Meet the Tiger
by Leslie Charteris
The First ‘Saint’ Novel
Contents
I. The Pill Box
II. The Naturalist
III. A Little Melodrama
IV. A Social Evening
V. Aunt Agatha is Upset
VI. The Kindness of the Tiger
VII. The Fun Continues
VIII. The Saint is Dense
IX. Patricia Perseveres
X. The Old House
XI. Carn Listens In
XII. Tea with Lapping
XIII. The Brand
XIV. Captain Patricia
XV. Spurs for Algy
XVI. In the Swim
XVII. Piracy
XVIII. The Saint Returns
XIX. The Tiger
XX. The Last Laugh
Chapter I
The Pill Box
Baycombe is a village on the North Devon coast that is so isolated
from civilisation that even at the height of the summer holiday season
it is neglected by the rush of lean and plump, tall and short, papas,
mammas, and infants. Consequently, there was some sort of excuse for a
man who had taken up his dwelling there falling into the monotony of
regular habits—even for a man who had only lived there for three
days—even (let the worst be known) for a man so unconventional as
Simon Templar.
It was not so very long after Simon Templar had settled down in
Baycombe that that peacefully sedate village became most unsettled,
and things began to happen there that shocked and flabbergasted its
peacefully sedate inhabitants, as will be related; but at first Simon
Templar found Baycombe as dull as it had been for the last six hundred
years.
Simon Templar—in some parts of the world he was quite well known, from
his initials, as the Saint—was a man of twenty-seven, tall, dark,
keen-faced, deeply tanned, blue-eyed. That is a rough description. It
was not long before Baycombe had observed him more closely, and woven
mysterious legends about him. Baycombe did that within the first two
days of his arrival, and it must be admitted that he had given some
grounds for speculation.
The house he lived in (it may perhaps be dignified with the title of
“house,” since a gang of workmen from Ilfracombe had worked without
rest for thirty-six hours to make it habitable) had been built during
the war as a coast defence station, at a time when the War Office were
vaguely alarmed by rumours of a projected invasion at some unlikely
point. Possibly because they thought Baycombe was the last point any
enemy strategist would expect them to expect an invasion at, the War
Office had erected a kind of Pill Box on the tor above the village.
The work had been efficiently carried out, and a small garrison had
been installed; but apparently the War Office had been cleverer than
the German tacticians, for no attempt was made to land an army at
Baycombe. In 1918 the garrison and the guns had been removed, and the
miniature concrete fortress had been abandoned to the games of the
local children until Simon Templar, by some means known only to
himself, had discovered that the Pill Box and the quarter of a square
mile of land in which it stood were still the property of the War
Office, and in some secret way had managed to persuade the said War
Office to sell him the freehold for twenty-five pounds.
In this curious home the Saint had installed himself, together with a
retainer who went by the name of Orace. And the Saint had been so
overcome with the dullness of Baycombe that within three days he was
the victim of routine.
At 9 a.m. on this third day (the Saint had a rooted objection to early
rising) the man who went by the name of Orace entered his master’s
bedroom bearing a cup of tea and mug of hot water.
“Nice morning, sir,” said Orace, and retired.
Orace had remarked on the niceness of the morning for the last eight
years, and he had never allowed the weather to change his pleasant
custom.
The Saint yawned, stretched himself like a cat, and saw with
half-closed eyes that a stream of sunlight was pouring in through the
embrasure which did duty for a window. The optimism of Orace being
justified, Simon Templar sighed, stretched himself again, and after a
moment’s indecision leapt out of bed. He shaved rapidly, sipping his
tea in between whiles, and then pulled on a bathing costume and went
out into the sun, picking up a length of rope on his way out. He
skipped energetically on the grass outside for fifteen minutes. Then
he shadow-boxed for five minutes. Then he grabbed a towel, knotted it
loosely round his neck, sprinted the couple of dozen yards that lay
between the Pill Box and the edge of the cliff, and coolly swung
himself over the edge. A hundred and fifty foot drop lay beneath him,
but handholds were plentiful, and he descended to the beach as
nonchalantly as he would have descended a flight of stairs. The water
was rippling calm. He covered a quarter of a mile at racing speed,
turned on his back and paddled lazily shorewards, finishing the last
hundred yards like a champion. Then he lay at the edge of the surf,
basking in the strengthening sun.
All these things he had done as regularly on the two previous
mornings, and he was languidly pondering the deadliness of regular
habits when the thing happened that proved to him quite conclusively
that regular habits could be more literally deadly than he had allowed
for.
_Phhhew-wuk!_
Something sang past his ear, and the pebble at which he had been
staring in an absent-minded sort of way leapt sideways and was left
with a silvery streak scored across it, while the thing that had sang
changed its note and went whining seawards.
“Bad luck, sonny,” murmured the Saint mildly. “Only a couple of inches
out. . . .”
But he was on his feet before the sound of the shot had reached him.
He was on one of the arms of the bay, which was roughly semi-circular.
The village was in the centre of the arc. A quick calculation told him
that the bullet had come from some point on the cliff between the Pill
Box and the village, but he could see nothing on the skyline. A moment
later a frantic silhouette appeared at the top of the tor, and the
voice of Orace hailed down an anxious query. The Saint waved his towel
in response and, making for the foot of the cliff, began to climb up
again.
He accomplished the difficult ascent with no apparent effort, quite
unperturbed by the thought that the unknown sniper might essay a
second round. And presently the Saint stood on the grass above, hands
on hips, gazing keenly down the slope towards the spot where the
bullet had seemed to come from. A quarter of a mile away was a broad
clump of low bushes; beyond the copse, he knew, was a cart-track
leading down to the village. The Saint shrugged and turned to Orace,
who had been fuming and fidgeting around him.
“The Tiger knows his stuff,” remarked Simon Templar with a kind of
admiration.
“Like a greenorn!” spluttered Orace. “Like a namachoor! Wa did ja
expect? An’ just wotcha observed—an’ I ope it learns ya! You ain’t
’urt, sir, are ye?” added Orace, succumbing to human sympathy.
“No—but near enough,” said the Saint.
Orace flung out his arms.
“Pity ’e didn’t plug ya one, just ter make ya more careful nex’ time.
I’d a bin grateful to ’im. An’ if I ever lay my ’ands on the swine ’es
fore it,” concluded Orace somewhat illogically, and strutted back to
the Pill Box.
Orace, as a Sergeant of Marines, had received a German bullet in his
right hip at Zeebrugge, and had walked with a lopsided strut ever
since.
“Brekfuss in narf a minnit,” Orace flung over his shoulder.
The Saint strolled after him at a leisurely pace and returned to his
bedroom whistling. Nevertheless, Orace, entering the sitting-room with
a tray precisely half a minute later, found the Saint stretched out in
an arm-chair. The Saint’s hair was impeccably brushed, and he was
fully dressed—according to the Saint’s ideas of full dress—in shoes,
socks, a dilapidated pair of grey flannel trousers and a snowy silk
tennis shirt. Orace snorted, and the Saint smiled.
“Orace,” said the Saint conversationally, lifting the cover from a
plate of bacon and eggs, “one gathers that things are just about to
hum.”
“Um,” responded Orace.
“About to ’um, if you prefer it,” said the Saint equably. “The point
is that the orchestra are in their places, the noises off have hitched
up their hosiery, the conductor has unkemped his hair, the seconds are
getting out of the ring, the guard is blowing his whistle, the skipper
has rung down for full steam ahead, the—the——”
“The cawfy’s getting cold,” said Orace.
The Saint buttered a triangle of toast.
“How unsympathetic you are, Orace!” he complained. “Well, if my
flights of metaphor fail to impress you, let us put it like this:
we’re off.”
“Um,” agreed Orace, and returned to the improvised kitchen.
Simon finished his meal and returned to the arm-chair, from which he
had a view of the cliff and the sea beyond. He skimmed through the
previous day’s paper (Baycombe was at least twenty-four hours behind
the rest of England) and then smoked a meditative cigarette. At length
he rose, fetched and pulled on a well-worn tweed coat, picked up an
unwieldy walking stick, and went to the curtained breach in the
fortifications which was used for a front door.
“Orace!”
“Sir!” answered Orace, appearing at the threshold of the kitchen.
“I’m going to have a look round. I’ll be back for lunch.”
“Aye, aye, sir. . . . Sir!”
The Saint was turning away, and he stopped. Orace fumbled under his
apron and produced a fearsome weapon—a revolver of pre-war make and
enormous calibre—which he offered to his master.
“It ain’t much ter look at,” said Orace, stroking the barrel lovingly,
“and I wouldn’t use it fer fancy shooting; but it’ll make a bigger
’ole in a man than any o’ those pretty ortymatics.”
“Thanks,” grinned the Saint. “But it makes too much noise. I prefer
Anna.”
“Um,” said Orace.
Orace could put any shade of meaning into that simple monosyllable,
and on this occasion there was no doubt about the precise shade of
meaning he intended to convey.
The Saint was studying a slim blade which he had taken from a sheath
strapped to his forearm, hidden under his sleeve. The knife was about
six inches long in the blade, which was leaf-shaped and slightly
curved. The haft was scarcely three inches long, of beautifully carved
ivory. The whole was so perfectly balanced that it seemed to take life
from the hand that held it, and its edge was so keen that a man could
have shaved with it. The Saint spun the sliver of steel high in the
air and caught it adroitly by the hilt as it fell back; and in the
same movement he returned it to its sheath with such speed that the
knife seemed to vanish even as he touched it.
“Don’t you be rude about Anna,” said the Saint, wagging a reproving
forefinger. “She’d take a man’s thumb off before the gun was half out
of his pocket.”
And he went striding down the hill towards the village, leaving Orace
to pessimistic disgust.
It was early summer, and pleasantly warm—a fact which made the Saint’s
selection of the Pill Box for a home less absurd than it would have
seemed in winter. (There was another reason for his choice, besides a
desire for quantities of fresh air and the simple life, as will be
seen.) The Saint whistled as he walked, swinging his heavy stick, but
his eyes never relaxed their vigilant study of every scrap of cover
that might hide another sniper. He walked boldly down to the bushes
which he had suspected that morning and spent some time in a minute
search for incriminating evidence; but there had been no rain for
days, and even his practised eye could make little of the spoor he
found. Near the edge of the cliff he caught a golden gleam under a
tuft of grass, and found a cartridge-case.
“Three-one-five Mauser,” commented the Saint. “Naughty, naughty!”
He dropped the shell into his pocket and studied the ground closely,
but the indistinct impressions gave him no clue to the size or shape
of the unknown, and at last he resumed his thoughtful progress towards
the village.
Baycombe, which is really no more than a fishing village, lies barely
above sea-level, but on either side the red cliffs rise away from the
harbour, and the hills rise behind, so that Baycombe lies in a hollow
opening on the Bristol Channel. Facing seawards from the harbour, the
Pill Box would have been seen crowning the tor on the right, the only
building to the east for some ten miles; the tor on the left was some
fifty feet lower, and was dotted with half a dozen red brick and grey
stone houses belonging to the aristocracy. The Saint, _via_ Orace, who
had drunk beer in the public-house by the quay to some advantage,
already knew the names and habits of this oligarchy. The richest
member was one Hans Bloem, a Boer of about fifty, who was also reputed
to be the meanest man in Devonshire. Bloem frequently had a nephew
staying with him who was as popular as his uncle was unpopular: the
nephew was Algernon de Breton Lomas-Coper, wore a monocle, was one of
the Lads, and highly esteemed locally for a very pleasant ass. The
Best People were represented by Sir Michael Lapping, a retired Judge;
the Proletariat by Sir John Bittle, a retired Wholesale Grocer. There
was a Manor, but it had no Lord, for it had passed to a gaunt, grim,
masculine lady, Miss Agatha Girton, who lived there, unhonoured and
unloved, with her ward, whom the village honoured and loved without
exception. For the rest, there were two Indian Civil Servants who,
under the prosaic names of Smith and Shaw, survived on their pensions
in a tiny bungalow; and a Dr. Carn.
“A very dull and ordinary bunch,” reflected Simon Templar, as he stood
at the top of the village street pondering his next move. “Except,
perhaps, the ward. Is she the luvverly ’eroine of this blinkin’
adventure?”
This hopeful thought directed his steps towards the “Blue Moon,” which
was at the same time Baycombe’s club and pub. But the Saint did not
reach the “Blue Moon” that morning, because as he passed the shop
which supplied all the village requirements, from shoes to ships and
sealing-wax, a girl came out.
“I’m so sorry,” said the Saint, steadying her with one arm.
He retrieved the parcel which the collision had knocked out of her
hand, and in returning it to her he had the chance of observing her
face more closely. He could find no flaw there, and she had the most
delightful of smiles. Her head barely topped his shoulder.
“You must be the ward,” said Simon. “Miss Pat—the village doesn’t give
you a surname.”
She nodded.
“Patricia Holm,” she said. “And you must be the Mystery Man.”
“Not really—am I that already?” said the Saint with interest, and she
saw at once that the desire to hide his light under a bushel was not
one of his failings.
It is always a question whether the man inspires the nickname or the
nickname inspires the man. When a man is known to his familiars as
“Beau” or “Rabbit” there is little difficulty in supplying the answer;
but a man who is called “Saint” may be either a lion or a lamb. It is
doubtful whether Simon Templar would have been as proud of his title
as he was if he had not found that it provided him with a ready-made,
effective, and useful pose; for the Saint was pleasantly egotistical.
“There are the most weird and wonderful rumours,” said the girl, and
the Saint looked milder than ever.
“You must tell me,” he said.
He had fallen into step beside her, and they were walking up the rough
road that led to the houses on the West Tor.
“I’m afraid we’ve been very inhospitable,” she said frankly. “You see,
you set up house in the Pill Box, and that left everybody wondering
whether you were possible or impossible. Baycombe society is awfully
exclusive.”
“I’m flattered,” said the Saint. “Accordingly, after seeing you home,
I shall return to the Pill Box and sit down to consider whether
Baycombe society is possible or impossible.”
She laughed.
“You’re a most refreshing relief,” she told him. “Baycombe is full of
inferiority complexes.”
“Fortunately,” remarked Simon gently, “I don’t wear hats.”
Presently she said:
“What brings you to this benighted spot?”
“A craving for excitement and adventure,” answered the Saint
promptly—“reinforced by an ambition to be horribly wealthy.”
She looked at him with a quick frown, but his face confirmed the
innocence of sarcasm which had given a surprising twist to his words.
“I shouldn’t have thought anyone would have come here for that,” she
said.
“On the contrary,” said the Saint genially, “I should have no
hesitation in recommending this particular spot to any qualified
adventurer as one of the few places left in England where battle,
murder, and sudden death may be quite commonplace events.”
“I’ve lived here, on and off, since I was twelve, and the most
exciting thing I can remember is a house on fire,” she argued, still
possessed of an uneasy feeling that he was making fun of her.
“Then you’ll really appreciate the rough stuff when it does begin,”
murmured Simon cheerfully, and swung his stick, whistling.
They reached the Manor (it was not an imposing building, but it had a
homely air) and the girl held out her hand.
“Won’t you come in?”
The Saint was no laggard.
“I’d love to.”
She took him into a sombre but airy drawing-room, finely furnished;
but the Saint was never self-conscious. The contrast of his rough,
serviceable clothes with the delicate brocaded upholstery did not
impress him, and he accepted a seat without any appearance of doubting
its ability to support his weight.
“May I fetch my aunt?” asked Miss Holm. “I know she’d like to meet
you.”
“But of course,” assented the Saint, smiling, and she was left with a
sneaking suspicion that he was agreeing with her second sentence as
much as with her first.
Miss Girton arrived in a few moments, and Simon knew at once that
Baycombe had not exaggerated her grimness. “A norrer,” Orace had
reported, and the Saint felt inclined to agree. Miss Girton was stocky
and as broad as a man: he was surprised at the strength of her grip
when she shook hands with him. Her face was weather-beaten. She wore a
shirt and tie and a coarse tweed skirt, woollen stockings, and heavy
flat-heeled shoes. Her hair was cropped.
“I was wondering when I should meet you,” she said immediately. “You
must come to dinner and meet some people. I’m afraid the company’s
very limited here.”
“I’m afraid I’m prepared for very little company,” said Templar. “I’d
decided to forget dress clothes for a while.”
“Lunch, then. Would you like to stay to-day?”
“May I be excused? Don’t think me uncivil, but I promised my man I’d
be back for lunch. If I don’t turn up,” explained the Saint
ingenuously, “Orace would think something had happened to me, and he’d
go cruising round with his revolver, and somebody might get hurt.”
There was an awkward hiatus in the conversation at that point, but it
was confined to two of the party, for Templar was admiring a fine
specimen of Venetian glass, and did not seem to realise than he had
said anything unusual. The girl hastened into the breach.
“Mr. Templar has come here for adventure,” she said, and Miss Girton
stared.
“Well, I wish him luck,” she said shortly. “On Friday, then, Mr.
Templar? I’ll ask some people. . . .”
“Delighted,” murmured the Saint, bowing, and now there was something
faintly mocking about his smile. “On the whole, I don’t see why the
social amenities shouldn’t be observed, even in a vendetta.”
Miss Girton excused herself soon after, and the Saint smoked a
cigarette and chatted lightly and easily with Patricia Holm. He was an
entertaining talker, and he did not introduce any more dark and
horrific allusions into his remarks. Nevertheless, he caught the girl
looking at him from time to time with a kind of mixture of perplexity,
apprehension, and interest, and was hugely delighted.
At last he rose to go, and she accompanied him to the gate.
“You seem quite sane,” she said bluntly as they went down the path:
“What was the idea of talking all that rot?”
He looked down at her, his eyes dancing.
“All my life,” he replied, “I have told the truth. It is a great
advantage, because if you do that nobody ever takes you seriously.”
“But talking about murders and revolvers——”
“Perhaps,” said the Saint, with that mocking smile, “it will increase
the prominence of the part which I hope to play in your thoughts from
now onwards if I tell you that from this morning the most strenuous
efforts will be made to kill me. On the other hand, of course, I shall
not be killed, so you mustn’t worry too much about me. I mean, don’t
go off your feed or lie awake all night or anything like that.”
“I’ll try not to,” she said lightly.
“You don’t believe me,” accused Templar sternly.
She hesitated.
“Well——”
“One day,” said the Saint severely, “you will apologise for your
unbelief.”
He gave her a stiff bow and marched away so abruptly that she gasped.
It was exactly one o’clock when he arrived home at the Pill Box, and
Orace was flustered and disapproving.
“If ya ’adn’t bin ’ome punctual,” said Orace, “I’d a bin out looking
for yer corpse. It ain’t fair ter give a man such a lotta worry. Yer
so careless I wonder the Tiger ’asn’t putcha out ’arf a dozen times.”
“I’ve met the most wonderful girl in the world,” said Simon
impenitently. “By all the laws of adventure, I’m bound to have to save
her life two or three times during the next ten days. I shall kiss her
very passionately in the last chapter. We shall be married——”
Orace snorted.
“Lunch ’narf a minnit,” he said, and disappeared.
The Saint washed his hands and ran a comb through his hair in the
half-minute’s grace allowed him; and the Saint was thoughtful. He had
his full measure of human vanity, and it tickled his sense of humour
to enter the lists with the air of a Mystery Man straight out of a
detective story, but he had a solid reason for giving his caprice its
head. It struck him that the Tiger knew all about him and his quest,
and that therefore no useful purpose would be served by trying to
pretend innocence; whereas a shameless bravado might well bother the
other side considerably. They would be racking their brains to find
some reason for his brazen front, and crediting him with the most
complicated subtleties: when all the time there was nothing behind it
but the fact that one pose was as good as another, and the opportunity
to play the swashbuckler was too good to be missed.
The Saint was whistling blithely when Orace brought lunch. He knew
that the Tiger was in Baycombe. He had come half-way across the world
to rob the Tiger of a million dollars, and the duel promised to be
exhilarating as anything in the Saint’s hell-for-leather past.