Tiger Milk

by David Garth

  He returned shortly and paused in the study while he pulled on his coat. Then he held out his hand to the girl.

  “Good-by,” he said. “Make this home your home. And stand by for word from me soon.”

  “Good luck,” said Berkeley, “Number Six.”

  Luce smiled slightly. “Thanks—Number Twenty-two.”

  He turned to the study door, opened it just enough to let him slip through, and in an instant had gone. A little wave of nippy air floated in on the warm study and then there was nothing but the occasional popping of an ember and the crisp flurry of a sortie of leaves outside the glinting black windows.

  “Good night, Lucian Rhodes,” said the girl softly.

  CHAPTER 20

  The little soundproof office in the mighty Congressional Library was hung with a pall of cigarette smoke and upon the desk several fat books were opened and spread out beneath the light that burned yellow against the dim grayness of the day. Filling a wastepaper basket and overflowing to litter the floor were crumpled pieces of yellow scratch paper.

  Luce shoved himself back from the desk and took a few strides up and down his cramped quarters to relax himself. He looked as though he needed it. Fifteen hours of ceaseless concentration had left their mark upon him. He was in shirtsleeves, his tie loosened from opened collar, his hair rumpled, and his eyes strained and sleepless. Fifteen hours of tireless attempts to build up a code table that would break open the secret of the Second Movement of the New Concerto.

  There was another man in the office, a faded wispy man in gray alpaca coat and pince-nez—Norcross, one-time code authority at the State Department and author of code treatises. The authorities at the Library of Congress had obtained him for Luce.

  Norcross took off his pince-nez and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Well,” he admitted, “the Chevron treatment is certainly not the solution. I had thought that using it with variations might give us our table.”

  Luce mashed out his cigarette. He swept aside several pages of calculations and hypotheses and bent again over the working copy of the Second Movement of the New Concerto.

  “Let’s hit it again,” he said. “We can build on that recurring note in the first measure. Any code that pops up with something like that has a weakness, Mr. Norcross.”

  “That’s true,” said the little man. He put his pince-nez back astride his nose and touched the note in question. “For example, that note must undoubtedly be a vowel letter. Probably either e or o, I should say.”

  Luce pointed his pencil at another note. “We’ve worked that out as a vowel letter, too. Those notes turn up five times and this one, six. Let’s whip into another variation. Forty-six letters in this message and we have sixteen of them spotted among three vowels. She’s ready to break.”

  Norcross drummed his pencil on the desk. “There’s the Munzinger variation of this series setup,” he said. “Let me check on that.” He reached for a book and ruffed through to a page UL close type with several keys worked out from a given series of letters.

  They studied the Munzinger variation and once again hewed to the task of breaking down the stubborn music page. At length, Norcross tossed down his pencil and leaned back. He pressed a hand tightly over his eyes. “This may be the right track,” he said wearily. “It’s a matter of substituting and substituting. I think that is all I can handle today, young man. Call me in the morning if you still need me.”

  Luce nodded preoccupied, his pencil flying over the working copy, checking combinations. “Thank you, Mr. Norcross.”

  He scarcely heard the door close behind the little man when he left. He tossed aside a piece of scratch paper, yanked a fresh pad to him, and started in again. The light above his head shone brighter against the deepening darkness outside.

  “Nineteen vowel letters,” he muttered, checking swiftly. “Wait a minute—l-o-b-o—skip that one—t-o-t-i—” His voice trailed off as he hammered in another combination from the laboriously built variation table.

  Finally he raised his head and studied what had developed: “loboreadytotieupwcstcoastinlabonvaragcntsplaccd”

  He narrowed his eyes and focused on the line-up of letters. A pulse was beating in his temples and the leaden sense of fatigue was like a weight dragging at his very fingers.

  And then like a clear stimulating bugle call through a murky fog he saw that there was sense among that series of letters. Weariness left him suddenly and he pulled himself up closer to the desk in an instant, his pencil searching out intelligible words like a probe. In those racing, tumbling minutes he knew he had it. The code had been broken.

  He leaned back in his chair and studied the message as finally deciphered. “Lobo ready to tie up West Coast in labor war. Agents placed.”

  Lobo. That would be one of those West Coast labor figures—he must have come up fast to be in the strategic spot he held now. He must have support, powerful support!

  Luce put the decoded message down. What was it? Something was trying to arrange itself in his consciousness. A move in the Pacific with the West Coast tied up—no, there was more than that. Forget the Pacific.

  Lobo… Carney… Luce rubbed a hand over his forehead. Strange, how some irritatingly familiar thought was thumping at the gates of his mind. It was like attending a play and wondering if he had not seen it before, noticing familiar things and yet not able to recognize definitely the theme.

  Lobo’s assignment was the Second Movement of the New Concerto. What was Carney’s? How many movements to this strange New Concerto were there?

  He absently raised a cigarette to his lips, then paused with it poised in mid air. He sat there, rigid, oblivious to his surroundings, his black eyes hard and discerning as the great fact spurted suddenly into the lighted arena of his consciousness. Of course! He had it now. He knew the whole familiar theme of this terrible play.

  “Plain as day!” he muttered tensely. “The trail of the tiger—”

  * * * *

  The first day that she spent as the guest of Miss Melissa Rhodes went by with lagging hours for Berkeley. It was the standing and waiting, the feeling of restlessness that would not be downed, and something else, too—something indefinable a sense of deep concern, perhaps.

  She spent part of the afternoon in a short inspection walk about the grounds of Lucian Rhodes’ home. The big colonnaded house breathed that air of mellowness and a silver past, of carriages and blooded horses waiting in the drive, of crinoline and jingling spurs and shining punch bowl, of rhythmic dance and flashing sword.

  Miss Melissa Rhodes had cordially extended to her the perfect freedom of the place so she dropped in at the old outside kitchen now remodeled into a studio. She stopped on the threshold, resting her hand on the door, and glanced about her curiously. There was still the brick floor and huge blackened fireplace. But otherwise it had been fitted into a place of privacy for a man at work.

  Berkeley sat down on the edge of a long, sturdily built beneath. She crossed her knees, lighted a cigarette, and looked pensively out through the open door of the studio, smoke curling lazily above her head, one slim leg swinging idly. She could see the sloping roofs of the stables against the background of rolling pastureland and broken countryside.

  But right then she saw the rain-swept platform in Spain near the Portuguese frontier, the officers brusquely interrogating a refugee who had been peremptorily stopped right on the threshold of freedom. How clearly she could remember that refugee. Now, as then, he stood as a symbol of all oppressed peoples, all people homeless and in flight.

  And then when he had snatched a chance at deliverance and plunged desperately for the moving train, Robert Luce, standing on the platform step, had caught him deliberately and squarely under the chin with a knee that must have had the force of a piston rod.

  How could he have done it? How could he have done such a totally ruthless and brutal thing? Because it was something she could never forget. It was no use wondering what it might have been like if he had not done it. Y
ou just remembered and bitterly resented the mud that soiled his shield.

  She returned to the house in time to join Miss Melissa for tea in the upstairs living room. The soft-spoken colored butler set the fine old silver service before the straight little lady, lighted a lamp against the waning light of the fall day, and withdrew. Miss Melissa passed tea to the slender, patrician girl.

  “I wish these tea cups were flagons that we could bump,” she declared recklessly. “And then hurl against the fireplace—or somewhere. I am in a celebrating mood, Berkeley.”

  There was no doubt that she was overflowing with zest and happiness. Berkeley smiled and became absorbed in absently stirring her tea. She wondered how Miss Melissa’s spirits would be affected if she knew that a man called Robert Luce appeared to be wanted by the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  Miss Melissa regarded her over her teacup.

  “You know, my dear,” she affirmed, “I am not going to say that I looked like you when I was your age because even at my best I was never as lovely. But I do feel most abnormally young today, just sitting here with you.”

  “Miss Melissa,” said the girl deeply, “you will never be a day older than seventeen and I wouldn’t let a beau of mine get within ten feet of you even today.”

  She raised her head, then, as Miss Melissa’s butler entered with word that she was wanted on the telephone. The same thought struck her and Miss Melissa at the same time.

  “I wonder if it could be Luc—Robert Luce?” exclaimed the little lady.

  “It could not be anyone else,” said Berkeley. “No one else knows I am here. Please excuse me.”

  She followed the butler to the phone and picked up the transmitter. “Yes?” she said.

  “Berkeley? Luce. I’m at Five Mile Inn.” His voice sounded low and hurried to her. “I must see you. Now. I’m sending a taxi for you. It’s important.”

  There was a click at the other end of the wire as he unceremoniously rang off. The girl returned to Miss Melissa somewhat wondering.

  “It was Robert,” she reported. “I’m to meet him at Five Mile Inn. He’s sending a taxi for me.”

  “Oh,” said Miss Melissa. She set down her teacup, looking disappointed. “But why does he not come here?”

  Berkeley could think of no other reason than that he did not wish to risk being seen. She was ready when the taxi appeared in the drive.

  “Please bring him back here,” Miss Melissa urged at the front door. “Please, Berkeley.”

  “I’ll try,” said the girl. “Well, ’bye for the time being.”

  She walked toward the taxi and then stopped, pulling on a glove. The taxi driver was holding a door open for her, standing there in the gathering dusk.

  Berkeley pressed down the fingers of her glove. Something must be up. Robert Luce’s terse, jumbled voice had not been like his accustomed direct way. Of course, he might have gotten hold of something vital, something to do with that strange music page.

  And yet she turned impulsively to look back at Miss Melissa waiting in the front door. The little lady waved to her. Berkeley smiled and flirted a hand in return.

  “Five Mile Inn,” she said to the driver, as she stepped inside.

  He touched his cap to her and then shut the door on her. In a moment he had slid behind the wheel. Miss Melissa watched its tail lights disappear down the drive and then closed the door. She stood in the hall, rubbing her arms against the feel of the frosty air out there, and looked at her butler who was descending the stairs with the tea things.

  “There will be three places at dinner, Peter,” she said.

  At least, there was no harm in hoping.

  * * * *

  But it was a forlorn hope and she realized wanly that she had expected it to be. That would have been too much. Yet she had really hoped that they would be back during the evening. But even though she waited long after her usual hour to retire there was no appearance and no word. Miss Melissa Rhodes ascended the stairs to her apartments and the big house seemed very empty to her.

  Alter she had retired she lay awake, her arm cushioned behind her head, looking out the window at the clear bright stars, listening, hoping.

  She did not know how late it was before she dropped off, nor did she have any idea how long she had been asleep when she awakened suddenly. But somebody was speaking gently to her. “Aunt Melissa, wake up, little one—it’s Lucian.”

  His low voice in the darkness brought her up on her elbow instantly. She switched on her bedside lamp.

  He was standing close to her bed, still in his topcoat, holding his hat in his hand.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said. “But I must see Berkeley. Where in time did you put her, Aunt? In the attic?”

  She stared at him blankly. She uttered no word.

  “You remember Berkeley?” he said delicately.

  Miss Melissa Rhodes found speech and the words burst from her lips. “But she’s with you—I mean, you sent for her to come to Five Mile Inn this afternoon—yesterday afternoon, rather.”

  He frowned perplexed. “I was in Washington yesterday afternoon. I’ve just come from there and it’s early morning.” Bending, he took her hand. “Aunt, wake up. What is this? I never phoned Berkeley. What are you saying?”

  Miss Melissa told him in a voice that trembled suddenly. Lucian Rhodes’ grip on her hand tightened.

  He drew a sharp breath between his teeth and his voice came out the same way. “They’ve got her!” he breathed. “My God, how could they have known?”

  Quickly, he sat down on the edge of the bed and took her firmly by the shoulders. “Aunt Melissa, have you seen anybody around here? Any strangers? Has anything happened? Did you speak to anybody, tell anybody?”

  “No, Lucian, no!” Her voice was unsteady. “I’ve spoken to nobody. I’ve seen no strangers. And all that has happened is a short time ago a picture of you was stolen out of the study—”

  His eyes riveted upon her. “A picture of me?” His hold on her shoulders relaxed. “A picture of me?” he repeated. “Then they’ve identified Robert Luce—they looked for my trail here—they’ve been watching this house. And they have Berkeley. If I’d only known about that picture.” He passed a hand slowly over his forehead. “They outguessed me,” he said tensely.

  A moment he was tautly silent, then abruptly uncoiled into action.

  “Aunt, I want you out of here. Call John Hardesty to come for you. Take Jenny and clear out of this house. This is no plate for either of us. See you in a few minutes.”

  He strode out of the room. Miss Melissa arose and dressed swiftly, unquestioningly, although her fingers were shaking. When she came downstairs a call had already gone through to John Hardesty and faithful, fat, black Jenny was dressing to accompany her. Lucian issued forth from the direction of ire study with two sealed envelopes in his hand.

  “Mail this one, Aunt,” he said. “And this one is for you. Open it if you don’t hear from me within a week.”

  “Lucian,” she said brokenly, “whatever it is, can you find her? Find that lovely girl?”

  He looked down at her from his tall height, his lean face set and his black eyes glinting.

  “I’ve got to make the best guess I ever made in my life,” he said grimly.

  Then he was striding across the entrance hall and the ringing beat of his heels sounded the same fierce tattoo as that of another man who had strode out one hundred years ahead of him. The portrait looked down at the man who passed swiftly, grimly, beneath it, those same black eyes seeming to follow him.

  CHAPTER 21

  Berkeley found herself drifting back to consciousness borne on the faint, soft music of a violin. Hovering in the first stirrings of her mind, it seemed unreal—but from somewhere the strains of a violin were floating distantly, elusively, as through a heavy curtain.

  “Miss Britton!” a solicitous voice murmured.

  Berkeley opened her eyes slightly. A man was bending over her, a distinguished-looking ma
n with small Van Dyke, thinning hair, and lively little blue eyes.

  “Ah,” he said. “This is better. You are back with us again.” Berkeley said nothing. She felt a sense of lassitude. He held his fingers around her wrist and spoke in that soothing way, his voice noticeably tinctured with a definite accent.

  “You have been in a motor accident,” he told her. “You are in a nursing home on the Five Mile Turnpike. Whom shall we notify? Some friend, perhaps?”

  His voice rested on a raised note of inquiry. Berkeley stirred. Motor accident. Instinctively she stretched her legs, moved an arm tentatively. She felt no pain. In fact, except for a distinct sense of soreness in one forearm, she felt no apparent ill effects. “A motor accident?” she repeated.

  “Ah, so. But you are the lucky one, eh? Concussion, but not serious. Just to rest and not to think about it, eh? We discover your identity in a handbag. But surely you will wish to notify somebody—some friend who may be wondering about you.” The name, Robert Luce, sprang instantly into her mind. Good heavens, he must be wondering why she had not met him at the Five Mile Inn.

  “Where did you say I was?” she asked.

  “A nursing home,” he told her. “On the Five Mile Turnpike. You were brought here.”

  A nursing home! That was what she had thought he said. A nursing home—that foreign name for a hospital. Americans did not call them nursing homes.

  Her eyes wandered about her surroundings. She appeared to be resting on a chaise-longue, her camel’s-hair coat still around her, in what looked like an old-fashioned parlor or sitting room. In that brief inspecting glance she noticed the high ceiling with ancient brass chandelier, the marble mantel and the tall windows with heavy drawn curtains edged with gold—or was that sunlight? Morning sunlight?

  “Can we not reach somebody for you, Miss Britton?”

  He appeared very intent on that—reaching some one for her. But she did not wish to talk.

  She sighed and closed her eyes.

  “I feel so tired,” she murmured. “I can’t seem to remember—just let me rest a moment.”