddenly depressed. The Saint had gone swashbuckling off into the blue, without a word to anyone—and had blasted his reputation for punctuality. He might have been in so many different places, trying to do so many different things: she raged at her helplessness. She could only wait and wait and wait, and he’d either turn up or he wouldn’t. No clue… Anything might have happened to him. She racked her brains to deduce where he would be most likely to have gone, and an appalling number of possibilities made faces at her and invited her to take her pick.

Orace came in again. He had taken off his apron and put on his coat and a cap. One of his pockets bulged and sagged.

“I’m gonna see if I can find ‘im, miss,” he said. “But wiv yore permission I’ll see you ‘ome fust.”

She stood up ”

“Where are you going?”

“Jus’ lookin’ rahnd, miss. ‘E tole me wun or two plyces ta try. I’ll find ‘im orlright—don’ chew worry.”

“I’ll come with you,” she said at once.

He shook his head.

“Carn’t ‘ave ya doin’ that. ‘Fennything wuz ta ‘appen ta yer, ‘e’d kill me.”

“Where do we go first?” she demanded, ignoring his reply.

“Where do I go first he amended. Well, I can tell ya that.”

He fished the Saint’s note out of his pocket and gave it to her. She read it through with growing apprehension. It had somehow failed to occur to her that he would automatically spend the time before evening in investigating the second possibility of the Old House—the disused inn behind the village. That was where he must have gone. Perhaps he had been trapped there….

“Come on,” she rapped, and led the way.

Outside, she took the path which led down to the inland end of the village, instead of the one which led to the opposite tor by way of the quay, and Orace hurried after her and caught her arm.

“Wrong wy, miss,” he said.

She looked at him.

“This is the way I’m going.”

“Sorry, miss,” he persisted. “I carn’t letcha do that.”

“Can’t you?” she said slowly. “I’m sorry, but I must. I’ll show you—”

With a lightning twist she shook off his hand and ran. She could hear him racing lamely after her, shouting and imploring her to stop and think what the Saint would say, but she ran on like the wind. She went down the slope at break-neck speed, sure-footed as a cat, but Orace limped along behind doggedly, sliding and stumbling in the steep darkness. Then a stone rolled under her foot: she jumped to save herself, caught her other foot in a tuft of grass, floundered, and went down in a heap. He had grabbed her before she could rise.

“I’m sorry, miss, but it’s me dooty, an ‘e’d sy the syme.”

She got to her feet, shaken and breathless, but-relieved to find that she had not even slightly twisted her ankle.

Orace felt something hard dig into his ribs, and knew what it was.

“Will this show you I’m serious?” she panted. “I’d hate to have to hurt you, Orace; but I will if you drive me to it. I’ve got to go.”

He waited without stirring for a long time. He could easily have grabbed her wrist and taken the gun from her, but it was the sob in her voice that stopped him.””

“Orl right,” he said at last. “If it’ll myke it easier for yer….”

She knew then that he feared the worst.

They hurried on down the hill. She remembered his limp and let him set the pace, but he managed to struggle on at a good jog trot in spite of his lameness. They went through the village until the black bulk of the Old House loomed before them.

“Will ya lead the wy, miss, since yer ‘ere? I dunno this plice too well.”

She took him round by the approach the Saint had used, but there was no need for the same caution, for the moon would not rise for another three hours. He stopped her at the door.

“Lemme go fust.”

He thrust her behind him and blocked the way by his greater strength and weight, and she had to obey. She heard him fumble in his pockets, and then he kicked open the door and at the same moment a beam of light stabbed down the passage from the electric torch in his hand.

“See them footmarks?” he whispered. “Men’s bin ‘ere lytely, and I’ll betcha they wuz Tiger Cubs.”

The shaft of luminance broke on the table at the end of the corridor. The Saint had turned the box round, and from the side elevation its function was more easily deducible. Even so, it was creditably astute of Orace to stop dead in his tracks and turn suddenly to an examination of the door through which they had just come. He found the scar in the wood where the bullet had splintered it, and went back to make a study of the ground outside.

“Naow!” he announced at length. “That didn’t catch Mr. Templar, like it ud uv cort me fee ‘adn’t put it ahter action.”

He went down the passage again, keeping to the centre, so that she was forced to walk behind him and be shielded by his body. Her hand was on the automatic in her pocket, and, though every one of her nerves was tense and tingling, her muscles felt strangely cold and calm. Just as a boxer, trained to a milligramme, is a bundle of tortured nerves up to the moment he enters the ring, when all at once his brain becomes clear and ice-cold as an Arctic sky and his body soothes down in a second into smooth efficiency—so Patricia’s agony of fear and anxiety had frozen into a grim chilled-steel determination. The Saint had been there: they were on his track. The suspense and anguish of inaction was over.