The Saint Meets the Tiger s-1 Read online

  His sodden trousers were shapeless, and the white of his torn shirt was marked with grease, but still, by the exercise of his inimitable gift, he was able to look debonair and immaculate. And, for all the apparently overwhelming odds against him, he retained his air of unshakable confidence. But this time Bittle could see no loophole in the trap in which he had the Saint, and he refused to be awed by anything so intangible as the Saint's assured bearing.

  "Have they been searched?" he asked one of the guard, but it was Simon who answered.

  "I gave up my gun when I surrendered."

  "And kept your knife — I remember that trick," said Bittle.

  He himself removed Anna, and by making a thorough examination he found also her twin sister strapped to the Saint's leg. The discovery pleased him.

  "I'm not making any more mistakes. Templar."

  "So glad!" drawled Simon. "May I have my cigarette case back, please? Anna and Belle aren't any use to anyone but myself, but the cigarette case is really silver — I won it in the Open Ludo Tournament at Bournemouth in '13."

  Bittle examined the case, and, failing to find anything suspicious about it, returned it to the Saint, who replaced it in his hip pocket.

  The Saint turned suddenly on his heel, and the guard sprang back a pace and put up their weapons, and Simon laughed.

  "Your men aren't very brave, are they?" he remarked. "I'm unarmed, and each of them looks like a travelling arsenal — but watch!"

  He feinted at one of the tough-looking customers, and the man flinched away. The Saint tweaked his nose ungently, and, wheeling round, tripped up another man and sent him crashing to the floor. Bittle sprang up with an oath, reaching for his revolver, but the Saint turned back with a light chuckle and put up his hands.

  "Merely a demonstration of moral superiority,' he said airily. "Even now, you see, I can scare you!"

  "I'll soon stop that," Bittle grated, furious at having let himself be alarmed by the exhibition, and pointed to one of the men. "Fetch a rope — we'll see what he can do when he's trussed up."

  "Anything you like," said the Saint boastfully. "Houdini is my middle name, and knots mean nothing to me."

  The rope was brought, and Simon's hands were tied securely behind his back. The man knew his job, and, since he was the gentleman whose nose the Saint had taken liberties with, he did not consider the prisoner's comfort at all. The cords bit savagely into Simon's wrists, tightened up by a violent hand, but the Saint only smiled.

  "Mind you don't break the rope," he said solicitously.

  The man knelt down to bind the Saint's ankles, but the Saint, without any haste or heat, put his foot in the man's face and pushed him over.

  "If there's no objection," he murmured, "I'll sit down first."

  He crossed the saloon nonchalantly and took one of the swivel chairs. Then he let the seaman tie his ankles together. The same brutal force was exerted there, and when the operation was complete the man straightened and deliberately struck Simon on the mouth. The Saint did not move, and the man spat in his face.

  "I congratulate you," said the Saint in a low voice. "You are the first man that has ever done that to me, and I am pleased to think that before morning you will make the thirteenth man I have killed."

  "That'll do," rapped Bittle, as^he manraisedlns fist again. "Tie up his servant."

  Orace clenched his hands and looked round belligerently.

  "Cummernava try!" he challenged.

  Orace was game enough, but there were men all round him, and he could only knock two of them flying before the rest were clinging to his arms and legs and bearing him, still struggling and swearing sulphurously, to the floor. He was trussed up even more comprehensively than the Saint, perhaps because his crude form of defiance was more understandable to the inferior mentalities of the guard; and then one of the men was sent to bring in the girl, and Simon braced himself up for the meeting.

  Patricia walked into the saloon with her head held high, but her calm was not proof against the sight of the Saint's bruised face and the thin trickle of blood running down his cbia from the corner of his mouth.

  "Simon!" she sobbed, and would have run to him, but two of the guard clutched at her and dragged her back against the wall.

  "It's all right, old darling," said the Saint urgently. "Don't let the swine see you break down.... I'm not hurt. Just been in a vulgar brawl, and it's nothing to what the blister who did it will look like when I've finished with him.... Now, Pat, old thing, cast an eye over that nasty object across the way. It's old fat Bittle himself, and he's going to make a speech about his triumph — I can see it written all over the boil he calls bis face."

  Bittle nodded.

  "You must confess," he said, "that I have some cause to be satisfied with the conclusion of our little rivalry."

  Conclusion my sock-suspenders!" snorted the Saint. "I haven't started yet!"

  "In that case, Templar, you would appear to have sacrificed your chance forever.... But your diagnosis, in a way, was quite correct — I^was about to outline to you the programme which I propose to follow with regard to your immediate future."

  "Careers for our Boys," quoth Simon irreverently.

  Bittle clasped his hands across his stomach.

  "Before we proceed with that interesting exposition, however," he said, "I think there are two members of the company who would like to be present." He turned to one guard. "Lambert, will you go and see if Mr. Bloem and Mr. Maggs have recovered sufficiently to join us?"

  The man left the saloon, and there was silence for a moment. Presently Bittle said;

  "While we're waiting, perhaps you'd care to tell me how you managed to escape?"

  The Saint grinned.

  "Nothing is easier. When I was an infant, a celebrated clairvoyant and cardsharper told me that I had been born under the sign of the Zodiac known to astronomers as Humpty Dumpty and to the lay public as the Egg. Taking his words to heart, I early applied myself to the study of the science of Levitation, in the hope of averting the doom which had been prophesied for me. I succeeded so well, by virtue of years of practice and self-denial and hours of fasting and prayer, that I can now back myself to bounce to almost unlimited heights. Consequently, when I fell into your little trap, I was able to fall out again, if you get the idea. I think that's the whole story — except that an aunt of mine once had an under-gardener whose nephew knew a man whose father had once shaken hands with a lady who remembered meeting a dentist in Maida Vale whose second cousin twice removed was the divorced wife of a Manchester stockbroker who once ate a pint of whelks with a lawn mower on Wigan Pier for a bet. In fact," went on Simon, warming to his subject, "we are a very distinguished family. Another aunt of mine had gout and a mother-in-law whose cook married a gas-fitter who — "

  "Spare us your humour," pleaded Bitfle wearily. "It doesn't amuse me."

  "But it amuses me! — as the actress said on an auspicious occasion," said the Saint, and would have continued in that vein if Bloem and Maggs had not arrived at that moment.

  Both looked much the worse for wear, and their heads bore abundant tokens of the cold water which had been liberally used in resuscitating them. In addition, Bloem's forehead was disfigured by a bruise which was rapidly taking to itself all the brighter hues of the rainbow, and the way he glared at the Saint was not friendly.

  "The compliments of the season, Mynheer," drawled Simon. "And who's the other little ray of sunshine, Mr. Chairman?"

  "Our captain, Mr. Maggs," Btttle introduced that injured warrior suavely. "You have not met him before, Templar, but our dear friend Miss Holm knocked him out an hour or two ago."

  "Delighted!" murmured the Saint. "She seems to have made a good job of it, Maggie — or did you always look like that?"

  Mr. Maggs lowered.

  "My name's Maggs," he blustered.

  "But I shall call you Maggie," insisted the Saint. "It's more matey, and it suits you better. And really I didn't mean to be rude about your fa
ce. You've got a nice kind face, like a cow."

  Mr. Maggs turned away with a growl, and stalked over to the girl. Then the Saint was afraid, and the veins stood out purply on his forehead as he wrestled with his bonds.

  Maggs took the girl's chin in his thick fingers and tilted up her face, leering down at her.

  "You might've killed me," he said — "hitting me like that. But I'll make you apologize later, and I like my apologies sweet."

  "Sit down, Maggs," snapped Bittle.

  Maggs still persisted.

  "Give us a kiss to be getting on with, like a good girl."

  "Sit — down — Maggs!"

  Bittle was on his feet, and there was death in his hand. Grumbling, Mr. Maggs lurched into a. chair and sat staring at Patricia in his ugly way.

  Bloem went round to the chair opposite Maggs, but Bittle remained standing at one end of the table. The Saint sat at the other end.

  Bittle paused for a moment, and the men grouped round the walls fidgeted into stillness. A macabre atmosphere of fiendish cold-bloodedness began to fill the room. It came from the hate-smouldering eyes of all those silent men, and k clouded malevolently behind the stocky figure of John Bittle. Bittle was posing at the end of the table, waiting for the theatrical effect of the gathering to tense up to a nerve-tearing pitch, and a sensitive man could have felt the silence keying up to the point at which unreasoning terror crowds in like a foul vapour. Seconds throbbed away in that pulsating suspense....

  The Saint cleared his throat.

  "Rising to address this general meeting at the close of such a successful year," he prompted, "I feel — Go on, Bittle. Declare the dividend, and make sure all your braces buttons are safe before you bow to the applause."

  His gently mocking tones broke down Some of the tension. He looked across at the girl, and she smiled back.

  "I'm not taking any notice," she said in a clear voice. "He's only indulging his love for melodrama."

  "Melodrama," replied Bittle, "is a thing for which I have an instinctive loathing. Yet, in a situation such as this, it is very hard to avoid overstepping the bounds of banality. However, I will try to be as precise and to the point as possible." He fixed his malignant gaze on the Saint. "This man, Templar, whom you see, has elected to interfere in matters which do not concern him. By a succession of miracles, he has so far managed to avoid the various arrangements which we have made for disposing of him; but now, on the open sea, I hardly think he can escape. He has put us to great inconvenience, and I don't think anyone here has any cause to bear him any good will. While he lives, no one here is safe. I believe I am merely the spokesman of everyone present when I say that he must die."

  He looked from face to face, and there was a mutter of assent. He looked at the Saint again.

  "I indorse that verdict," he said.

  "Blatherskite and brickdust!" said the Saint disparagingly.

  Bittle continued:

  "Then there is this man — Orace. He is also a man against whom some of you will bear a personal grudge. In any case, he is in Templar's confidence, and therefore I say that he too must die,"

  "Pure banana oil," jeered the Saint.

  "Finally," said Bittle, "there is the girl. I propose to marry her myself, and Maggs will conduct the service as soon as the sentence has been carried out upon Templar and Orace." He picked up a revolver from the table and waved it meaningly. "If there is anyone here — Maggs included — who objects to that, he can speak now."

  Nobody moved.

  "Scat!" remarked the Saint.

  "Is that all the protest even our redoubtable Mr. Templar can make?" Bittle sneered. "I'm disappointed — you've talked so much about what you were going to do to all of us that I was expecting something interesting."

  Simon yawned.

  "Before I die," he said, "may I tell you my celebrated joke about a man called Carn? I wonder if you've heard it before? There was once a physician called Carn, but nobody cared worth a dam — if a man said 'By heck! That bloke might be a 'tec!' the others would simply say 'Garn!" And yet it happens to be true. Isn't it odd?"

  "Patricia" — Bittle rolled the name out with rel-ish — "has already told me that story. If it is any comfort to you, I can assure you that it will only make me more careful of her health. The same ultimatum which brought you into my power will, I think, discourage Carn. It will certainly be an awkward dilemma for him, but I imagine that his humanity will triumph over his sense of duty."

  "If that is so," said Simon slowly, "I think he will be sure to give the order to fire — and blow this ship and everyone on board to smithereens."

  Bittle shrugged, and signed to one of the men whom Orace had floored.

  "We will start with the servant," he said.

  "Yah!" gibed Orace. "Yer a lotter thunderin' 'eroes, you are! Undo me 'ands, an' cummaht on the deck, any sixeryer, an' I'll showyer wotter rough-'ouse feels like!"

  Beads of perspiration broke out on the man's face as he slowly raised the revolver.

  "Sorlright, sir," Orace ground out. "Don't think I care a damn fer wot ennyer these bleedin' barstids do.... Shoot, yer maggot! Wotcha skeered of? 'Fraid I'll bite yer?... Git on wiv it, an' be blarsted to yer!"

  "Wait!"

  The Saint's mildest voice scarcely masked the whiplash crack of his command, and the man lowered his gun. Bittle turned to him.

  "Have you, after all, something to say before the sentence is carried out?" he inquired ironically. "Perhaps you would like to go down on your knees and beg me to spare you? Your prayers will not move me, but the spectacle of Mr. Templar grovelling at my feet would entertain me vastly…”

  "Not this journey," said the Saint.

  Already he had worked the cigarette case from his pocket and cut through the cords which had bound his hands, though it had been a long and difficult feat. Now he had slid forward in the chair and tucked his legs well back, and he was patiently sawing away at the ropes which pinioned his ankles.

  "You see," said the Saint, in the same leisured tone, "we are all, as you recently observed, liable to make our mistakes, and you have made three very big ones. You must understand, my seraph, that your own loathing for melodrama is only equalled by my love for it, and I think I can say that I staged this little conversazione simply for my own diversion. It seemed to me that this adventure ought to finish off in a worthily dramatic manner, and if all goes well you'll have to bear the agony of watching enough melodrama concentrated into the next few minutes to fill a book. Things, from approximately now onward, will go with a kick strong enough to set the Lyceum gasping. How does that appeal to you, beloved?"

  "I'll tell you when I hear," said Bittle brusquely, but the Saint declined to be hurried.

  "This speechifying," he remarked, "will now come from the principal shareholder, so please don't fluster me. Sit down and listen — you've had your turn.... Well, here we all are, just like a happy family, and exactly where I wanted you all. I grant you I took a big risk, but I had to do it to get the scene nicely set and the audience all worked up and palpitating in their pews. Also, it happened to be necessary to pass a little time before the moment was ripe for trotting out the big thrill. Now, if you're ready, I'll send up the first balloon." The Saint paused, and smiled from Bloem to Bittle. "Where is Harry the Duke?"

  If he had detonated a charge of thermite under their feet he could not have produced a greater sensation. The men looked from one to another, suspicion and rage and fear chasing over their faces deliriously. For a space there was an electric silence, while the Saint leaned back in his chair, smiling beatifically, and felt the last strand of rope break away from his ankles.

  Then the storm broke loose. Bittle reached forward and pawed at Bloem's shoulder frenziedly.

  "What's happened to Harry? he snarled.

  Bloem jumped to his feet and struck down Bittle's hand.

  "Leave me alone!" Bloem's nerves were raw and jagged. "It isn't my fault — you never asked me» and you've been too busy tal
king yourself for me to tell you." He glared round at the Saint. "That meddling puppy got me — I was just taking Harry some food — the door was open, and he got me. I know he'd found Harry!"

  Bittle sprang at the Boer like a wild beast, his face contorted with demoniac fury, and Bloem reeled back from a vicious blow. In an instant Bit-tie had grabbed a couple of revolvers, and was holding them threateningly in his quivering hands, and Bloem cowered sullenly back from the flaming passion that blazed in Bittle's eyes. Bittle, in that towering paroxysm, would have murdered the other where he stood, given the slightest provocation, and the Boer knew it.

  "Search the ship!" Bittle shrilled. 'Tou-Vfl of you! Get out and search the ship!"

  "Why bother?" asked the Saint in his silkiest manner. "If you want to find Harry the Duke, my little ones, you'll have to go all the way back to Baycombe!”

  Bittle swung round.

  "Meaning?" he prompted dangerously.

  "Meaning that when I'd dented old Bloem's cranium, I went into the cabin and found Harry the Duke, alias Agatha Girton," said Simon. "We had quite a long chat. He told me how Agatha died years and years ago, at Hyeres, and Harry took her place. The Tiger found him out — and that was another bad bloomer. You'd have thought any sane man would have been satisfied with a cool million; but no, the Tiger was so greedy he had to blackmail Harry for Miss Holm's money, and that made Harry sore. Harry's a dangerous man when he's sore, and he tried to kill the Tiger. Then the Tiger saw what a mug he'd been, and decided to take Harry off on the cruise and dump him over the side with a couple of firebars spliced to his feet, which is a very effective way of killing a man and has the advantage that it leaves no incriminating corpses about. Harry was able to tell me quite a lot of interesting things about Tigers and Tiger Cubs. Then I told him a few things he didn't know, and after that we shook hands — he was really a sportsman, because he did try to put the kibosh on your hanky-panky with Miss Holm, whom he was rather fond of — and I let him slip over the side and swim back to Baycombe on condition he wrote an anonymous letter to Carn telling him all those things about Tigers and Tiger Cubs which we'd discussed." The Saint looked almost apologetic. "And, therefore, one and only — thank God — Bit-tie, I can assure you that the police will come aboard with the pilot if you so much as show the tip of your bowsprit outside Cape Town harbour, and the Mounted will be camped all round T.T. Deeps in case you manage to sneak in by the back way. Rather upsetting, isn't it?"