Flashman And The Tiger

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…"