The Brand
She was aghast at the thought.
Could she have been living for months and years in the home of the
Tiger? It seemed impossible, and yet the theory seemed to get more
watertight with every second. It would account for Agatha Girton’s
continual absences abroad, and the letters which came from the Riviera
could easily have been fake alibis. But in that case the trip to South
Africa would have been real enough—the Tiger would naturally have gone
there to look for a derelict gold mine to salt with his plunder, as
the Saint had explained. And she remembered that Agatha Girton had
been away just about the time when the Tiger had broken the
Confederate Bank.
So the Tiger was a woman! That was not outside the bounds of
credibility, for Miss Girton would have had no trouble in
impersonating a man.
Patricia had to fight down her second panic that afternoon before she
could open the front door and enter the house. It struck her as being
unpleasantly like walking into the Tiger’s jaws as well as walking
into his den—or her den. If Miss Girton were the Tiger, she would
already be suspicious of Patricia’s sudden friendship with Simon
Templar; and that suspicion would have been fortified by the girl’s
adventure of the previous night and her secretiveness about it. Then,
if Lapping was suspect also, it would not be long before the Tiger’s
fears would be confirmed, and she would be confronted with the
alternatives of making away with Patricia or chancing the girl’s power
to endanger her security. And, from all Simon’s accounts of the Tiger,
there seemed little doubt on which course the choice would fall.
The Tiger must be either Lapping or Miss Girton. The odds about both
stared Patricia in the face—and it looked as if Aunt Agatha won hands
down.
At that moment the girl was very near to flying precipitately back to
the Pill Box and surrendering all the initiative to Simon: the thought
of his trust in her checked that instinct. She had been so stubbornly
insistent on being allowed to play her full part, so arrogantly
certain of her ability to do it justice, so impatient of his desire to
keep her out of danger—what would he think of her if she ran squealing
to his arms as soon as the fun looked like becoming too fast and
furious? To have accepted his offer of sanctuary would not necessarily
have lowered her in his eyes; but to have refused it so haughtily and
then to change her mind as soon as she winded the first sniff of
battle would be a confession of faint-heartedness which he could not
overlook.
“No, Patricia Holm,” she said to herself, “that’s not in the book of
the rules, and never has been. You would have a taste of the soup, and
now you’ve fallen in you’ve jolly well got to swim. He wouldn’t say
anything, I know, and he’d be as pleased as Punch—for a day or two.
But after a bit he’d begin to think a heap. And then it’d all be
over—smithereened! And that being so we’ll take our medicine without
blubbering, even if the jam has worn a trifle thin. . . . Therefore,
Patricia Holm, as our Saint would say, where do we go from here?”
Well, she’d done all she could about Lapping, and she must wait to see
what he thought of the evidence. There remained Agatha Girton, and the
Saint’s orders must be obeyed under that heading the same as under the
other. Patricia braced herself for the ordeal, and just then her hand
touched something hard in her pocket. She brought it out and took a
peep at it—the automatic which Simon had given her. It was
marvellously encouraging to remember that that little toy could at a
touch of her finger splutter a hail of sudden death into anyone who
tried to put over any funny business. She put it back in her pocket
and patted it affectionately.
The housekeeper, emerging from the kitchen to see who had come in,
informed her that Miss Girton had returned half an hour since, and
Patricia felt her heart pounding unevenly as she went to the
drawing-room.
To her surprise, the door was locked. She rattled the handle, and
presently Agatha Girton answered.
“Who’s that?”
“Me—Patricia.”
“I can’t see you now.”
The girl frowned.
“It’s important,” she persisted. “I want to talk to you.”
“Well, I’m busy, and I can’t spare the time. Come back presently—or if
you’re upstairs I’ll call you when I’m ready.”
Patricia’s fist clenched, but it was no use making a scene. She would
have to wait till Agatha Girton came out.
But what was this secrecy for? Miss Girton had never before locked
herself up in the drawing-room. Nor, before last night, had she even
spoken so abruptly without cause—it seemed as if she was actually
frightened and jumpy. And what was this new occupation which demanded
such privacy and such complete isolation?
Patricia went slowly up to her room, racking her brain to fit the
pieces in the jig-saw together. Was the Tiger rattled after all? Had
Simon succeeded as well as that, and was the Tiger even then
concentrating on evolving some master-stroke of strategy that would
release the Tiger Cubs from the net which was drawing round them and
at the same time destroy the man who had come so near to defeating
them? They were not beaten yet, but the final struggle was only a few
hours away—and was it dawning upon the Tiger Cubs that they had almost
fatally underestimated their opponent?
There was no time to lose. Already it was getting late, and Aunt
Agatha had to be interviewed and a light dinner bolted before Orace
arrived to take her back to the Saint punctually for the attack they
had planned. The girl kicked off her shoes, stripped to her stockings,
and pulled on her bathing costume. She discarded the light dress she
had worn and replaced it with a serviceable tweed skirt and a
pullover. The automatic went into a pocket in the skirt, and a pair of
brogues completed the outfit. So clad, she felt ready for anything.
It was as she was lacing her shoes that she heard a sound which she
had not noticed while moving about the room. It came from beneath the
floor, muffled and very faint—a murmur of voices. And the drawing-room
was right under her feet.
She stood up quickly and tiptoed to the window, but the windows of the
drawing-room must have been shut, for she was able to hear better
inside than by leaning out. Then Miss Girton was not alone! But the
mutter was so low that Patricia could not even distinguish the voices,
though she pressed her ear against the floor, except that she was able
to make out that both had a masculine timbre. Aunt Agatha’s would be
one. Whose was the other?
The girl realised at once the importance of finding out further
details about this conference. If she could get a look at the visitor,
and overhear some of the conversation, the result might be of
inestimable value, for there could be no disputing the fact that all
the circumstances combined to adorn the incident with a distinctly
fishy aspect. And if the clue provided were as damning as she hoped it
would be, and she were caught eavesdropping . . . The girl drew a long
breath and felt again for the reassuring heavy sleekness of her
weapon. She had told the Saint that she could be more help than
hindrance to him, and now was the time to prove it. The risk attached
to the enterprise would have to be faced in the Saintly manner—with a
devil-may-care smile and a shrug and a pious hope that the Lord would
provide.
“Carry on, brave heart,” said Patricia, and opened the door.
She crept noiselessly down the stairs, but on the last flight she had
to stop and deliberate. There were two ways: the door or the windows.
The keyhole seemed easier, but she had just remembered that every
board in the floor of the old hall had its own vociferous creak. She
would have to spy from the garden.
She listened, leaning over the banisters, but the walls and the door
were more solid affairs than the floor, and the people in the
drawing-room must have been talking in subdued tones—perhaps they had
just realised the possibility of their being overheard. She could
barely catch a whisper of their speech.
As silently as she had descended she climbed the stairs again. The
door of Miss Girton’s room stood open, and she went in, crossed
swiftly, and opened the casement windows. This room was on the
opposite side of the house to the drawing-room, and just beneath the
windows was a kind of shed with a sloping roof. As a schoolgirl,
Patricia had often clambered through those windows and taken perilous
toboggan-rides down the slates, saving herself from the drop by
catching her heels in the gutter. Now she was bigger, and the stunt
had no terrors for her.
Slithering swiftly over the sill she gathered up her skirt, held on
for a second, and then let herself slide. Rotten as it was, the gutter
stopped her as safely as it had ever done, in spite of her increased
weight. Then she worked herself over the edge, let herself down as far
as she could, and let herself fall the remaining five feet, landing
lightly on the grass below.
She doubled round the house, and then she had a set-back, for the
curtains of the drawing-room windows were drawn, and the windows
themselves were closed. This had not been so when she came in.
Returning from Lapping’s, she approached the house from the
drawing-room side, and she could not have failed to notice anything so
out of the ordinary, for Aunt Agatha verged on the cranky in her
passion for fresh air and light even in the most unseasonable weather.
Had the visitor, then, arrived after Patricia, or had the curtains
been drawn for fear of her nosing round in the garden?
That, however, could be debated later. She stole up and examined both
the French windows, but even from the outside she could see that they
were fastened, and the hangings had been so carefully arranged that
not even a hair’s breadth of the room was visible. She could have
cried with vexation.
She meditated smashing a pane of glass and bursting in, but a moment’s
reflection showed her the futility of that course. Simon Templar might
have brought it off, but she did not feel so confident of her own
power to force the pace. And with two of them against her, in spite of
the automatic she might be tricked and over-powered. At a pinch she
would have made the attempt, but the issue was too great to take such
a chance when a man far more competent to deal with the matter was
waiting to do his stuff if she could learn enough to show him where to
make the raid. And the one certain thing in a labyrinth of mystery was
that a man who visits somebody else’s house generally leaves it again
sooner or later.
She looked around for a hiding place, and saw at once the summer-house
in a corner of the garden. From there she could watch both the
drawing-room windows and the front door—no observation post could have
been better placed. She sprinted across to it. There was a window
ideally placed, half overgrown with creeper, and through that she
could see without being seen. Patricia settled down to her vigil.
It was about then that her name cropped up in the conversation which
was taking place in the drawing-room, but that she could not know.
“One little pill—and such a little one!” remarked the man who was
talking to Agatha Girton, and he placed the tiny white tablet
carefully in the centre of the table. “You wouldn’t think it could
make a grown woman sleep like a log for about six hours, would you?
But that’s what it’ll do. Just put it in her coffee after dinner—it’ll
dissolve in no time—and she’ll pass out within five minutes. Lay her
out comfortably on the sofa, and I’ll collect her about eleven.”
He was a tall, sparsely-built man, and although they were alone he
kept his soft hat pulled low down over his eyes and his coat collar
was turned up to his chin so that only part of his face was visible.
“You can do your own murdering,” snapped Agatha Girton in a strained
voice, but the man only laughed.
“Not murder, I promise you. She’s strong, and all she’ll get will be a
slight headache to-morrow morning. You can’t imagine I’d kill such a
charming girl!”
Miss Girton leaned across the table, thrusting her face down close to
his, but in the gloom the shadow of his hat brim fell across his
features like a mask.
“Swine!” she hissed.
He moved his hand protestingly.
“Your newly-acquired righteousness isn’t wanted,” he said. “I’m
honestly very fond of Patricia, but I’m afraid she wouldn’t take me
seriously as things are. So let us say that I propose to apply the
rather unconventional methods of Miss Holm’s sheiks.”
“I am also very fond of Patricia,” said Miss Girton.
“You ought to tell her,” replied the man sardonically. “But mind you
break it to her gently. No, my dear, that shouldn’t trouble you very
much. On a suitable occasion I shall ask Patricia to marry me, and
nothing could be more respectable than that.”
Miss Girton stared.
“Why lie?” she asked bitterly. “There are no witnesses.”
“But I mean it,” persisted the man.
The woman’s gaunt face twisted in a sneer, and there was a venomous
hatred in her eyes.
“Some people say that all crooks are slightly mad,” she answered. “I’m
beginning to think they’re right.”
The man lifted his face a trifle, so that he could look reproachfully
at her. He ignored her sally, but he spoke again in a soft, dreamy,
sing-song tone.
“I was never more serious in my life. I have succeeded in my
profession. In my way I am a great man. I am educated, clever,
cultured, travelled, healthy, entertaining. I have all the wealth that
a man could desire. My youth is passing away, though I still look very
young. But I see the best years slipping past and leaving me alone. I
love Patricia. I must do this to show her that I am in earnest;
afterwards she will refuse me nothing. . . .”
The voice trailed away, and Miss Girton wrenched a chair round
savagely.
“Mad!” she muttered, and he sat up with a start.
“What was I saying?” His eye fell on the glistening white pellet
marooned in the expanse of polished walnut. “Oh, yes. Do you
understand?”
Agatha Girton came close to him again.
“You’re mad,” she rasped—“I’ll tell you so again. With all this money,
all this wealth you boast about, why did you have to put the black on
me? If you’re so rich, what was a mere twenty thousand to you?”
“One can never have too much,” said the man. “And now, as things have
fallen out, it is all going back where it belongs—as a dowry. Anyhow,
is twenty thousand so much to pay for liberty, and even life? They
might manage to get you for murder, you know, Aunt Agatha.”
“Don’t call me Aunt Agatha.”
“Then——”
“Nor that, either.”
The man shrugged.
“Very well, O Nameless One,” he said with calculated insolence.
“Remember this, Nameless One, that I have taken a lot of money from
you, but now I want something that money cannot buy. And you will give
it to me. . . . Otherwise—but you dare not be stupid!”
Miss Girton still looked at him with those deep-set eyes of hate.
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “For years you’ve made my life a
misery. I’ve a mind to end it. And putting you where you belong might
make them forget some of the things they know about me. The busies are
always kind to squeakers.”
The man was silent for a short space; then he put up his hand and
pulled his hat a little further over his eyes. He turned his head, but
he could only have seen her feet.
“I am not like the busies,” he returned in a voice that was cold and
flat and hard like a sheet of ice. “Don’t talk like that—or I might be
tempted to put you where you will have no power to threaten me.”
He stood up and walked to the door, his hands in the side-pockets of
his coat and his shoulders hunched up. He turned the key and pulled
the door open quickly and silently. Leaning out, he glanced up and
down the hall, then half pulled the door to while he spoke to Miss
Girton.
“I can let myself out. The lady is upstairs, isn’t she?”
“I heard her moving about overhead a little while ago.”
He waited a moment as though listening.
“Your ears are better than mine,” he said, and looked at her
warningly. “Do exactly as I told you, and don’t try to double-cross
me. You mightn’t succeed. Good-evening.”
The door closed behind him, and she could hear him moving across the
hall.
For a moment she hesitated.
Then she crossed the room swiftly and pulled out the drawer of the
writing bureau. She felt in the cavity and tugged. When she
straightened up there was a small automatic pistol in her hand. She
went to the windows at the front, snapping back the jacket of the gun
as she did so and pushing over the safety catch.
The heavy curtains swung away as she jerked at the cord that
controlled them, and she saw the man hurrying down the drive. Without
looking round, he turned and went down the road to the left, and
Agatha Girton opened the french windows and stepped out on to the
terrace. The range was about twenty-five yards, but the hedge at the
bottom of the garden was a low one, and his body could be seen above
it from the waist upwards.
Miss Girton raised the gun and extended her arm slowly and steadily,
as she might have done in a Bisley competition. At that moment the man
turned to the right again into a field, and so his back was squarely
presented to her.
The echoes of the two rapid shots rattled clamorously in the still air
of the evening. She saw the man fling up his arms, stagger, and fall
out of sight.
Suddenly she found Patricia beside her.
“Who was it?” gasped the girl, white-faced and shaking. “What have you
done?”
“Killed him, I hope,” said Agatha Girton coolly.
She was standing on tiptoe, gazing out into the gathering dusk, trying
to see the result of her shooting. But there was the hedge at the end
of the Manor garden and the hedge that lined the field into which the
man had passed, both hiding the more distant ground from her, and she
could see no sign of him.
“Stay here while I go and see,” she commanded.
She walked quickly down the drive, and the automatic still swung in
her hand. Patricia saw her enter the field.
The man was lying on the grass, sprawled out on his back. His hat had
fallen off, and he stared at the sky with wide eyes. Miss Girton put
down her gun and bent over him, feeling for the beating of his
heart. . . .
Patricia heard the woman’s shrill scream; and then she saw Agatha
Girton standing up, swaying, with her hands over her face.
The girl’s fingers closed over the butt of the automatic in her pocket
as she raced down the drive and out into the road. Miss Girton was
still standing up with her face in her hands, and Patricia saw with a
sudden dread that blood was streaming down between the woman’s
fingers. There was no trace of the man.
“He was shamming,” gasped Agatha Girton. “I put down my gun—he caught
me—he had a knife. . . .”
“What’s he done?”
Miss Girton did not answer at once. Then she pointed to a clump of
trees and bushes in the far corner of the field, which was not a big
one.
“He took the gun and ran that way—there’s a sunken lane beyond.”
“I’ll go after him,” said Patricia without stopping to think of the
consequences, but Agatha Girton caught her arm in a terrible grip.
“Don’t be a little fool, child!” she grated. “That’s death. . . . I
lost my head. . . . All he said was: ‘_Don’t do it again!_’”
The woman’s hands were dripping red, and Patricia had to lead her back
to the house and up the stairs.
Agatha Girton went to the basin and filled it. She bathed her face,
and the water was hideously dyed. Then she turned so that the girl
could see, and Patricia had to bite back an involuntary cry of horror,
for Miss Girton’s forehead was cut to the bone in the shape of a
capital T.