Flashman And The Tiger

This was desperate, I decided. There hadn’t been a chance, so far, to do him more mischief than curse, and nights spent hanging around street-corners had sapped my resolution abominably, as well as giving me the cold. I was having the deuce of a job getting in and out undetected at home, too, and to make matters worse I had a distraught Selly on my hands on Thursday morning, wanting to know what was to be done. She’d had a note from the swine; it simply said: "Well? M."

The poor creature was nearly distracted with fear, and it was all I could do to stop her having hysterics, which my wife would certainly have heard. But one thing the sight of her distress did for me: I resolved that if Tiger Jack Moran was still alive on Friday morning, it wouldn’t be for want of effort on my part. If the worst came to the worst I’d stalk him home that Thursday night and kill him on his own front-door step and take my chance. (That’s what being a doting grandparent can do to you.)

I was late on my beat that night, though, on account of being dragooned into standing up with the Connaughts at the Army’s football challenge match at Aldershot in the afternoons[17]—two sets of hooligans hacking each other in the mud—and it was near eight before I got on post in my rags, huddled in a doorway nipping at my pint flask of spirits with a quaking heart. But just on nine Moran came out, in opera hat and lined cloak, swinging his long cane jauntily. He strolled by within a yard of me; for a moment the gaslight fell on that fierce hawk profile and sprouting moustache, and I felt my innards turn to jelly, and then he was past. One odd thing I noticed; under one arm he carried a flat case. But I was too taken up with considering the loose, fit stride of the man, and the graceful way he carried himself—he looked as dangerous as they come—to worry about trifles.

I thought he might be for the clubs again, but to my surprise he turned up Oxford Street, sauntering calmly along, and then made north. I couldn’t figure why he hadn’t taken a cab; as it was, I had to move sharper than I cared to keep him in view, and when we got off Oxford Street, and people were scarcer, I had to hang back for fear of being spotted, hurrying to catch up whenever he rounded a corner. This was new territory to me, but I remember we had crossed Wigmore Street, and then I stopped with my heart racing, as he paused beside the entrance to a darkened arch and looked back; he glanced up and down the street—there was hardly a soul about—and then he turned under the arch and disappeared.

Meanwhile I was having minor fits. I couldn’t begin to guess what he was up to, but I knew it was now or never. I couldn’t hope for a better chance than this, in a network of streets which were as near to being deserted as central London ever is, with my quarry moving down a dark alley. I hurried forward as fast as I could, reached the archway with my lungs bursting, peered cautiously round the corner, and was in time to see him entering a doorway under a single guttering gas-flare at the other end. I waited a few seconds, and then stole forward, the butt of the Galand greasy with sweat in my hand.

I reached the doorway on tiptoe and paused. It was open. I strained my ears, and heard his feet creaking on stairs—up, up, up, turn, and up again. I didn’t hesitate—I couldn’t; if I waited, there was no certainty he’d come out again this way, and if I was to follow him I must do it while his own footsteps would drown out the sound of mine. I took one last pull at my flask for luck, and went through the door; the light filtering in showed me the foot of the stairs, and then I was sneaking up, into the stuffy darkness, gun out, keeping close to the rickety banisters.

It’s a strange thing, but however funky you may be—and I’ll take on all comers in that line—once you’re moving there’s a kind of controlled panic that guides your feet; I went up those stairs like an elderly ghost, holding my breath until I nearly burst, and crouched on the first landing. I heard his feet across the top landing, and then recede as though he’d gone into a room—then silence.

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.