The Saint Meets the Tiger (28 page)

“Now let’s have a look at you.”

He was in his shirt sleeves, and the fact that he had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar for comfort in the sultriness of the evening increased the ruffianly effect of his appearance. John Bittle was one of the men who are only tolerable when conventionally dressed. And his round red face was no longer genial.

His gaze stripped her from crown to toe, and the girl went hot under its slow significant deliberateness.

He stuck her revolvers in his trousers pockets, so that the butts protruded, and leaned against the door, folding his arms and smiling. His smile was introspective, and was not charming; and when he spoke again he did not bother to infuse any mellowness into his voice.

“Well, well!” he said. “So this is the immaculate Miss Holm! Forgive my surprise, but one hardly expects to find the young ladies-of the aristocracy behaving like this.”

“As one hardly expects to find Sir John Bittle in such company and such circumstances,” she retorted.

He shook his head.

“There does happen to be a Sir John Bitfle, but I am not he. I assumed his knighthood for the edification of Baycombe; and now that we have both said good-bye to Baycombe I don’t mind being plain John Bittle again.”

“I’m delighted to hear,” said Patricia scathingly, “that you’re resigned to your plainness.”

She wasn’t letting Bittle think that he was getting away with anything, though in fact she was afraid for the first time in her life. He was master of the situation, and he knew it; and her only hope for the moment lay in bluffing him that she knew better.

“I trust you will also become resigned to it,” he returned smoothly—“otherwise your married life will not be happy. You understand? My offer still holds good, which I think is very generous of me, though I’m afraid you have no choice. In less than an hour we shall be at sea, and this ship is under my command. I can only say that I’m very much obliged to you for turning up just when I feared I had lost you.”

“You’re assuming a lot,“said the girl coolly.

His fixed smile did not alter.

“As a business man, I have no time to waste beating about the bush. You will marry me now^ and there’s an end to it. Maggs—the captain—can perform the ceremony quite legally. Incidentally, you should be grateful for my intervention. If I were not here—well, Maggs is a vindictive man, and I think he will bear you malice for the way you’ve just treated him. But I shall be able to protect you from the vengeance of Maggs, and in return for my kindness I shall expect you to be a good wife to me.”

Patricia’s lip curled.

“My good man,” she said, “I’d die first.”

“You won’t,” said Bittle mildly, and something in the cold certainty of his tone froze her like a bitter wind.

There was a Burberry thrown across the chair beside her, and she picked it up and slipped into it, trying to invest her movements with an insulting unconcern, ignoring his very existence.

“I was just leaving my cabin as you shepherded Maggs into the one next door,” Bittle explained, gloating. “I guessed you would try to interview me next, but I felt that if I let things go according to your plans you would have me at a disadvantage— a position which could only prejudice me for ever after in my role of your lord and master. A man should never give his chosen mate a chance to despise him.”

“Then, when you’ve chosen your mate,” said Patricia, “you’d better go and live on the other side of the world—I should think that would help enormously, if she never saw you.”

He leered.

“You’re a spitfire,” he said, “but I’ll tame you!”

“You’re a liar;’ said the girl. “You’ll do what the Tiger tells you. I’d like to meet him, by the way. Will you take me to him, please?”

Bittle laughed, and drew himself up.

“I am the Tiger.”

The girl looked him over contemptuously.

“I’ll believe that—when tigers look like rats.”

“You’ll see,” he answered, and looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I must leave you now. The cargo’s nearly all aboard, and we’ll be sailing right away. I hope you didn’t hit Maggs too hard.”

“Not hard enough, I’m afraid,” she said calmly. “I’m afraid he’ll live.”

He shrugged.

“The second mate can navigate, though he hasn’t a ticket, and Maggs will revive later. Au re-voir—Patricia.”

In a moment she was alone, and she heard the key turn in the lock and his footsteps receding toward the companion.

She had no means of telling the time, for she had left her watch in the Pill Box. She spent a little while searching for a weapon, but she did not expect that he would have overlooked anything like that, and was not surprised when she failed to find one. Then she turned her attention to the porthole, but the opening was far too small for her to squeeze through, slight as she was. And that was all about it—she was fairly trapped.

She sat down and coldly reviewed the situation.

There had been no uproar of any sort, and so it seemed that Orace was safe. By that time he would be searching for her, and if she were lucky she might be able to communicate with him. She held herself motionless, to eliminate any sound inside the cabin, and strained her ears for any stealthy creeping past the door. She dared not run the risk of calling out, for it would be fatal to let the enemy suspect that she was not alone.

And, while she listened intently, she went on thinking. If Orace found her, what could he do? He couldn’t release her, though perhaps he would be able to pass her a gun with which she could deal with Bittle on his return. But the onus of the adventure would rest almost entirely with Orace and Algy, and, regarded even in the most optimistic light, the odds against them were terribly heavy. She found herself daydreaming of wild farfetched possibilities of victory, and pulled herself together with a kind of mental violence, for she knew that that was a forerunner of despair—when practical schemes for winning out seemed so hopeless that one was forced, in a final effort to stave off panic, to imagine help falling from the skies. And, after a sternly practical inspection of the facts as they stood, the girl was compelled to admit that the chance of .beating the Tiger now was pitifully small….

Then came the feeling of unreality—the feeling that the whole thing was too fantastic to be true. And that, too, she recognized for a false comfort, and lashed herself out of it. That way also defeat lay—to sink into a torpid reverie and wait for awakening to put an end to the horror. No—this was no ordinary nightmare. She’d entered the regatta in earnest, and the tide was running all against her. But she must—must—must keep on hoping against hope, whipping all her wits into service, refusing to surrender. That was the only alternative to accepting her fate as Bittle or the Tiger dictated it…. Resolutely she shut out of her mind the contemplation of an end too horrible to vision in cold blood.

Time passed—she could not tell how long she sat there, listening for Orace and waiting for Bittle, wrapped up in her thoughts. But Orace did not come. Had he been caught? But there had been no sounds of excitement, even since her capture, and so it seemed that Orace was still at large, whatever he was doing about her disappearance. That was some consolation. By that time, too, Algy should have recovered, and perhaps even then he and Orace were at work…. So she brooded, until, it seemed hours since Bittle had left her.

Then there stole in upon her senses a low humming noise, not so much heard as felt. For a moment she was at a loss to account for it, and then she realized that it was the vibration of the ship’s motors.

So the cargo was all aboard, and the Tiger was preparing to make his getaway…. But by now she had forced herself into a sort of dreadful passiveness. Abstractedly she sought for, and found, all the concurrent tokens of departure. She looked down through the open porthole, and saw two men standing by the small winch in the bows. Someone below her called an order, and the winch rattled into action. She listened to the clanking of the anchor chain, and the jangle of each link as it grated over the teeth of the winding drum hammered into her brain like the tolling of a knell…. Then she heard men crossing the deck outside. The footsteps ascended the companion, and she heard them moving about the bridge overhead. There were two men, and Bittle was one of them. He called down a perfunctory query—“All clear?” and one of the men forward looked back and said, “Aye, aye, sir!”

“Let her go, said Bittle, and she heard the tinkle of the engine-room telegraph.

The vibration swelled to a drone, and she saw the black contours of the coast begin to slide across her field of vision. Coincidently came the soft lapping of disturbed waters…. Another ring from the bridge, and the sea to port boiled whitely away in a growing smudge of moonlit milkiness…. Again the tinkle of the telegraph, and the ship commenced to forge ahead as the last glimpse of land slipped away and left her staring dully at the wide horizon…. The churning and splashing of their passage became more insistent….

They were off—the Tiger had ^aťopieaA^fae pool….

The girl sank on to the bunk and covered her eyes. In that moment she tasted the dregs of defeat.

Bittle came down from the bridge. He went to the door of the other cabin and thumped on the panels. He shouted “Maggs!” several times, without, apparently, getting a reply. Then he crossed the deck and she heard his key in the lock.

She had composed herself by the time he had opened the door. He met the same acid, defiant stare, and felt a certain admiration,

“Still just as sure of yourself?” he asked, and she nodded.

“Quite— thank you.”

He eyed her twisiedly.

“You’re plucky, but I’m afraid it’s wasted. You know Templar’s dead?”

“Mr. Templar’s dead—yes. But the game goes on.” She looked up at him steadily. “Even I may die. But there are others—you will never be able to say you’re safe as long as there is a law, and decent people to fight for it. For a little while, you’re winning, but in the end you can’t win. Mr. Templar, after all, was only a pawn, and I’m no more than that myself. But even though you kill both of us, there are plenty of others to take our places—men who will never rest until they have led you to the gallows. Think of it, Bittle! Years will pass, and you will travel thousands of miles; perhaps you will change your name, and settle down at the other end of the earth; you will play your part, make yourself a respected and important man with all this money, and try to believe that the past can be forgotten. But inyour heart you will know that nothing can be wiped out, and you will always be haunted by your fear. If you call that a victory, Bittle, you’ve won—but I wouldn’t change places with you!”

He was not impressed.

“D’you really think you can scare me so easily?” he said. “If you like, you can come out on deck and watch England fall behind us. You will never see England again—we have vanished into thin air, for all Baycombe knows. Only one dangerous man has been left, and by now he will have been shot— Templar’s servant. Where is help coming from?”

“When did you shoot Orace?” she inquired. “He was very much alive when I left him.”

She was wondering if Orace had, after all, been captured but she was giving nothing away until she knew, and Bittle’s reply reassured her.

“The Pill Box will be raided at two o’clock, and Orace will be killed—that has been arranged.”

“Then you might give me a cigarette.”

He proffered his case and watched her tap the gasper on her thumbnail, and he marked that her hands did not shake.

“And a match, please.”

He held the light for her, and then she leaned back again and puffed a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.

“Have you also arranged to kill Carn?” she questioned.

“Carn—that old fool? Why?”

“Detective Inspector Carn, of Scotland Yard-that old fool. He went into Ilfracombe this afternoon to collect his posse. He knows the Tiger! … They must have had a breakdown somewhere, and that stopped him arriving in time—but that only means that by dawn the Atlantic fleet will be scouring the seas for you. I’ll bet that surprises you. Bittie!”

She spoke in quiet, even tones, and the certainty that she wasn’t bluffing hit Bittle between the eyes like the kick of a mule.

He bent and stared closely into her face, but she looked back at him without faltering. Incredulously, he searched for the least hint of wavering in her gaze, but found only a mocking amusement. Conviction forced itself upon him against his will.

“D’you mean to say Carn’s a detective?” he said thickly.

“I do.” Every syllable was a taunt. “And d’you mean to say the Tiger—that old fool—has had Carn living next door for months and never suspected him? … Really, you seem to be a very stupid lot!”

His face darkened, and for a moment she thought he would strike her. There was murder in his eyes.

Then he controlled himself, but he stepped back as though he had received a blow.

“Thank you for warning me—I’ll be ready for them,” he rasped, “But you—you’ll never share the laugh. While I’ve got you for a hostage they don’t dare to touch me. You’ll save us all, my beauty!”

“My good man,” retorted Patricia, with that glacial scorn which treated him as an offending flunkey—“I wouldn’t lift a finger to help you if you were roasting in hell.”

He bared his teeth.

“You’ll change your mind when I set out tŽ make you,” he said.

He flung open the door.

“Bloem!”

He waited, fuming, and then bellowed again:

“Bloem! … Bloem—you blasted Dutchman! … Here, you, go and find Mr. Bloem and tell him I want to see him at once. Run!”

He slammed the door again and glowered down at her.

“My girl,” he said venomously, “you’re going to be sorry you didn’t accept my offer the night I made it!”

“My man,” she answered, “your humiliation will always be one of the pleasantest memories of my life.”

“It’ll be one of the last,” he vowed.

He leaned on the door with tightly folded arms, glaring at her evilly, but after one glance of superb disdain she went on smoking and ignored him.

The interval was a long one, and his cursing impatience raged higher with every minute of it.