Tiger Milk

by David Garth

  “Then I will get the Consul General in Madrid on the phone right away,” she said tersely. “That’s the only answer.”

  “Aside from the imperfections of telephone service between here and Madrid,” said Luce, “all the Consul General can promise is to look into your case. He can’t do that in time for you to catch that Lisbon train.”

  The girl stopped and surveyed him in a long direct glance. His cool, impersonal destruction of her ideas had been like the cut of a surgical knife.

  “Miss Britton,” he said, “there are three things you can do, in my opinion. Would you care to hear them?”

  “Of course,” said Berkeley.

  “Well, you can go to Colonel Starme and ask him to use his influence with the local authority. I imagine that is rather what he wishes you to do.”

  “Mr. Luce,” returned the girl in a low, tense voice, “that I will not do—ever.”

  “I don’t blame you. Then you can try a good healthy bribe on that local commandant.”

  She considered briefly and shook her head. “The fear of the Nazis would outbalance it, I’m afraid,” she said. “And if it didn’t work he would have a legitimate reason for holding me. Attempted bribery of an official.”

  Robert Luce nodded. She had a good mind in the pinch. “Then take the simplest,” he advised. “I’ll go over to the office of the commandant with you. He may deplore your taste, but,” and again that rare, slow smile appeared, “you have produced a husband and that’s what he wants.”

  “You would, really?” she said.

  Luce stood up. “Here we go again,” he said pleasantly, and took her arm.

  The Spanish officer greeted them cordially as they entered. Luce regarded him impersonally.

  “I am this lady’s husband,” he said. “You wished to see me.”

  The officer leaned back behind his desk. “Ah, yes,” he said. “I am sorry for this trouble. You are her husband. You have proof, of course?”

  “Proof?” said Luce gently. “What kind of proof? Do you think we carry a marriage license around with us?”

  “The Señora does not even wear the ring,” protested the officer. “Surely, so simple a matter can be proved, Señor. Your registration cards at the hotel, perhaps.”

  He had them there and Berkeley knew it. She touched Luce on the arm and turned away.

  Outside, at a sidewalk cafe they sat down at a table. The girl rested her chin in her hand. Luce said something to the waiter, then swung back to her.

  “Starme is out to make it tough for you.”

  “Yes,” said Berkeley. She was silent for a long moment. Then she turned to look at him. “I have balanced certainty against uncertainty,” she said. “As a certainty, I have a ticket on the train to Lisbon and a ticket on the Clipper. As an uncertainty, I may be held up a few days. There is no telling how quickly I can get action on this ridiculous situation. But, at the very least, I will miss my departure.”

  He said nothing. The girl found herself noticing little things about him, the long uncompromising line of his jaw, the inpression of strength in his hands.

  “My name is Berkeley Britton,” she said distinctly. “I have been working with the International Red Cross in Geneva for the past six months. I live in Connecticut. My father is a prominent lawyer. My mother has worried about me until she is actually ill. It was because she wished me home that left Geneva. I don’t want to give her any additional worry.”

  Yes, and there were other things. There was a strange pressure behind her here. A massive, deep-chested man had raved about something called an Ivory Tiger and then passed on suddenly—and something dangerous, ominous, had arisen here in Valleron from that stark fact.

  “I am in a strange situation,” she went on, conscious of those keen black eyes resting on her. “I have to take strange measures. Mr. Luce,” she hesitated perceptibly, then burst out abruptly, “if you could marry me in time for me to take that train, would you be willing to do it?”

  A touch of heightened color had mounted to her cheeks and she knew it as she heard her own voice say those words.

  “Simply a marriage of convenience,” she said steadily. “I promise you faithfully and on my honor that I will free you immediately after I reach home.”

  She waited, her heart pounding. Robert Luce still said nothing. Through the curling smoke of his cigarette his eyes looked past her shoulder deeply thoughtful.

  Berkeley thought of the cables from her father in her pocket. She brought them out, detached the last one, and handed it to him.

  “This corroborates in some way how much I am wanted at home,” she said simply.

  YOUR MOTHER WORRIED. BE CAREFUL TRESH SITUATION.

  PLEASE HURRY HOME.

  Of course, the Tresh part would not mean anything to him, but the rest would help to back up her words. Luce took the cable and held it in steady fingers. His face was impassive as he studied it deliberately.

  “I can understand,” he said. “I will be glad to help. Yes, I think it can be arranged in time.” He handed the cable back to her. “Shall we get started?”

  CHAPTER 5

  People did not just go out and get married in Spain. It was not such a casual thing.

  But through the good offices of the hotel manager Berkeley Britton’s strange wedding day was arranged. It was he, acting as interpreter, who not only secured the services of the judge of the Juzgado Municipal to perform the ceremony, but also was responsible for the waiving of the requirement of due intention to wed.

  She was forced to wonder at Luce. He took the situation so completely in stride.

  With everything in readiness, including the affidavit that she was single, she lingered in her room to try to bring herself to the point of breezing through this business with offhand nonchalance. But a few minutes of fast, restless thinking failed to bring her to that point.

  After all, it was a marriage. She could not get away from that. Oh, of course, it really was an arrangement, a hastily sought avenue of escape, but it was also a slap at something she had always revered.

  She walked slowly up and down, her arms folded tightly, her eyes directed steadily at the floor. There might be some other way that she had not considered, something worth the risks. Her mind could not seem to grasp any other, it continually turned its focus on Robert Luce.

  He seemed like a gentleman. He had certainly acted like one. But there was no denying the possibility that she might be forced to deal with a difficult situation.

  She stopped in her restless stride and brushed a hand over her eyes. Well, what did she want to do? Sit around and hope that a messenger from that sallow commandant would dash up on horseback with word that it had all been a mistake?

  Berkeley stopped abruptly and caught hold of herself. She was delaying things around here.

  She glanced into her mirror, touched up her mouth, tucked a chestnut tendril back in place with swift fingers. Unless she received a sign from heaven, this was the one way out of the situation that confronted her and time was flying.

  When she arrived downstairs Robert Luce was not yet on hand. She strolled idly about the foyer and patio.

  In a secluded corner of the patio she saw the bookish Mr. Gayne, deeply immersed in reading, his green cloth book bag by the side of his chair.

  Restlessly, Berkeley walked into the lounge and came upon the attractive Linda Baker, whom she had met casually the night before. She was talking to a big young man with cropped bronze hair and a ringing infectious laugh.

  Linda Baker smiled in recognition and flirted a hand to her.

  “How do you do, Miss Britton?” she said in her clear, cultivated voice. “Are you leaving for Lisbon today, also?”

  Berkeley drew a short breath. “I expect to,” she returned.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” said Miss Baker. “Have you gotten around to meeting Philip Courtney yet?”

  Berkeley would have preferred not to meet anybody just then, but she nodded to Courtney. He was a rangy,
gray-eyed man, big in frame and sunburnt of face.

  She exchanged a few amenities and then suddenly found herself left alone with him as Linda Baker excused herself to complete her packing.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said as she became aware that he had spoken to her.

  “I just asked what part of America is your home?”

  She told him and saw his gray eyes alight with interest. “Connecticut?” he exclaimed. “Why, that makes us fellow Connecticutters—or is it Connecticutians?”

  “Oh, do you live there?” she asked.

  “Well, no,” said Courtney. “I live in New York.”

  “I don’t understand that,” she said.

  “Years ago I went to a school for boys in Connecticut,” he explained. “Place by the name of Yale. They may not have been the most successful years of my life, but they were the best.” Berkeley smiled slightly and looked past Courtney. There was no sign of Robert Luce.

  Philip Courtney ran a hand tentatively over his hair. “Staying in front of your eyes,” he said with a grin, “takes something of an effort.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Berkeley. “I was looking for somebody.”

  “Quite all right,” said Courtney amiably. “Shall we sit down so I won’t be so much in the line of vision?”

  She realized that she had been standing here like somebody ready to flit off at any moment. She looked at Courtney and smiled. “We might as well,” she agreed.

  Courtney regarded her with deep interest. “There isn’t anything I might be able to do for you?” he asked suddenly.

  “No, thank you. I’ll just wait.”

  Courtney cleared his throat. “Linda Baker is an extremely attractive person, isn’t she?” he said in another attempt. “You know, she and I are in the same situation, in a way.”

  “How do you mean?” said the girl.

  “She had been studying in Paris with DesLoge, the great piano maestro,” Courtney informed her. “And I was over here on a fellowship in architecture when things blew up.” He paused. “Not that either one of us feels badly, considering how fortunate we are to have a place like the States to return to.”

  Berkeley nodded absently. “I’m glad you can look at it that way. I—” She stopped suddenly, for Robert Luce was striding in from the street.

  She felt again that tight, tensed feeling sweep over her and once again her mind whirled like a lottery wheel for some one answer to come up. Then she arose. There was no other answer.

  “Please excuse me, Mr. Courtney,” she said steadily.

  He was standing also. “Surely,” he said immediately. “I’ll hope to see you later, on the train.”

  She said something to him, something courteous and innocuous, and left him standing there.

  Luce advanced to meet her.

  “I am sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “But I just remembered something.”

  Outside the hotel he held out a small object to her. “There was not much choice,” he said. “This was about the best that offered.”

  It was a narrow band of dull chased gold. She thoughtfully looked at it, lying in her palm.

  “It will do wonderfully,” she said. “I want to pay you for it, Mr. Luce. There’s no reason why—”

  “Oh, it cost hardly anything. Just look upon it as a little present. And under the circumstances,” he added, the corners of his mouth quivering slightly, “you might drop the Mr. Luce.”

  Both were strangely silent as they walked slowly along the narrow sidewalk toward the little city hall of Valleron.

  On her way to her marriage. If it could be called that.

  Perhaps it would have been easier, she reflected, if the memory of her sister’s wedding did not return so vividly to her mind. Guilford’s wedding had been beautiful.

  Her sister had been married in a small white church facing the elm-shaded village green of an old Connecticut town. The church had not been large enough for all her friends and well-wishers, but they were all at the reception later at her home—a great informal friendly gathering—and the rambler roses had been spilling over old stone walls, big pools of shade spreading over the lawns, a dancing golden quality springing from the sunlight.

  All that was a far cry from this hasty ceremony in a foreign country with no love on either side. Of course, she expected to have a wedding like Guilford’s some day, but when she did she would remember the feeling of loneliness of this day in Valleron and the man who twenty-four hours before she had not even known existed.

  She turned to glance at him. “I hope that this will not take the edge off the real thing for you.”

  “It probably will,” he returned easily. “I doubt if as good-looking a girl will marry me again.”

  “I’ll wear that compliment as a corsage,” she smiled.

  Before the steps of the city hall they paused momentarily.

  “A knight in gray tweeds,” she told him.

  Luce smiled. “Not a princess in a tower, but a lady swathed in red tape,” he returned.

  The judge was waiting for them in his office, a bare white room with plastered walls and a heavy desk in a corner. No organ music here, she reflected, no stained-glass windows, no perfume of flowers—just a stout old gentleman with big white mustaches and a silver chain of office around his neck. The hotel manager, on hand as interpreter and witness, presented them to the judge and to his clerk, a wispy man in black alpaca, who was to be the other witness.

  Berkeley could hear Luce’s voice, steady and unemotional, and suddenly she felt a real sense of gratitude that at least it was somebody clean-cut and assured, even if all this was so utterly meaningless.

  What could he be thinking about all this? Did he remember things, too? Or did he simply take it in that same impersonal unhurried way as though he was helping an old lady board a bus?

  It was all over. Luce shook hands with the judge. It was proposed that everybody have a glass of Madeira, but they begged off for lack of time.

  As they came out of the little city hall she started to take off her ring.

  “I’d put it back on before you see the commandant,” Luce advised. “He seems much impressed by rings. Remember?”

  So she kept it on for the time being. “Once again let me thank you deeply for all you’ve done,” she said sincerely.

  Luce looked up at the cloudless blue Spanish sky. His eyes narrowed slightly against the glare. “A new technique in assisting ladies in distress,” he admitted.

  They went immediately to the office of the commandant. Luce laid the marriage contract before him and the girl waggled her ring finger under his nose. The officer duly regarded it and then rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he explained the document. There was no mistaking his surprise.

  “Well?” said Luce.

  “Ah, yes,” said the officer. “Proof, yes. But it is hard to understand. You have married today, Señor?” He glanced up with a smile. “That is unusual, most unusual.”

  “It’s our own affair,” said the girl.

  “Casado!” murmured the officer. “Married! I do not understand this so much, I think.”

  Berkeley felt her heart begin to beat faster. Luce’s eyes were hard suddenly. He rested his hands on the desk and bent toward the officer.

  “You were told the lady has a husband. Very well, the lady has a husband. There can be no excuse for further delay.”

  The officer looked up into those glinting black eyes, his fingers toying with the army stamp. There was a moment of silence, then he coughed.

  “Ah, so,” he said smoothly. “Everything is all right now, eh? I am so sorry to be of such trouble to the Señora.” He stamped and initialed the passport and rose to return it to her.

  Berkeley had felt it, too, just as the officer had, that softly ominous note in Luce’s voice and the danger in his eyes—it was like the almost imperceptible rippling of a tiger’s skin as powerful muscles hunched for action. There was to be no further stalling, no holding out for a bribe; there was to
be nothing but a stamp on that passport—and it had been done. Then and there, she realized that this black-eyed man had it in him to project a distinct promise of danger on occasion.

  She took off the ring and dropped it in her bag as they walked across the plaza.

  At the hotel they paused briefly.

  “You will probably see me around,” he said. “On the Clipper, if nowhere else. As we say in Spain—Vaya con Dios.”

  And with that gracious Spanish farewell—“Go with God”—she saw this tall figure vanish through the patio.

  CHAPTER 6

  The express for Lisbon left Valleron in the distance, the compact little Spanish town crowned by the jagged stone ruins fading back into a low broad horizon molten with the afternoon sun.

  It was crowded, this crack train into Portugal. People of varying ages, varying nationalities, filling every compartment the length of the long narrow corridors, each corridor marked by the presence of a soldier on guard. The soldiers would be there until the Portuguese frontier was reached.

  Berkeley did not leave her compartment until long after the dinner hour. It had been a wonderful feeling to settle herself here as the train pulled out of Valleron, because up until the very last she had kept herself geared to meet any fresh trumped-up charge that might hold her longer. There was no way to conjecture just how far Herr Colonel Starme’s petty persecution might extend.

  Men stood here and there in the corridors smoking and talking and staring at the blackness beyond the glass windows of the passageway. Berkeley heard several different languages as she worked her way back to the dining car.

  Most of the persons in the car were finishing dinner. She ordered lightly and while waiting to be served saw several Valleron faces among the diners returning to their compartments. That graying little man with the bright quick eyes—she did not know his name—went out with a pleasant nod to her. And a little later Franklin Carver, the harried American businessman, followed with his son and daughter.