The Saint Meets the Tiger (8 page)

“Aren’t you rather jumping to conclusions?” asked Patricia gently, and Algy’s mouth dropped open.

“But haven’t you been lookin’ up the grocery trade?”

She shook her head.

“I haven’t been near the place. I went out for a walk and missed the edge of the cliff in the dark. Luckily I didn’t fall far—there was a ledge—but I had a stiff climb getting back.”

He collapsed like a marionette with the strings cut.

“And you haven’t been fightin’ off the advances of a madman? No leerin’ lunatic tryin’ to rob you of life and/or honour?”

“Of course not.”

; “Oo-er!” The revelation was too much for Mr. Lomas-Coper—one might almost have thought that he was disappointed at the swift shattering of his lurid hypothesis. “Put the old tootsy into it, haven’t I? What? … I’d better be wobblin’ home. Stammerin’ out his apologies, the wretched young man took his hat, his leave, and his life.”

She caught his sleeve and pulled him back.

“Do be sensible,” she begged. “Was your uncle worried?”

“Nothing ever moves the old boy,” said Algy. “He just takes a swig at the barleywater and says it reminds him of Blitzensfontein or something. Unsympathetic, I call it.

The girl’s mind could give only a superficial at-tention to Algy’s prattle. She had not known that the noise had been great enough to rouse the neighbourhood, and she wondered how that would affect the Saint’s obscure plans. On the other hand, Bittle would hardly dare go to extremes while she was at large and could testify to some of the events of the evening, and while other people’s curiosity had been aroused by the resultant hullabaloo. Then she remembered that Bittle’s house and Bloem’s stood some distance apart from the others, and it was doubtful whether enough of the din could have been heard outside to attract the notice of Sir Michael Lapping or the two retired CiviI Servants—whose bungalows were the next nearest. But Bloem and Algy knew, and their knowledge might save the Saint.

Miss Girton, who had been holding aloof for some time, suddenly said:

“What’s the fuss about, anyhow?”

“Oh, a noise….” Algy, abashed, was unwont-ediy reticent, and seemed to want nothing more than the early termination of the discussion. He fidgeted, polishing his monocle industriously. “Sir John Bittle kind of giving a rough party, don’t you know.”

“I think we’ve had quite enough nonsense for one evening,” remarked Agatha Girton. “Everyone’s a bundle of nerves. Is there any need for all this excitement?”

She herself had lost her usual sangfroid. Under the mask of grim disapproval she was badly shaken —Patricia saw the slight trembling of the big rough hand that held the limp cigarette.

“Right as per,” agreed Algy weakly. “Sorry, Aunt Agatha.”

Miss Girton was absurdly pettish.

“I decline to adopt you as a nephew, Mr. Lomas-Coper.”

“Sorry, Aunt—Miss Girton. I’ll tool along.”

Patricia smiled and patted his hand as she said good-bye, but the ordinarily super-effervescent Algy had gone off the boil. He contrived a sickly smile, but he was clearly glad of an excuse to leave the scene of his faux pas.

‘ “Come and see us to-morrow,” invited Patricia, and he nodded.

“Most frightfully sorry, and all that rot,” he said. “I never did have much of a brain, anyway. Let me know if there’s anything I can do, or anything, y’know. What? Cheer-tiddly-ho!”

He offered a hand to Miss Girton, but she looked down her nose at it and turned away

“Honk-honk!” said Algy feebly, and departed.

They heard the front door close with a click, and were impressed with Mr. Lomas-Coper’s humility. Among his more normal habits was that of slamming doors with a mighty bang.

“You were very hard on Algy,” said Patricia resentfully.

“I can’t be bothered with the fool,” responded Miss Girton brusquely. “Thank Heavens he swallowed that wild yarn of yours about falling off a cliff. If he’d had any brains, the whole village would have been talking, about you to-morrow. Now, what’s the truth?”

Patricia looked at her watch again. The time was crawling. Eleven-thirty. She looked upland responded;

“That yarn’s as good as another.”

“Not for me.” Agatha Girton came and stood over the girl. She looked very forbidding and masculine at that moment, and Patricia had a fleeting qualm of fear. “What happened at Bittle’s?”

“Oh, nothing. … He told me that the only way to save you was for me to marry him.”

“Did he?” said Miss Girton harshly. The swine!”

“Aunt Agatha!”

“You make me sick! He is a swine—why shouldn’t I say so? And with an adjective, if I choose. Why didn’t you tell him so yourself? What did you say?”

“I—” Patricia pulled herself up. The Saint’s volcanic arrival had ended the discussion somewhat abruptly. “I didn’t know what to say,” answered Patricia truthfully.

Miss Girton glowered down at the girl.

“And then he got fresh?”

“Not—not exactly. You see—”

“Then who did?”

Patricia covered her eyes.

“Oh, leave me alone! Tell me how you got into his debt.”

“There’s nothing much to tell,” replied Agatha Girton coldly. “When Bittle first came, and was trying to get into Baycombe society, nobody returned his calls. Then he called on me and insisted on seeing me—I suppose because he thought the Manor had the most influence. He knew I was hard up—I don’t know how—and if I helped him he’d help me. It was my only way out. I agreed. You know he’s been here several times, but even then I couldn’t make anyone else take him up, although he didn’t seem at all uneducated and behaved perfectly. They’re all snobs here…. I had to go on borrowing from him, and he didn’t seem to mind, though he wasn’t getting much return for it. That’s all there is to it.”

Patricia bit her lip.

“I see. And even though you were using my money you didn’t condescend to tell me anything about it.”

“What good would that have done?”

“Wasn’t there anything—”

“Nothing whatever,” said Miss Girton flatly.

Patricia looked at her.

“Then might I ask what you propose to do you’ve come to the end of your resources?”

Agatha Girton started another cigarette, and her hands were a little more unsteady. For a moment she failed to meet the girl’s eye, and stared foxedly out of the window. Then she looked at Patricia again.

“You must leave that to me,” said Miss Girton, in a low inhuman voice that sent an involuntary tingle of dread crawling up Patricia’s spine.

The girl rose and walked to another part of the room, to get away from the dull frightening eyes of Agatha Girton. At any other time she would have known better how to deal with the revelation that had been made to her, but now all her thoughts were with the Saint, and she could not concentrate on this new problem—and, if she had been able to, she would not have dared to tackle it, for fear of creating a situation which might prevent her carrying out his instructions if he failed to put in an appearance at the appointed time. Miss Girton was as strong as an ordinary man, and her temper that night was not to be trusted.

Fifteen minutes still to go–three-quarters of an hour since she left the Saint in the garden,

“What’s the matter with you, child?” Agatha Girton’s rasping voice demanded sharply. “Why do you keep looking at your watch?”

“To see the time.”

She felt an absurd desire to smile. The retort would have tickled the Saint to death—she could visualize his impish delight—but Agatha Girton was less easily satisfied.

“Why should you bother about the time?”

“I’m not going to be badgered like this!” flamed Patricia-unexpectedly.

Her patience had worn very thin during the last quarter of an hour, and she knew that her anxiety was desperately near to driving her into indiscreet anger or a flood of tears for relief. She faced Miss Girton mutinously.

“I’ll see you to-morrow,” she said, and left the room without another word.

She went up to her bedroom and paced up and down restlessly. Leaning out of the wide-open window, she could hear nothing from the direction of Bittle’s house. Looking the other way, she could see the black shape of Carn’s cottage. There was a light in one downstairs window: apparently the doctor had not yet retired. She thought of going round and chatting to him until the time had run out, for if all was well and the Saint arrived and found her out he would be sure to try Carn first for news of her. For a little while she hesitated: her acquaintance with Carn was very slight. But in a moment the sound of the windows downstairs being closed and secured filled her with an unreasoning panic.

She opened her door and flew down the stairs. She could hear Miss Girton pacing heavily across the lounge; but she sped past the door as silently as .she could, crossed the hall, and let herself out.

The cool breath of the night air restored her to reason, but she did not turn back. She closed the-door without a sound and walked resolutely round to Carn’s house. Her ring was answered at once by the man himself, and she remembered that he kept no servant on the premises.

The doctor’s genial red face was one florid expression of surprise.

“My dear Miss Holm’”

“Am I disturbing you?” she smiled. “I began to feel terribly dull and depressed, and I thought a little course of you would be a tonic. That is, if you can bear it?”

He became aware of the fact that he was preventing her from entering, and stood aside.

“You honour me,” he said. “But I’m quite .alone….”

“Doctors are above suspicion, aren’t they?” she laughed. “And I promise to behave.”

He still seemed a little self-conscious, but led the way into his study. She was a little puzzled at his awkwardness, and wondered why even such an uncouth man as he had not been smoothed down by his professional training. Nevertheless, his manner, if ungraceful, was plainly irreproachable. He brought up an armchair for her and swept a mass of papers off the table into a drawer. She noticed that there were some sections of large-scale surveys among them, and he explained:

“I’m interested in geology as well as bugs, you know. I’m afraid you’d find it rather a dull subject, but it amuses me. And I’m very interested in my fellow men.”

Before she realized what she was doing, she had asked his opinion of Simon Templar.

“Templar? A very interesting Specimen. I don’t think I can make a pronouncement yet—I met him for the first time to-day. A very—er—unusual young man, but quite charming to talk to.” Carn did not seem to wish to continue the analysis, and she was left with the idea that he would prefer to be sure of her estimate of the Saint before committing himself. “Would you like some tea? Or some ginger beer? It’s all I’ve got in the house.”

“No, thanks, if you don’t mind.” She thought. “It’s rather difficult…. You see— Is Mr. Templar in any danger?”

Carn looked at her with a keenness that was unforeseen in a man of his type.

“What makes you ask that, Miss Holm?”

“Well, he talks a lot about it, doesn’t he?”

Carn pursed his lips

“Yes, he does,” he admitted guardedly. “I shouldn’t venture to give a definite opinion at this stage. Might one inquire, first, what Mr. Templar is to you? Is he a particular friend of yours, for instance?”

“I’ve known him such a short time,” she replied, as cautiously. “But I must say I like him very much.”

“Would it be impertinent to ask if you-were in love with him?” pursued Carn; and, seeing her blush, he averted his eyes and babbled on in an embarrassed attempt at a fatherly tone: “I see that it would. But perhaps Mr. Templar is more susceptible. As a friend, you would do him a great service by using whatever influence you have to persuade him of his foolhardiness.”

“Then he is in danger?”

Carn sighed.

“Purely of his own making,” he said. “Mr. Templar has elected to play a very dangerous game. I can’t say any more. Perhaps he’ll tell you himself.”

Patricia looked at her watch for the twentieth tine.

There were still six minutes to pass.

Chapter VI

THE KINDNESS OF THE TIGER

“Here we are again,” murmured the Saint, “Seeing quite a lot of each other to-night, aren’t we? And how’s the occiput? Not dented beyond repair, I hope.

Bittle inclined his head.

“A trifle primitive,” he said urbanely, “but very effective. I have views of my own, however, on the subject of physical violence, which I shall present you with in due course.”

“Splendid,” said Templar.

He looked around for the man who had been covering him, and bowed to that gentleman with a smile.

“Dear old bloomin’ Bloem, of course,” remarked the Saint sociably. “I knew we’d find you in the thick of the fun. Quite one of the dogs of the dorp,or village, aren’t you? And, just-in case of accidents, would you rather be blipped on the jaw or in the solar plexus? A jolt in the tum-tum is more painful; but on the other hand the cove who stops one just where his face changes its mind is liable to carry a scar around with him for some time. Just as you like, of course—I always try to Oblige my customers in these little details.” a; “That will do, Mr. Templar,” Bittle’s voice broke in curtly. “I think you’ve talked quite enough for one evening.”

“But I haven’t started yet,” complained the Saint. “I was just going to tell one of my favourite stories. Old Bloem’s heard it before, but it might be a new one on you. The one about an Italian gentleman called Fernando, who double-crossed some of the band-o. They got even for this with the aid of a kris—and that was the end of Fernando. Any applause?”

The Saint looked about him in his mild way, as though he literally expected an outburst of clapping. Nobody moved. Bloem still had his automatic accurately trained on the Saint, and the Boer’s leathery face betrayed nothing. Bittle had gone ashy pale. The butler and a couple of other hard nuts who had followed the party into the library stood like graven images.

“I told you—he knows too much,” said Bloem. “Better not take any chances this time.”

“I’m very upset about this,” said Simon earnestly. “That one usually gets a rousing reception. Poor old Fernando—he used up so much energy cursing Tigers and things that he didn’t live quite long enough to tell me where the spondulicks were. ‘Baycombe, in England, Devonshire,’ gasps Fernando, with the haft of the kris sticking out of him, and the blood choking his throat. The old house…’ And then he died. Just like in a storybook, and deuced awkward, with so many old and oldish houses lying about. But Fernando certainly hated Tigers, and you can’t blame him.”