Flashman And The Tiger

Absconded, my God! Trepanned into that Strackenz nightmare … I felt as though I’d been kicked in the stomach, for it was all true, though I hadn’t given it a thought in half a lifetime—true, at least, that I’d been falsely accused by those fiends, blackmailed with the threat of years in a stinking gaol. And the evidence would still be there, the only falsehood being that I’d raped that simpering sow—why, we’d barely buckled to, and she’d been fairly squealing for it—

"The Baroness, you’ll be happy to know, is in excellent health and eager to testify. Did I say ten years? Strait-laced lot, the Bavarians; it could easily be life."

"You wouldn’t dare! What, d’you think I’m nobody, to be railroaded by some tinpot foreign court on a trumped-up charge? By God, you’ll find out different! I count for something, and if you think the British Government will stand by while your lousy, corrupt—"

"They stood by while …" he consulted his paper "… yes, while Colonel Valentine Baker went away for twelve months. He was a stalwart hero of Empire, too, it seems, and all he’d done was kiss a girl and tickle her ankle in a railway carriage. I must say," he chuckled, "the longer I serve Bismarck the more I admire him. It’s all here, you know." He tapped the paper. "How you’d bluster, I mean, and how to shut you up. I’d never heard of this Baker chap … dear me, flies unbuttoned on the Portsmouth line, what next? I say! We might even work up a second charge against you—indecent assault on the Orient Express, with Kralta sobbin' in the witness-box! That’d make the cheese more bindin' in court, what?" He shook his head, mock regretful. "I’m afraid, Harry my boy, you’re cooked."

I’d known that, for all my noise, the moment he’d recalled the name Pechmann. They’d got me, neck and heel, this jeering ruffian and his icy bitch of an accomplice … and Bismarck. Who else would have thought to conjure up that ancient false charge to force my hand now … but for what, in God’s name? I must have looked like a landed fish, for he gave me a cheery wink and slapped the edge of my berth.

"But don’t fret—it ain’t goin' to happen! It’s the last thing we want—heavens, you’d be no good to us in clink! I only mentioned the Pechmann business to let you see where you stand if … But see here," says he, brisk and friendly, "why not hear what we want of you? It ain’t in the least smoky, I swear. In fact, it’s a dam' good deed." He came to his feet. "Now then, you’re feelin' better, I can see, in body if not in spirit. Legs right as rain, eh? Oh, yes, I noticed!" He gave me that cocky Starnberg grin that shivered my spine. "So, I’ll take a turn in the corridor while you put on your togs and have a sluice. No shave just yet, I’m afraid; I took the razor from your valise, just in case. Then we’ll have some grub and come to biznai." He gave a cheery nod and was gone.

I can’t tell you my thoughts as I rose, none too steadily, and dressed, because I don’t remember. I’d been hit where I lived, and hard, and there was nothing for it but to clear my mind of fruitless speculation, and take stock of what I knew, thus:

Starnberg and Kralta were Bismarck agents, and had trapped me, drugged me, threatened me with firearms and the certainty of years in gaol if I didn’t … do what? "Nothing smoky … a dam' good deed"? I doubted that, rather … but on t’other hand, they hadn’t shown hostile, exactly. Kralta had let me roger her as part of the trap, but I knew, from a lifetime’s study of well-rattled women, that she’d taken a shine to me, too. And while Starnberg was probably as wicked and dangerous a son-of-a-bitch as his father, he’d seemed a friendly disposed sort of blackmailing assassin … why, latterly he’d been almost coaxing me. I was at a loss; all I knew was that if they were about to force me into some diabolic plot, or preparing to sell me a fresh cargo of gammon, they were going a rum way about it. I could only wait, and listen, and look for the chance to cut.

So I made myself decent, took another pull at the spa, touched my toes, transferred my clasp-knife from my pocket to my boot (you should have frisked my clothes, Bill), decided I’d felt worse, and was in fair parade order when he returned, preceded by Manon with a loaded tray which she set down on a little folding camp table before making brisk work of converting the berth into a sofa.

"What, not hungry?" says he, when I declined sandwiches and drumsticks. "No, I guess lay-me-down-dead ain’t the best foundation for luncheon—but you’ll take a brandy? Capital! Ah, and here is her highness! A glass of champagne, my sweet, and the armchair. `It is well done, and fitting for a princess', as my Stratford namesake has it. She is a real princess, you know, Harry—and I’m a count, and you’re a belted what-d’ye-call-it, so we’re rather a select company, what?"