The Saint Returns
Bittle pushed the girl roughly into the cabin and slammed the door.
“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 Bittle, 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 _rôle_ 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 revoir_—Patricia.”
In a moment she was alone, and she heard the key turn in the lock and
his footsteps receding towards 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 him were terribly heavy. She found
herself daydreaming of wild far-fetched 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 recognised 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 realised 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 forrard 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 scooped the 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 twistedly.
“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 in your 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 towards 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, Bittle!”
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 won’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 to 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.
At last a man came across the deck and knocked on the door. Bittle
jerked it open, and let out an exclamation.
“What the blazes——”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t find Mr. Bloem.”
“Can’t find him? You lazy swine—you haven’t looked! The ship’s small
enough, isn’t it? What in Hell d’you mean?—can’t find him!”
“Gawd’s truth, sir. I looked everywhere, and Lopez and Abbot ’ve bin
’elping me. Mr. Bloem doesn’t seem to be on board.”
“Mr. Bloem is on board,” snarled Bittle. “Go and look again—and don’t
come to me with any more excuses like that.”
And then came a startling interruption, that made Bittle go white and
sent the girl to her feet with her heart leaping madly, for from
somewhere on the lower deck aft rang out a cheerful hail that could
have shaped itself in only one mouth, and that the mouth of a man who
had died that afternoon.
“_Ahoy, there, Bittle!_”
Bittle shrank back, temporarily possessed by a superstitious terror.
Patricia sprang forward, but he caught her and flung her on to the
bunk with the strength of a maniac.
“Pat!” sang out that cheery voice. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Saint—— Oh, Saint, is that you?”
“Sure!”
Bittle wrenched the guns from his pocket.
“Get him—don’t stand about staring like a lot of stuck pigs!” he
screamed. “Go to the armoury—heel yourselves! . . . A hundred pounds
to the man who kills him!”
The Saint’s laugh pealed out as she had thought she would never hear
it again.
“Can’t you make it more than that, dearest cherub?”
And then Patricia saw him. He was standing up on the rail at the poop,
and there were two men beside him. She thought at first that the third
member of the party was Algy, until she saw the limp figure which
Orace was holding like a shield was fully dressed. She heard a rush of
feet on the decks below, and four men emerged on the upper deck and
ran towards the stern. They were carrying rifles—the quartermaster or
someone must have had a duplicate key to the gun-room.
Then the Saint stepped down, and there were three men clustered in a
little group by the taffrail.
“Tell ’em to be careful how they shoot, Bittle,” warned Simon. “This
here sandbag we’re sheltering behind is the long-lost Bloem himself!”
“Stop!”
Bittle had collected himself.
He seized the girl by the arm and dragged her out into the moonlight
so that the Saint could see her distinctly, and he held the girl in
front of him so that her body was between him and the Saint.
“Be careful how you shoot, Templar!” shouted Bittle. “Be careful even
of what you say and do—because, unless you and your friends surrender
within three minutes, I am going to kill Miss Holm with my own hands!”