him for some time. Just as you like, of course — I always try to Oblige my customers in these little details.' a; 'That will do, Mr. Templar,' Bittle's voice broke in curtly. 'I think you've talked quite enough for one evening.'
'But I haven't started yet,' complained the Saint. 'I was just going to tell one of my favourite stories. Old Bloem's heard it before, but it might be a new one on you. The one about an Italian gentleman called Fernando, who double-crossed some of the band-o. They got even for this with the aid of a kris — and that was the end of Fernando. Any applause?'
The Saint looked about him in his mild way, as though he literally expected an outburst of clapping. Nobody moved. Bloem still had his automatic accurately trained on the Saint, and the Boer's leathery face betrayed nothing. Bittle had gone ashy pale. The butler and a couple of other hard nuts who had followed the party into the library stood like graven images.
'I told you — he knows too much,' said Bloem. “Better not take any chances this time.'
'I'm very upset about this,' said Simon earnestly. 'That one usually gets a rousing reception. Poor old Fernando — he used up so much energy cursing Tigers and things that he didn't live quite long enough to tell me where the spondulicks were. 'Baycombe, in England, Devonshire,' gasps Fernando, with the haft of the kris sticking out of him, and the blood choking his throat. The old house. ..’ And then he died. Just like in astorybook, and deuced awkward, with so many old and oldish houses lying about. But Fernando certainly hated Tigers, and you can't blame him.'
Bloem raised the gun a trifle, and his knuckles whitened under the brown skin of his hand.
'It is easily settled,' he muttered, and the Saint saw death staring him in the face.
'No!' shouted Bittle.
The millionaire flung himself forward, knocking up the pistol. Bittle was trembling. He mopped his brow with a large white handkerchief, breathing heavily.
'You fool!' he jerked. 'The girl's been here — he helped her get away. If anything happens to him she'll talk, D'you want to put a rope round all our necks?'
'You always did argue soundly, Bittle darling,' said the Saint appreciatively.
He seated himself on the table, swinging his legs, and the proverbial cucumber would have looked smoking hot beside him.
'It must be arranged so as to look like an accident,' said Bittle. 'That damned girl will have the police buzzing about our ears unless the circumstances are above suspicion.''
Bloem shrugged.
'The girl can be silenced,” he stated dispassionately
'You'll leave the girl alone,' snarled Bittle. 'Where's the Chief?'
The Saint saw Bloem's face convulse with a warning scowl.
'He will return later.'
'Now, that's good news, said Simon. 'Am I really going to meet the celebrated Tiger at last? You've no idea how much I want to see him. But he's such an elusive cove — always incog.'
'You need have no fear, Mr. Templar,' said Bittle, 'that the Tiger will show himself to you unless 'he is quite certain that you will never be able to use your knowledge against him. I think,' added the millionaire suavely, 'that you may expect to meet the Tiger tonight.'
The Saint realized that Bittle's panic of a few foments past had been caused by the fear of being involved in a police inquiry rather than by the horror of witnessing a cold-blooded murder. Bittle was quite calm again, but there was no trace of human pity in his faded eyes, and the level tone in which his significant afterthought was delivered would have struck terror into the souls of most men. But the Saint's nerves were like chilled steel and his optimism was unshakeable. He met Bittle's eyes steadily, and smiled.
'Don't gamble on it,' advised the Saint. 'I've lived pretty dangerously for eight years, and nobody's ever killed me yet. Even the Tiger mightn't break the record.'
'I hope,' said Bittle, 'that the Tiger will prove to be as clever as you are.'
'Hope on, sonnikins,' said the Saint cheerfully.
They had searched him from crown to toe when he came in from the garden, but they had left him his cigarette case, and for this he was duly thankful. The case was a large one, and carried a double bank of cigarettes. There were some peculiarities about the cigarettes on one side of the case which the Saint had not felt bound to explain toBittle when he returned it; for several of the victories which Templar had scored against apparently impossible odds in the course of his hectic career as a gentleman adventurer had been due to his habit of invariably keeping at least one card up his sleeve — even when he had not got aces parked in his belt, under his hat, and in the soles of his shoes. Meanwhile, it had not yet come to the showdown, and the Saint did not believe in performing his particular brand of parlour tricks simply to amuse the assembled company. He selected a cigarette from the other side of the case (which in itself was not quite an ordinary case, for one of the edges, which was guarded when the case was shut, was as sharp as a razor) and began to smoke with a sublime indifference to the awkwardness of his predicament.
Bittle and Bloem were arguing in low tones at the other end of the room, and both were armed. The pugilistic butler was posted at the door, and it was unlikely that he would be caught napping a second time. The Saint could probably have beaten him in a straight fight, but it would not have been an easy job, and the audience in this case would most certainly interfere. The other two men stood by the French windows, to prevent a repetition of the Saint's earlier unceremonious exit: they were both hard and husky specimens, and the Saint, weighing up the prospects with a fighter's eye, decided that that retreat was effectually barred for the time being. There were few men that the Saint, in splendid training, would have hesitated to tackle singlehanded, and few men that he would not have backed himself to tie in knots and lay out all neat and tidy inside five minutes, into the bargain; but he had to admit that a team of three heavyweights and a couple of automatics totalled up to something a bit above his form. Wherefore the Saint stayed sitting on the table and placidly smoked his cigarette, for he had never believed in getting worked up before the fireworks started.
He looked at his watch, and found that there was a clear half-hour to go before he could expect any help from outside. He blessed his foresight in telling Patricia to go to Carn if anything went wrong, but that was a last resource which the Saint hoped he would not have to call upon. Simon wanted nothing less than to be under any sort of obligation to the detective, and he certainly did not want to give Carn a better hand than the deal had given him. Nevertheless, it was comforting to know that Carn was at hand in case of a hitch — not to mention the admirable Orace, who would shortly be getting restive, even if he had not started to move already. And it was satisfying to find that a similar reflection was cramping the style of the ungodly considerably.
The Saint's meditations were interrupted by the sound of a bell ringing somewhere in the depths of the house. The sound was very faint, but the Saint's hearing was abnormally keen, and he caught what most other men would have missed — the eccentric rhythm of the ringing. He had noted this down and pigeonholed it in his mind when a knock came on the door and a man entered. He muttered something to Bittle, and the millionaire left the room. Bloem strolled over to the Saint, who welcomed him with a smile.
'Our one and only Tiger at last?'
Bloem nodded, and looked curiously at the Saints
'You have given us mow trouble than you know,' he said. 'You have been extraordinarily lucky — but even the most astounding luck comes to an end.'
'Just what they told me at Monte,' agreed the Saint.'They say the Bank always wins in the long run.'
Watching closely, Simon could just note the least flicker of Bloem's eyelids,
'Fernando, of course, 'said Bloem, half to himself.
'Even so,' murmured the Saint. 'I know everything but the answer to the two most important questions of all — Who is the Tiger? and Where has he cached the loot? And I've a feeling that it won't be long now before I get next to even those secrets.'
'You're very confident,' said Bloem.
The man's self-control was not far from perfection, but the Saint also played poker, and he had summed up Bloem to the last full stop in the course of that brief conversation. Bloem's nerves were none too good — no man who was reasonably sure of himself would have been made to feel vaguely uneasy by such a slender bluff. That put the Saint one up on Bloem, but the Saint did not disclose his knowledge of the state of the score. His smile did not vary its quiet assurance one iota.
'I'm an odds-on chance,' said the Saint lightly. 'Which reminds me — how are T. T. Deeps?'
