Tiger Milk

  Table of Contents

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 1941 by David Garth.

  Published by Wildside Press LLC

  wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

  CHAPTER 1

  It was a strange thing that at the dedication of the memorial window to Lucian Rhodes people found themselves thinking as much about Cary Rhodes as they did about Lucian.

  Perhaps the best, and only, reason was that the Rhodes name stood for what was generally recognized as the greatest dueling family America had ever known, and Cary Rhodes had been foremost in winning that reputation for it. His last duel had been fought over a hundred years ago, but it would probably never be forgotten because it had cost one life, shaken two great old families, and resounded throughout the length and breadth of Maryland.

  To most of the people who gathered in the old brick church with its narrow high-backed pews where Revolutionary patriots had once worshiped, Cary Rhodes was a veritable legend and the tantalizing question of why he had fought that early morning so long ago cropped up along with the dedicatory services in memory of Cary’s great-grandson. Because there had been no reason for him to fight the duel, and he had known there would be repercussions.

  Cary’s wife had been waiting for him down in the great front hall of the Rhodes mansion at dawn on that day over a hundred years ago. She maintained her vigil sitting tensely in a carved chair with her father standing at her shoulder ready to lend his comfort and support.

  Cary Rhodes descended the beautiful spiral staircase and then, as he saw the pale and sleepless girl in the carved chair, paused at the foot of the stairs, one hand resting on the balustrade. He looked as impeccable as though he was descending to greet a valued guest, tall and slim in well-cut coat and flowered waistcoat, russet breeches and shining boots. The white stock about his throat was smoothly adjusted and so were his ruffled cuffs.

  “My dear,” he said in his low voice, “I have so little time.”

  “Why do you insist on fighting?” she asked urgently.

  “I have been challenged,” said Cary Rhodes simply.

  “Cary,” she said breathlessly, speaking as if against time, “you brought about that challenge by a deliberate insult made publicly. Bradman had no choice but to challenge you. And yet if you would retract only the slightest, just a mere gesture, he would withdraw his challenge. He does not wish to fight you. He does not belong on the same field with you.”

  “Anne,” he said impassively, “I did not write the code of honor. I just follow it.”

  “I know the code, too,” interposed her father. “And I know that provision is made for a last attempt at a reconciliation of differences before the fighting positions are taken.”

  Cary inclined his head courteously. “That formality will be observed by our seconds, of course, sir.”

  There was a sound of carriage wheels in the drive. The pale girl reached out a hand toward him in a gesture of appeal.

  “Please help me, Cary,” she pleaded. “Neither your courage nor your honor is in question. You could so easily drop this duel and there are so many reasons why you should. There is your life, and the life of a man who never did anything to you. His family and yours are old friends. Can’t you be clean-handed and merciful for their sake, if not for mine?”

  He looked down at her for a long moment, little Anne Fitzjames of Virginia who had married him. His glinting black eyes rested on her upturned face, eyes like black granite, duelist’s eyes that would be looking down the silver barrel of a dueling pistol in just a short while.

  “I am sorry,” he said slowly. “But while this code of honor exists men live and die by it.”

  Without further word he caught up a cape lying over a chair and whirled it around his shoulders in one swift gesture as he strode toward the door. The tread of his boots on the veranda sounded a fierce uncompromising tattoo. His second was waiting in the carriage as a Negro groom held the heads of two blooded bays.

  Suddenly Anne Rhodes seemed to crumple. Her father bent instantly and put an arm around her.

  “He will come back,” he said comfortingly.

  “Oh, it’s not only his life he’s risking,” she said in a numbed way, staring at the door. “It’s also our happiness, it’s the friendship and respect of people who know the difference between a duel and polite murder.”

  Her father continued to pat her shoulder. He did not doubt that Cary Rhodes would return. That nerveless fighting temperament and cool concentration was a part of his dueling heritage. All the Rhodes fought like that. It was a strain that ran through them like the color of their eyes. But that man with the glinting eyes had shown even more than that—something of a stalking tiger that nothing on this earth could stop.

  Anne’s father looked somberly after the carriage rolling down the drive.

  “You would find a man like that,” he said measuredly, “just about once every hundred years.”

  * * * *

  So that last duel of Cary Rhodes’ came out of the mists as people in an old brick church one hundred years later listened to the minister dedicate a memorial window to the duelist’s great-grandson. The minister was both eloquent and sentimental. He said that it stood as an example of patriotism transcending the bitter blows of war.

  John Hardesty, long-time lawyer for the Rhodes family, heard him and reflected that patriotism did not have anything to do with it. It had been Lucian’s utter disregard for his neck. A foreign correspondent who hung around an exposed position during an air raid was taking a terrific chance.

  But the services were beautiful and as Hardesty filed out afterwards with Miss Melissa Rhodes, Lucian’s maiden aunt, the sun was shining through the big new stained-glass window dedicated to Lucian’s memory and the organ music was swelling with a mighty chord that seemed a fulfillment of the words quoted by the minister—“I am the resurrection and the life—”

  “I’m glad that is over, John,” she pronounced, as they drove away.

  “Why, I thought it was all very beautiful, Miss Melissa,” Mr. Hardesty said mildly.

  “Oh, yes, but so final.”

  “That air raid was final,” he pointed out gently.

  “I know,” said Miss Melissa Rhodes. “But, after all, I could still have hopes, just as though Lucian had been reported washed overboard. I would hope, then, that he had reached a desert island. Well,” she continued vigorously, “I’ve been hoping the authorities over there had made a mistake.”

  Hardesty did not deem it kind to remind her that Lucian had been identified by two of his colleagues, and there was a difference between washed overboard and hit by bomb splinters in plain sight. Until Lucian was brought back to rest here among his forbears, however, Miss Melissa would undoubtedly be defiant about the whole thing. She was not only Lucian’s closest relative, but she had also lived in the big old Rhodes house and kept it going for him.

  They did not say much after that, and it was in comparative silence that they turned in at the long drive to the house.

  It was a rambling white mansion with four
slender colonnades, and was set back from the road by the drive lined with evenly planted oaks. There was a sense of mellowness and solidarity about it, with its tall boxwood and fine old shade trees, and the long whitewashed outbuildings that had been the slave quarters, the smokehouse, and the great burnished outside kitchen that was now used as a studio.

  As they drew up before the house a man arose from a chair on the broad cool veranda.

  “Oh,” said the lawyer, “that must be Mr. Garrett, the New York bank counsel, who has been in communication with me.” He shook hands with the New York lawyer and presented him to Miss Melissa.

  “I wish to apologize for obtruding on this day,” Mr. Garrett said. “I did not know until after I arrived, Miss Rhodes, that services—”

  “It is quite all right,” said Miss Melissa. “Please come in.” She led the way into the house. A broad paneled hall lined with portraits extended back to where an exquisite spiral staircase rose to the upper floor. At the front of the house on one side was the dining room with its priceless old rosewood furniture. On the other was a spacious living room with a fine view of the rolling acreage of the Rhodes property.

  Mr. Garrett did not waste much time in small talk. He asked, and received permission, to smoke and then sat forward in his chair purposefully.

  “May I ask if Lucian Rhodes left a will, Mr. Hardesty?”

  “Yes,” said Hardesty. “Drawn up just before he went abroad last.”

  “Do I understand that Miss Rhodes here inherits?”

  Hardesty nodded.

  “After me,” put in Miss Melissa, “some cousins take over.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Garrett.

  “You mentioned a sum to Lucian’s account in the bank you represent,” said Hardesty.

  Mr. Garrett removed his cigar and stared absorbed at the glowing end. “Yes,” he said, “a sum more or less in the amount of two million dollars.”

  Miss Melissa gave a strangled little gasp and beyond that seemed incapable of any vocal effort. John Hardesty ran a hand slowly over his gray hair.

  “Two—what?” he exclaimed. “Two million dollars! Two thousand, you mean, don’t you?”

  “No,” said Garrett. “I mean two million, Mr. Hardesty.”

  “But that can’t be the same Lucian Rhodes!” said Hardesty. Mr. Garrett smiled. “We know whose money we hold, I assure you,” he said dryly.

  Miss Melissa put a hand to the white lace jabot about her throat. “Gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse me,” she said faintly.

  “I—I can’t cope with it. John, I feel a little dizzy—”

  Hardesty stepped to her side quickly. “Sit back and take it easy, Miss Melissa,” he advised. “I’ll try to find out more about this.”

  He smiled at her and then turned back to Mr. Garrett. “You can imagine how Miss Rhodes feels,” John Hardesty said unsteadily. “Lucian never had anywhere near that much money!” he said vehemently. “This property, a small trust fund, and a moderate income from tenant farmers formed the bulk of his estate. Where did it come from?”

  “The sum was placed to his account in four equal monthly drafts through the private banking house of Leoptos in Athens,” Mr. Garrett informed him. “The last of those drafts came through four months ago.”

  “Four months ago?” repeated Hardesty. “It was around four months ago that Lucian lost his life in that air raid.”

  Mr. Garrett became genuinely interested. He looked at John Hardesty intently. “Look here,” he said, “it’s not my business, but just for my own curiosity what about Lucian Rhodes? How long had he been abroad?”

  “Three years,” answered Hardesty. “He had asked to be relieved.”

  “I see. And how old was he?”

  “Thirty-four.” Hardesty shook his head as though trying to rid himself of the lingering effects of a blow. “He was an able man. He was a rising playwright before he went into this other work. There is no telling how far he might have gone. He had the signs of brilliance.”

  “Two million dollars usually requires a great deal of brilliance,” agreed Mr. Garrett pensively.

  The mention of the sum brought Miss Melissa bolt upright. She folded her hands tightly in her lap.

  “I still insist there has been a mistake somewhere,” she said. “If not by your bank, Mr. Garrett, then by somebody else, and I would not touch two cents’ worth of that money until I knew where it came from. It’s too—too staggering. How could a man earn that much in four months?”

  “Well, as to that, perhaps you can remember something about Mr. Rhodes that might answer the question.”

  Miss Melissa just shook her head. Her lawyer folded his arms and walked slowly up and down before her.

  “I can’t answer it,” he said. “I knew him all his life. He always had a fast, tough mind, even as a youngster, didn’t he, Miss Melissa?”

  “And a streak of pure, cussed recklessness,” she said promptly. “I can remember him as a boy scudding along in a catboat when the water of the Chesapeake was simply black and you could almost see the rain coming in off the sea ahead of a blow.”

  “His father died when he was little.” Mr. Hardesty sounded as though he was trying to work out a geometry theorem. “And his mother educated him in good schools. When she died he had a spell of wandering. He did all kinds of things before he settled down—became stranded in Australia and hid to wash railroad cars to get passage money. Joined a small fishing fleet out of Samoa; cut timber in Oregon.”

  “What did he look like?” Garrett inquired.

  Hardesty looked at Miss Melissa Rhodes.

  “How would you describe Lucian, Miss Melissa?” he asked.

  “It depended on his expression,” she said. “I loved to see him smile. In general, I would say—oh, wait!” she broke off. “Just show Mr. Garrett that portrait, John.”

  Mr. Hardesty led the way out into the broad paneled hall. Before a portrait he paused. It was the portrait of a lean-faced man, somewhat blunt of chin, but with a fine high-bridged nose and piercing black eyes—eyes like glinting black granite.

  “That is Cary Rhodes, his great-grandfather,” said John Hardesty. “But it might do just as well for a picture of Lucian, himself.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The warning to all Americans to leave Europe had been repeated from time to time and one of its results had been to crowd the trains across Spain to Lisbon.

  El Pajaro Azul, which ran from the Mediterranean to the Bay of Biscay via Madrid, was not so crowded, however. El Pajaro Azul—the Bluebird—had once been a fast holiday train filled with a cosmopolitan crowd—traveled English and Americans on their way to famous village festivals, to the Madrid season or the spa at Valleron. There were also wine buyers and cork merchants and olive-oil distributors.

  It was fun, too, in those days. There was a holiday air about the Bluebird. Music in the dining car by Spanish guitarists and bottles of wine being opened amid curling pipe smoke in compartments up and down the length of the train.

  But that was before the holiday spirit in Europe ceased and the only people traveling through Spain were refugees seeking haven and Americans hurrying to Lisbon for the Clipper or any sailing that offered.

  Berkeley Britton, for one, was glad when El Pajaro Azul pulled into the little town of Valleron. Her compartment had been stuffy all the way from Madrid and her fellow occupants had not improved the atmosphere any. An Italian of middle years with jaundiced eyes, a somnolent Basque, and the severe-looking wife of an English consular official were no great shakes from the standpoint of good company.

  She leaned out the compartment window and with a short clear whistle arrested the attention of a lounging, blue-smocked porter. Then she lifted her bag out of the rack above and shoved it through the window to him.

  Out on the station platform people were stretching their legs, mingling with the motley crew of vendors with trays of oranges and native candy.

  Berkeley followed the porter to an antiquated taxi. As he stowed he
r bag away she stood by the car, shading her eyes against the sun, and viewed the town of Valleron.

  It was a compact little town built against the side of a hill, the whole crowned with the jagged stone ruins of a castle whose grandee had once been monarch of all he surveyed. Vying with the ruins was the cathedral, looming large among the small flat-roofed houses, while on the surrounding hills could be seen the glossy green groves of olive trees.

  The taxi followed a curving white motor road from the station toward the hotel perched like an eagle’s nest on a spur of the hill. In the streets of the little town she noticed several Civil Guards, armed with rifles, cartridge belts, and bayonets, who seemed to be loitering around with no fixed purpose or idea. The taxi driver shrugged at her question.

  “Para el orden,” he said simply.

  For order? Valleron did not give any impression of needing discipline.

  The hotel had once been a monastery and something of that prevailed—something cool and cloistered. Even the manager looked like a mellow Brother Superior.

  “Muy buenos dias!” he greeted Berkeley. “You are much, much welcome, Señorita.”

  “Thank you. It is good to be here.” Accepting the pen he offered, she bent over the register card and then looked up. “Have you a guest here, a Mr. Tresh?” she asked.

  “Señor Tresh? Ah, si, the American gentleman who is ill.”

  “Ill?” The girl raised slim brows in inquiry.

  “He is here for the waters. But this last week he does not leave his room. He has with him a man nurse. Does the Señorita Britton please to be with us some time?”

  “I am making connections for Lisbon,” she said.

  He sighed. “So it seems with all the Americans who come here these days,” he said regretfully, and beckoned to a wiry Spanish boy to take her bag. “You have more luggage coming up from the station, Señorita?”

  “It has been sent ahead to the Monteagudo in Lisbon.”

  He nodded. This tall American girl gave an impression of knowing how to travel. He led the way to her room himself.

  The hotel was very quiet. As they ascended the stone staircase with its grilled-iron balustrade the manager confided that it was not always thus. Ah, no. It had been full of people in slacks and jerseys and tweeds—Englishmen who looked as though they might be officers in crack Guard regiments or younger sons of noble families, traveled Americans who knew the pleasant parts of the world off the tourist’s beaten track.