Meet the Tiger

by Leslie Charteris

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.