Meet the Tiger

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.

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.

“What terms?”

Sir John Bittle moved one fat hand in a faint gesture of deprecation.

“Please don’t let’s be more melodramatic than we can help,” he said. “Already I feel very self-conscious and conventional. But the fact is, I should like to marry you.”

For an instant the girl was motionless. Then the last drop of blood fled from her cheeks. She held the papers in her two hands, high above her head.

“Here’s my answer, you cad!”

She tore the documents across and across and flung the pieces from her, and then stood facing the millionaire with her face as pale as death and her eyes flaming.

“Good for you, kid!” commented the Saint inaudibly.

Bittle, however, was unperturbed, and once again that throaty chuckle gurgled in his larynx without kindling any corresponding geniality in his features.

“Copies,” he said simply, and at that point the Saint thought that the conversational tension would be conveniently relieved with a little affable comment from a third party.

“You little fool!” said Bittle acidly. “Did you think I worked my way up from mud to millions without some sort of brain? And d’you imagine that a man who’s beaten the sharpest wits in London at their own game is going to be baulked by a chit of a country child? Tchah!” The millionaire’s lips twisted wryly. “Now you’ve made me lose my temper and get melodramatic, just when I asked you not to. Don’t let’s have any more nonsense, please. I’ve put it quite plainly: either you marry me or I sue your aunt for what she owes me.

Simon went—in a catlike spring that carried him round the corner and set his back against the wall again in a flash. But once more there was no response. Simon had jerked the door shut behind him as before, and one foot was against it so that nobody could open it and sneak out without his knowing it. But only stillness answered his listening, and the room was so dark that he could see nothing. He cursed himself for not having an electric torch. But it was far too late to remedy that, and therefore his only hope was to strike a match—and hope that his concerted speed of eye and brain and hand would be great enough to overcome the handicap he would have to create for himself. If there was anyone in the room, he would be able to see the Saint before the Saint saw him. But the Saint had taken longer chances than that, and his nerves were getting just a shade raw. Simon Templar was afraid of nothing that he could see and hit back at, but this creeping around, seeing no sign of the enemy and yet continually threatened by him, was turning into a joke that the Saint didn’t feel inclined to laugh at.

Still gripping Anna, he fished a box of matches out of his pocket and struck one quickly, holding it behind his head so that the flare of it would not dazzle him.

And the room was perfectly empty.

The match burned down between his fingers and went out. He struck another, but even that could not cause a human being to materialise.

“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.