Meet the Tiger

by Leslie Charteris

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.