Flashman And The Tiger

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.