Flashman And The Tiger fp-11

by George MacDonald Fraser

  That was the worst part. Up there, on the top floor, was not only as dangerous a man as I’d ever met, but a top-hole shikari, a night-bird, a trained and skilful hunter who could catch the sound of grass growing. I felt the bile come up in my throat with fear—but I was armed, wasn’t I, and he probably wasn’t, and I’d been a pretty useful night-skulker in my time, too. I’d make no more noise going up than down—and I thought of Selina, and went on up, slow step after slow step, until my head was on a level with the top landing. I peeped over the top step—and that was as far as Flashy was going, no error.

  Directly ahead of me was what seemed to be a closet, with the door ajar, and to its left was an open door. Through this I could see clear across a room to the window on the far side, and there, with the street-light beating in on his crouching figure, was Tiger Jack. He was down on one knee, peering through the glass, and keeping himself to the side, under cover. He had put off his hat, and his bald dome shone like a beacon.

  It was only now, with a queer shock of surprise, that I found myself wondering what the devil he was about—creeping into an empty house in the middle of the night and staring out of windows. By God, it was fishy, and then as I watched I saw him fumble with the case he’d been carrying, pick up his cane, and unscrew its top. There was a scraping sound, and then a soft snap; he reached out and eased up the sash of the window, and gently pushed something out through the gap—and my bowels did a cartwheel as I saw that what his cane had become was the barrel of a rifle!

  Petrified, I could only watch—and then I saw that he was surveying a window on the other side of the street; a lighted window, with a man’s silhouette clear on the blind. Moran gazed at it steadily—he was watching for movement, of course, and then he brought his made-up rifle up to his shoulder, with his right arm stretched out to the side as he flexed the fingers of his trigger-hand.

  Suddenly I realised that this was the moment—the moment that would never occur again. I didn’t know what the hell he was up to, or who his mysterious victim might be—any devilment was nuts to Moran, and it didn’t matter a dam. What did, was that he was within twenty feet of me, with his back turned, and every nerve concentrated on his deadly task. Your bird, old Flash, thinks I, and I brought up the Galand, cocked it with the trigger back to make no sound, rested my gun-wrist on the top step, and drew a dead bead on the back of that great bald head.

  It isn’t often that I’ve had cause to bless my trembling nerves—or my unsteady boozer’s hand. But by God they saved my neck then. For even as Moran brought his right hand to the stock of his rifle, and settled into his aim, my faltering trigger-finger got a fit of the shakes; my aim wavered, and I paused, sweating—and in that moment I learned that, old as I was, I was a better shikari than Moran would ever be. For in that second’s pause I realised something that he hadn’t noticed; I can’t explain it—call it sixth sense, or a coward’s instinct shaped and refined over a lifetime—but in that second I realised that we were not alone. There was someone else in the room with him—to the left, in the space hidden from me, watching him, and waiting.

  I lay still as death, my hair rising on my scalp—and then as Moran hung on his aim there was a plop like a cork exploding from a champagne bottle and a distant crash of glass. I nearly had a seizure as a hidden voice bawled: "Now!" and as Moran swung from the window there was a scramble of feet and two dark shapes hurled themselves on him, fists swinging like billy-ho, and the three of them went down in a swearing, yelling tangle. There was a cry from the street, and a piercing whistle from the room where Moran was locked in combat with those two fine chaps, and then more whistles shrilled from below, there was the crash of a door being hurled back, feet racing on the stairs—and General Sir Harry Flashman, V.C., K.B., K.C.I.E., was into that closet like an electrified stoat, hauling the door to behind him and silently gulping another precious mouthful from his flask to prevent apoplexy.

  It sounded like the Household Brigade coming up the stairs, pounding past my hiding-place into the room where the others were still wrestling and cursing away; that’s it, Tiger, thinks I, kick the bastards' shins and good luck to you. Then the sounds faded, and I heard a murmur of voices, too indistinct to be made out. I didn’t mind, crouched in my cupboard with my heart clattering against my ribs, but then curiosity got the better of me as usual, and I pushed my door open a crack to listen. A high-pitched, nasal voice was talking, and sounding well pleased with itself:

  "… who else did you suppose it was, inspector? Well, well—permit me, to introduce Colonel John Sebastian Moran, formerly of the Indian Army, and the deadliest game shot in either hemisphere. Tiger Jack, as I believe he was once known—but now himself bagged at last."

  Then Moran broke in, and he was cursing like a steamboat pilot with his toes in the mangle, until an official voice told him to hold his tongue, and after some more confused cussing and conversation which I didn’t catch, the high-pitched chap was heard again:

  "I believe a comparison of the bullet fired tonight, with that which was found in the body of Ronald Adair, who was murdered last month, will prove instructive, inspector. It will be for you to decide, but it seems to me that a charge of murder must certainly lie…"

  I went giddy at the words, and the rest of them were lost in the gurgling of my flask as I clapped it to my lips. Murder! I could have danced and sung in my closet! They’d got the old swine—I didn’t understand it, of course, or why he should have murdered the chap Adair whose death had been all through the papers, but what did it matter? Tiger Jack was for the Newgate polka, by the sound of it—and Selly was saved, for even if he tried to blacken young Stanger now, out of spite, who’d mind the yelping of a convicted felon? And I was out from under, too—I broke into a cold sweat at the thought of how close I’d been to squeezing my trigger; it could have been me that they were hauling downstairs now with the darbies on, full steam for the condemned cell.[18]

  I almost cried from relief in that stuffy closet as I heard them clattering down and out to the Black Maria; the street door slammed, I listened, but there wasn’t a sound. Very cautiously I peeped out; all was still as sleep, so I tiptoed carefully down to the first landing, and leaned on the banisters to still my racing heart and get my breath back. Selly was safe, Moran was scuppered, and—

  The creak of a door overhead gave me such a start I nearly pitched headlong into the stairwell—dear God, there was someone still up there!

  "But of course, my dear fellow, you shall hear all about it—come along." It was the high-pitched voice again, and at the sound of it I was scuttling frantically down the last flight, into the lane, and wheezing at high speed towards the arch when I came to a shuddering stop plumb ahead, in the archway, was the unmistakeable silhouette of a police constable, feet planted, guarding my only escape. If I’d had the wind left I’d have squealed aloud—then I saw his back was to me, unsuspecting. But behind me, in the empty house, voices were descending the stairs; in two seconds they’d be in view, and I was trapped, helpless, in the alleyway between them and the Law!

  I suppose, if I’d had time for reflection, I could have told myself that I was doing no wrong, had committed no offence, and could have faced anyone with a clean conscience. Aye, but there was the pistol in my pocket, and the likelihood that those interfering bobbies would have wanted to know who I was, and what business I had there—God, what a to-do there would be if it was discovered that the celebrated Sir Harry Flashman was creeping about disguised as a scarecrow, with a shooting iron in his pocket, at the scene of an attempted murder! How could I hope to explain—avoid scandal … oh, anyway, when you go about feeling as permanently guilty as I do, you don’t waste time over niceties. At all costs I must avoid detection; there was only one thing for it—I was dressed like a soup-kitchen derelict, and in a twinkling I had poured the rest of my flask down my coat-front, sprawled down against a convenient grating, and was lying there wheezing like an intoxicated grampus, trying to look like a stupefied down-and-out who
has crept in to doss for the night, when the footsteps turned out of the house and came towards me.

  If they’ve any sense they’ll just pass by, thinks I—well, don’t you, when you see some ragged bummaree sleeping it off in the gutter? But no, curse their nosiness, they didn’t. The footsteps stopped beside me, and I chanced a quick look at ’em through half-closed lids—a tall, slim cove in a long coat, bare-headed and balding, and a big, hulking chap with a bulldog moustache and hard hat. They looked like a poet and a bailiff.

  "What’s this?" says the bailiff, stooping over me.

  "A tramp," says the poet. "One of the flotsam, escaping his misery in a few hours of drunken slumber."

  "Think he’s all right?" says the bailiff, rot him, and blow me if he wasn’t fumbling for my pulse. "Going at full gallop," says he, and blast his infernal impudence, he put a hand on my brow. "My goodness, but he’s feverish. D’you think we should get help for him?"

  "You’ll get no thanks beyond a flood of curses if you do," says the poet carelessly. "Really, doctor, even without close examination my nose can tell me more than your fingers. The fellow is hopelessly under the influence of drink—and rather inferior drink, at that, I fancy," says he, stooping and sniffing at the fumes which were rising from my sodden breast. "Yes, American bourbon, unless I am mistaken. The odour is quite distinctive—you may have remarked that to the trained senses, each spirit has its own peculiar characteristics; I believe I have in the past drawn your attention to the marked difference between the rich, sugary aroma of rum, and the more delicate sweet smell of gin," says this amazing lunatic. "But what now?"

  The bailiff, having taken his confounded liberties with my wrist and brow, was pausing in the act of trying to lift one of my eyelids, and his next words filled me with panic.

  "Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "I believe I know this chap—but no, it can’t be, surely! Only he’s uncommonly like that old general … oh, what’s-his-name? You know, made such a hash of the Khartoum business, with Gordon … yes, and years ago he won a great name in Russia, and the Mutiny—V.C. and knighthood—it’s on the tip of my tongue—"

  "My dear fellow," says the high-pitched poet, "I can’t imagine who your general may be—it can hardly be Lord Roberts, I fancy—but it seems likely that he would choose to sleep in his home or his club, rather than in an alley. Besides," he went on wearily, stooping a little closer—and damned unnerving it was, to feel those two faces peering at me through the gloom, while I tried to sham insensible—"besides, this is a nautical, not a military man; he is not English, but either American or German—probably the latter, since he has certainly studied at a second-rate German university, but undoubtedly he has been in America quite lately. He is known to the police, is currently working as a ship’s steward, or in some equally menial capacity at sea—for I observe that he has declined even from his modest beginnings—and will, unless I am greatly mistaken, be in Hamburg by the beginning of next week—provided he wakes up in time. More than that," says the know-all ignoramus, "I cannot tell you from a superficial examination. Except, of course, for the obvious fact that he found his way here via Piccadilly Circus.

  "Well," says the other doubtfully, "I’m sure you’re right, but he looks extremely like old what’s-his-name. But how on earth can you tell so much about him from so brief a scrutiny?"

  "You have not forgotten my methods since we last met, surely?" says the conceited ass, who I began to suspect was some kind of maniac. "Very well, apply them. Observe," he went on impatiently, "that the man wears a pea-jacket, with brass buttons, which is seldom seen except on sea-faring men. Add that to the patent fact that he is a German, or German-American—"

  "I don’t see," began the bailiff, only to be swept aside.

  "The duelling scars, doctor! Observe them, quite plain, close to the ears on either side." He’d sharp eyes, all right, to spot those; a gift to me from Otto Bismarck, years ago. "They are the unfailing trade-mark of the German student, and since they have been inexpertly inflicted—you will note that they are too high—it is not too much to assume that he received them not at Heidelberg or Gottingen, but at some less distinguished academy. This suggests a middle-class beginning from which, obviously, he has descended to at least the fringes of crime."

  "How can you tell that?"

  "The fine silver flask in his hand was not honestly acquired by such a seedy drunkard as this, surely. It is safe to deduce that its acquisition was only one of many petty pilferings, some of which must inevitably have attracted the attention of the police."

  "Of course! Well, I should have noticed that. But how can you say he is a ship’s steward, or that he has been in America, or that he’s going to Hamburg—"

  "His appearance, although dissipated, is not entirely unredeemed. Some care has been taken with the moustache and whiskers, no doubt to compensate for the ravages which drink and evil living have stamped on his countenance." I could have struck the arrogant, prying bastard, but I grimly kept on playing possum. "Again, the hands are well kept, and the nails, so he is not a simple focsle hand. What, then, but a steward? The boots, although cracked, are of exceptionally good manufacture—doubtless a gratuity from some first-class passenger. As to his American sojourn, we have established that he drinks bourbon whisky, a taste for which is seldom developed outside the United States. Furthermore, since I noticed from the shipping lists this morning that the liner Brunnhilde has arrived in London from New York, and will leave on Saturday for Hamburg, I think we may reasonably conclude, bearing in mind the other points we have established, that here we have one of her crew, mis-spending his shore leave."

  "Amazing!" cries the bailiff. "And, of course, quite simple when you explain it. My dear fellow, your uncanny powers have not deserted you in your absence!"

  "I trust they are still equal, at least, to drawing such obvious inferences as these. And now, doctor, I think we have spent long enough over this poor, besotted hulk, who, I fear, would have furnished more interesting material for the meeting of the Inebriation Society than for us. I think you will admit that this pathetic shell has little in common with your distinguished Indian general."

  "Unhesitatingly!" cries the other oaf, standing up, and as they sauntered off, leaving me quaking with relief and indignation—drunken ship’s dogsbody from a second-rate German university, indeed!—I heard him ask:

  "But how did you know he got here by way of Piccadilly?"

  "He reeked of bourbon whisky, which is not easy to obtain outside the American Bar, and his condition suggested that he had filled his flask at least once since coming ashore …"

  I waited until the coast was clear, and then creaked to my feet and hurried homeward, stiff and sore and stinking of brandy (bourbon, my eye!—as though I’d pollute my liver with that rotgut) and if my "besotted shell" was in poor shape, my heart was rejoicing. It had all come right, for little Selly and me, and as I limped my way towards Berkeley Square I was in capital fettle. I was even whistling to myself as I loitered past the end of Hay Hill, and then my roving eye chanced to fall on a certain lighted window, and I bore up short, thinking hollo, what’s this?

  For it was my window, in the chambers of my salad days, which as I’ve told you I had placed at the convenience of the Prince of Wales for the entertainment of his secret gallops. I remembered seeing in the morning’s paper that he had been due at Charing Cross that evening from France; by George, thinks I, the randy little pig can’t wait for his English muttons, for all that he must have been panting after half the skirt dancers of Paris this month past. No sooner home than he’s in the saddle again. I was shaking my head sadly over such scandalous conduct, when along comes a cab round the corner from Grafton Street, pulling up at the very door to my Hay Hill place—it was pretty late by now, and all quiet, very discreet. Aha, thinks I, here’s his little macaroon; let’s see who it is this time, so that we can tattle at the club in the morning.

  So I shuffled close, just as a heavily-veiled lady got out, without payi
ng the cab, which rattled off at once. That proved it, and as she crossed the pavement and passed into the entry I was abreast, glancing in. She pulled off her veil, and shook her hair, just as I passed, and for a split second I saw her face before she hurried on. And I staggered, as though from a blow, clutching the railings and sinking to the pavement. For there was no mistaking; it was my own grand-daughter, little Selina.

  I’ve been hit hard in my time, but that nearly carried me off. My own grand-daughter—going up to that pot-bellied satyr! I sprawled there against the railings, dumfounded. Selina, the wide-eyed, tender innocent—mistress to the revolting Bertie! No, no, it couldn’t be … why, only that morning she’d been pleading with me to save her from the embraces of Moran; she’d seemed almost out of her wits—by George, though, well she might be, if she was the Prince of Wales’s secret pet! She couldn’t afford to compromise herself with half-pay adventurers like Tiger Jack, not if she was to keep in favour with her royal lover. And she couldn’t be mixed up in scandals over her fiancé’s pilfering regimental funds, neither. She had had to get Moran silenced (with my money, she hoped) if she was to stay topsides with Bertie. No wonder she’d wailed on my bosom, the designing, wicked little hussy. And I’d been in a lather about her honour—her honour! My own grand-daughter.

  That, of course, was the point. She was my grand-daughter, and what’s bred in the bone … oh, but she’d hocussed me properly, playing shrinking Purity, and I’d been ready to shell out half my fortune—and I’d come within an ace of committing murder for her. That was the far outside of enough—I stared up at that lighted window, bursting with outrage—and then for all my fury I found I was grinning, and then laughing, as I clung to the railings. Say what you like; consider that sweet, innocent, butter-melting beauty and the mind behind it—oh, she was Flashy’s little grandchild, all right, every inch of her.