As I walked down the lane I reminded myself that anyone following me would be noticeable. There were no vacationers around here for him to hide among. The lane quickly became hedged in on either side and I immediately turned off into open fields where I’d be safer.
I spent the morning making a reconnaissance of my surroundings and discovered I’d chosen even better than I’d thought. This was the perfect spot to pretend to have run away and hid, friendless and unprotected. I had no doubt that the tiger would come here and pounce on the vulnerable goat. From time to time I brushed the inside of my wrist against the hidden pistol, a reassuring bulge under my loose shirt.
After coffee and a beef sandwich lunch, I spent the afternoon in the garden. I carried an old hoe around, lifting weeds out here and there. It was good exercise, a stress reliever, and gave me an excuse to rake over the beds so they would show any footprints next time I checked.
At three o’clock I went inside for a can of Diet Pepsi and a break from the sunshine. There were no messages on the old-fashioned landline phone, which was not surprising as only Walter could have called me. I crushed the empty can flat and decided to cross the Long Field and walk to Fort Stuart. In town the pistol bulge under my t-shirt would be obvious to anyone close to me. To hide it, I put on a light jacket and set out.
The Long Field was going to be important to me. It would be my main route by foot to and from the cottage. There was no way I was going to risk the lane if I could help it, with its high hedges on both sides and not a soul in sight. Moving across the dilapidated airstrip I could always be sure that I was being neither followed nor ambushed, and if anyone did appear I could quickly vanish behind the ruined concrete huts overgrown with brambles and dandelions. It would be impossible for my enemy to predict where I intended to leave the cracked asphalt and enter an adjoining field.
I had barely started out when I encountered him. He raced up to me and literally knocked me down. I hit the asphalt on my right side and the hard edges of the pistol dug into my bare flesh. Then he was on top of me, trapping me underneath him, saliva dripping from his mouth onto my face.
I pushed the dog off me and sat up. So much for being prepared for anything. It was some sort of mongrel mixture of spaniel and terrier, with small, floppy ears and brown and white colouring. There was no collar around its neck but it had to belong to one of the farming families nearby. Being a country dog, no doubt it was kept outdoors all day long and largely ignored by its hardworking owners. Apart from pawing at the odd beetle, it probably had little to do. By the gleam in its eyes and the wagging, thumping tail I could tell it already considered me its new playmate.
“Any other time, buddy,” I said to him. This wasn’t what I wanted at all. A dog at my feet would not only be distracting, it would bounce around and yelp and declare my exact location to all and sundry. I shooed it away and turned my back on it.
All to no avail. The stupid mutt kept following me no matter how many times I tried to get rid of it. I soon gave up and it trotted along beside me, snuffling around and making enough random noise to waken the dead. I might as well have held a white flag aloft and stuck a bull’s-eye on my chest.
Eventually I turned and headed back. At the cottage I led the dog into the kitchen, left out a soup bowl of fresh water and a plate of canned meat, and locked the dog in the room. The kitchen floor was old-fashioned ceramic tiles; any dog mess would not be hard to clean up.
“Sorry, mate,” I said. It finished the meat and looked at me with sad eyes as if betrayed. Then it pawed the fridge door hoping to get at more food and forgot about my existence.
I crossed the Long Field and kept going till I got to Fort Stuart. The main street was only a few blocks long and right in the middle of it stood an old-fashioned brick building with an unadventurous name, the Windsor Hotel. It had a small restaurant and bar on the ground floor and I went inside to the latter.
The place was empty at that time of day and the barman was alone. He was a thin, dark-haired man in his mid-fifties, with a wiry moustache and melancholic expression. I ordered a double whiskey and water. He took it down to the end of the bar where I was sitting and I watched him, biding my time, till my glass was empty. I signalled for another.
“Is Fred Sampson around?” I asked when he brought it.
“You’re looking at him,” he replied, “You’re new here, right? Like it so far?”
“Yes,” I replied, “Name’s Cal Knox. I’m staying out at Walter Lemesurier’s place. He said you knew him?”
“Haven’t seen Walter in ages,” Sampson replied, “Used to drink here a lot. Good tipper.”
“Hotel must be busy?” I asked, getting right to the point.
He rubbed a long, bony finger over his moustache. “Always plenty of tourists around at this time of year.”
“Any others? Individuals on a job?”
“One or two.”
“Walter said you might be able to help me with that.” I licked my dry lips and carried on. “I’m not exactly famous or anything,” I explained, “But I have a reporter following me, trying to dig up dirt on my family. You know the type. I just want a quiet vacation. Has he been in here?”
He gave me a look. “I’m not allowed to comment on guests, sir.”
I took out my wallet, extracted a fifty dollar bill I could ill afford to spend, and slipped it across the counter. Sampson looked at it for several seconds then slid it off and stuffed it into his pants’ pocket.
“Room thirty-three,” he said in a low voice, “I work on the front desk in the mornings. Sour looking guy; don’t like his attitude. Asked about your cottage and the old airfield out there.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Have another on the house,” Sampson replied. He refilled my glass and walked off.
I thought about what I’d just learned and how I could act on it. My tiger could be up there in his room right now. I imagined him lying on his bed, polishing his gun, perhaps screwing a silencer onto the end. He hears a knock at the door and shouts “Come in.” I walk in and he raises the automatic . . .
Well, maybe, but not likely. All I knew was; I wanted up there. I sought confirmation, needed it like a thirsty man in the desert needs water. If I was going to try to get into his room it made sense to wait until tomorrow, to come here again around mid-morning when the maid service would be cleaning his room. I nodded my head slightly, confirming to myself the wisdom of the plan. That’s what I’ll do.
I downed the last half of the whiskey in one gulp and set the glass down noisily. At the other end of the bar, Sampson stared at me for a second and then looked away. I stood up and left, my mind made up.
The three double whiskies had loosened me up considerably and must have given me Dutch courage. Or perhaps they just made me act stupidly. There was no way that I was going all the way back to the cottage to spend another night there, without at least doing a reconnaissance of the tiger’s room first.
I went out the front door, walked to the end of the block and approached the hotel from the alleyway.