The Saint Meets the Tiger

Chapter IX PATRICIA PERSEVERES

"Well," remarked Simon Templar, breaking a long silence as lightly as he could, "where do we go from here, old Pat?"

She disengaged her hand and sat down again; and he shifted his own chair round so that they were knee to knee. She was chilled by the defi-niteness with which he reverted to pure business, though later she realized that he did so only because he was afraid of letting himself go, and possibly incurring her displeasure by forcing the pace.

"I've also a story to tell," she said, "and it came out only last night."

And she gave him a full account of Agatha Girton's confession.

For such a loquacious man, he was an astonishingly attentive listener. It was a side of his character which she had not seen before-the Saint concentrating. He did not interrupt her once, sitting back with his eyes shut and his face so composed that he might well have been asleep. But when she had finished he was frowning thoughtfully.

"Curiouser and curiouser," said the Saint. "So Aunt Aggie is one of the bhoys? But what in the sacred name of haggis could anyone blackmail Aunt Aggie with? Speaking quite reverently, I can't imagine she was ever ravishing enough, even in her prime, to acquire anything like a Past."

"It does seem absurd, but — "

The Saint scratched his head.

"What do you know about her?"

"Very little, really," Patricia replied. "I've sort of always taken her for granted. My mother died when I was twelve — my father was killed hunting three years before that — and she became my guardian. I never saw much of her until quite recently. She spent most other time abroad, on the Riviera. She had a villa at Hyeres. I stayed on at school very late, and I was generally alone here during the holidays — I mean, she was away, though I usually had school friends staying with me, or I stayed with them. She didn't do much for me, but my bills were paid regularly, and she wrote once a fortnight."

"When did she settle down in Baycombe, then?"

"When she came back from South Africa. About six years ago I had a letter from her from Port Said saying that she was on her way to the Cape. She was away a year, and I hardly had a line from her. Then one day she turned up and said she'd had enough of travelling and was going to live at the Manor.”

"And did she?"

"She used to go abroad occasionally, but they were quite short trips."

"When was the last expedition?"

She pondered.

"About two years ago, or a bit less. I can't remember the exact date."

"Now think," suggested the Saint — "roughly, you hardly saw her at all between the time she introduced herself as your guardian, when you were twelve, until she came back from South Africa, when you were sixteen or seventeen."

"Nearer seventeen."

"And in that time anything might have hap-pened”

She shrugged.

"I suppose so. But it's too ridiculous...."

*'Of course it is," agreed Simon blandly. "It's all too shriekingly ridiculous for words. It's ridiculous that our Tiger should have broken the Confederate Bank of Chicago and lugged the moidores over to Baycombe to await disposal. It's ridiculous to think that there are some hundredweights of twenty-two carat gold hidden somewhere not two miles from here. But there are. What we've got to assume is that on this joy ride nothing is too ridiculous to be real. Which reminds me — what do you know about the old houses in Baycombe? There must be something conspicuously old enough for Fernando to have thought the Old House was sufficient address."

He was surprised at her immediate answer.

"There are two that'd fit," she said. "One is just out of the village, inland. It used to be an inn, and the name of it was the Old House. It’s falling to bits now — the proprietor lost his license in the year Dot, and nobody took it over. It's supposed to be haunted. The windows are all boarded up, and a dozen men could live there without being seen if they went in and out at night.”

The Saint smashed fist into palm, his eyes lighting up.

"Moonshine and Moses!" he whooped. "Pat, you're worth a fortune to this partnership! And I was just thinking we'd come to a standstill. Why, we haven't moved yet! .. . What's the other one?"

"The island just round the point." She waved her arm to the east. "The fishermen call it the Old House, but you wouldn't have noticed it because if only looks like that from the sea. The sides are very steep, and on one side it juts right out over the water, like those old houses where the first floor is bigger than the ground floor."

Simon jumped up and walked to the edge of the cliff, so that he could see the island. It was about a mile from the shore — nothing but an outcrop of rock thickly overgrown with bushes and stunted trees. He came back jubilant.

"It might be either," he said exultantly, "or it might be both — the Tiger may have a home from home in your defunct pub, and he may have parked the doubloons on the island. Anyway, we'll draw both covers and see. Thinking it over, I guess I've hit it. The Tiger'd want to have the gold someplace he could ship it from easily — remember, it's got to go to Africa. And by the same token ... Here, hold on half a sec."

He disappeared into the Pill Box and came back in a moment with field glasses. Then he focussed on the horizon and began to sweep it carefully from west to east. He had covered three quarters of the arc when he stopped and stared for a full minute, suddenly rigid.

"And there she blows," he muttered.

He handed her the binoculars and pointed northeast.

"See what you make of it."

"It looks like a couple of masts sticking up."

"Motor ship — no funnels," he explained. "The Bristol shipping passes here, but we're back in a sort of big bay, and I don't think they'd stand in as near as that. But we'll just make sure."

He took the glasses from her again and went into the Pill Box, and she followed. He fossicked about in the kitchen till he found a piece of board, the remains of a packing case, and this he settled in one of the embrasures, truing it up level with little wedges of newspaper. Then he put the field glasses on it and took a sight on one of the masts by means of a couple of pins stuck in the board.

"We'll give her five minutes."

She grasped his meaning at once.

"You think they're waiting to come in after dark?"

"No less. Comrade Bloem hasn't done all he'd like to with T. T. Deeps, but he'll have some weeks' grace while the stuffs getting to the mine. And he daren't let it lie around here any longer, in case my luck holds and I don't get bumped off according to schedule. I've rattled the Tiger!"

He was keeping an eye on his watch, and the minutes ticked away very slowly.

"Is Dr. Carn a detective?" she asked.

"That's hit it in one," affirmed the Saint. "But don't let on you know. It wouldn't be sporting not to give the boy a fair run."

"Then aren't you a detective?" she stammered in bewilderment. "I thought you were friendly rivals — — that was the only explanation I could work out last night."

The Saint smiled grimly.

"Rivals — more or less friendly — yes," he said. “But I'm not a detective, and never was. I'm playing for my own hand, with an enormous quantity of ha'pence coming to me if I win, and everybody's kicks if I lose. Profession, gentleman adventurer: i.e., available for any job involving plenty of money and plenty of trouble, suitable for a man who doesn't bother much about the letter of the law and who's prepared to take his licking without a yelp if he gets landed. That's me. Like this. I happened to find Fernando, and as soon as I’d got the thing taped out I took a trip to Chicago and saw the boss of the Confederate. 'Here's nearly ayear since your strong room was busted,' I said, ‘and the dicks haven't brought you back one cent of the almighties. Now suppose you let me have a shot. Terms, twenty per cent. commission if I bring it off. Not a bean if I don't. Me to work on my lonesome, without reporting to anybody, and to take all the blame if I'm run over.' Well, that put them on something to nothing, so they bit. And there you are."

He was looking steadily at her, but she did not change colour. But the Saint was never a faker, and this was his call to clean the whole sheet, so that she could take it or leave it as she chose and would never be able to say he hadn't played square. He rubbed it in with brutal directness:

"That's the way I've lived for years. Pretty well, all things considered, so that if this gamble turns up I'll be able to retire and settle down as soon as I like, and not have to stint myself anywhere. In those years I've committed about half the crimes in the Calendar, at the expense of crooks. It's a sporting game — man to man, and devil take the mug: and the police, for obvious reasons, aren't invited to interfere by either side. Bloem's the first to break that rule; but the Tiger isn't a sportsman — he's just a pot hunter. Still, I doubt if your friends would appreciate my success in that career. D'you still want to be a partner in the firm?'

She sighed.

"Saint, you're an ass," she said. "And if you exhibit any symptoms of virulent imbecility I shall fire you and become managing director myself."

"Hell's bells," ejaculated Simon, unwontedly moved, and swung away.

Very carefully, so as not to disturb the board, he took another sight at the ship's masts; and presently he straightened up with a light of triumph breaking on his face.

"We're in luck," he said. "She hasn't shifted a millimetre. Rotten bad navigation. I'd have known the height of my masts to an inch, and the height of the cliffs here ditto, and I'd have figured out my position to six places of decimals.... But the Tiger's loss is our gain!"

"They'll start to come in at sunset,” she took him up excitedly. "And —

"And I'll be there," said the Saint. "It's a moonlight swim for me to-night. That's great — to let the Tiger Cubs themselves lead me to the cache! But the snag is ... Holy Habakkuk ... they'll be waiting for me." She stared. "They know I'll invite myself, bless it!"

"Why?"

"Because they know I'm wise to this Old House joke. I let on, like a fool. That was a poisonous bad bloomer! I was ragging old Bloem about Fernando, just seeing how much breeze I could put up him, and I mentioned the Old House. They'll think I knew exactly what and where it was. Oh, crumbs and crutches! D'you mind kicking me as hard as you can?"

She was as distressed as he was. It was in no halfhearted manner that she had enlisted in the army of adventurers. A setback stung her as much as anybody. She bit her lip.

"But they're coming in," she insisted.

"Yes — forewarned and forewarmed to the teeth. If I happen to have been a bit slow on the uptake, well and good. If I haven't, and think I'll butt in, they'll be ready for me. Maybe the Tiger's patting himself on the back right now, bucked to death with his dandy little scheme for getting away with the oof and me too. Well, it's up to me to hand him the jar of his life. Sit tight a shake while I think."

He dropped into a chair and lighted a cigarette, his brain reeling and humming to encompass this new twist to the problem. Undoubtedly he had sized it up right — the Tiger was giving himself a double chance. And that move had got to be baulked somehow. But how? The Saint had only to breathe a word to Carn, and the Tiger was dished. But then, so was the Saint. That put that out of bounds.

He was fully prepared to swim out to the Old House that night, with Anna strapped to his arm, and trust to the inspiration of the moment to show him a way of beating the gang, even if they were watching and waiting for him. That was an honest toss-up with sudden death, and Simon took risks of that stamp without turning a hair. But on the other hand he liked to have at least a shadowy loophole for emergencies — there was no point in chucking the game away for lack of a little forethought. And how to provide that loophole? The Tiger's forces were large: the Saint could reckon on only Orace and the girl, besides himself. And he didn't want to push a slip of a girl into the front line, however keen she might be to go. How to make three people — or nearer two and a half — do the work of a platoon was a poser worthy of the undivided attention of a great general. Manifestly, it could not be done by any ordinary means. Therefore, there must be subtlety.

And the Tiger had the added advantage of being the attacker. Simon's cigarette began to smoulder down in his fingers unnoticed. That was a point! The Tiger was sitting high and dry in his den, hatching plots and making raids and forays when the spirit moved him; while the Saint had to sit on the fence with his eyes skinned, just parrying the Tiger's thrusts. And it became clear to the Saint that there was something unfair about that arrangement. True, the Saint had made one attack — but why let the offensive stop there? The enemy had an idea that he would come lunging in again that night: well, so he might, if it looked like a good tussle and he felt in the mood. But that didn't imply an armistice until zero hour, by any manner of means. Quite a lot of skirmishing could take place before the big battle — and every blow of it would bother the Tiger and help harass his organization for the last rounds. There really was no earthly reason why the Tiger should have it all his own way.

Where to launch the attack? The other Old House sprang to his mind at once. They might be expecting him to turn up there, but they would hardly anticipate his arrival in broad daylight. Which was just the way he might catch them on the hop. Or the dilapidated inn might be a false scent — in which case there was nothing but the state of his own nerves to stop him paying a call on Bloem. The prospects began to look brighter, and suddenly the Saint sat up with a broad grin illuminating his face.

"I've very nearly got it," he announced.

"Do let's hear!"

She was flushed and eager, eyes sparkling, lips slightly parted, like a splendid young Diana. She made a picture that in the abstract would have delighted the pagan Saint, but in the concrete it brought him up with a jerk. Next thing he knew she'd be demanding to be allowed to accompany him on the whole tour.

"Simply the germ of an idea to wallop the Tiger Cubs when they come in for the spondulicks," he lied, thinking furiously. "You see, gold's shocking weighty stuff, so they'll have to ferry it to the ship in small doses. That'll mean they'll have about three of the ship's boats running in relays — if they tried to take too big a load at once it'd simply drop through the bottom. And the crew'll be pretty small. A motor ship doesn't take much running, and they'd want to keep the numbers down in any case, because the seaman who can be relied on not to gossip in port is a rare bird. If we're lucky, the skipper'll be ashore getting his orders from the Tiger, and that'll make one less to tackle. Otherwise, the Tiger'11 go aboard himself, and that'll be one more to pip — though the fish'll be worth the extra trouble of landing. In any event, the general idea is this: we're going to have a stab at pinching that hooker!"

The Saint was capable of surprising himself. That plan of campaign, rigged out on the spur of the moment to put the girl off the main trail, caught hold of his imagination even as he improvised it. He ended on a note of genuine enthusiasm, and found that she was wringing his hands joyfully. "

"That's really brilliant," she bubbled. "Oh, Saint, it's going to be the most fearfully thrilling thing that ever happened — if we can only bring it off!"

He gazed sadly down at her. There it was — a tank of mulligatawny big enough to drown a brontosaurus, and he'd fallen right in before he knew what was happening. He shook his head.

"Kid," he said, "piracy on the low seas isn't part of the curriculum at Mayfield, is it?" "

"I can swim a couple of miles any day of the week."

"Can you climb eighteen feet of anchor chain at the end of it?" objected the Saint. "Can you back yourself to put a man to sleep before he can loose a yell? Can you make yourself unpleasant with a belaying pin if it comes to a riot? I hate to have to damp your ardour. Pat, but a woman can't be expected to play that game."

She was up in arms at once.

"Saint, you're trying to elbow me out again!" she accused. "Possibly you've never met anybody like me before — I flatter myself I'm a bit out of the ruck in some ways. And I won't be packed up in cotton wool! Whatever you go into, I'm going with you."

Then he let her have it from the shoulder.

"Finally," he said in a level voice, "how d'you fancy yourself as a prisoner on that tub, at the mercy of a bunch like the Tiger's, if we happen to lose? We might, you know. Think it over."

"You needn’t worry," she said. "I shall carry a gun — and save one cartridge."

The Saint's fists clenched. His mouth had set in a hard line, and his eyes were blazing. The Saintly pose had dropped from him like the flimsy mask it was, and for the first and last-but-one time she saw Simon Templar in a savage fury.

"And — you think — you, my girl, you — "The words dropped from his tense lips like chips of white-hot steel. "You think I shall let you — take — that chance?"

"Is there any logical reason, my man, why you shouldn't?"

"Yes, there is!" he stormed. "And if you aren't damned careful .you'll hear it — and I don't care how you take it!"

She tossed her head.

"Well, what is it?"

"This," said Simon deliberately — "I love you."

"But, you dear priceless idiot," said Patricia, "hasn't it occurred to you that the only reason I'm in this at all is because I love you?"

For a space he stared. Then —

"Burn it," said the Saint shakily, "why couldn't you say so before

But after that there was only one thing to do. For a man so unversed in the ways of women he did it exceedingly well.