The 92nd Tiger Read online

  Copyright & Information

  The 92nd Tiger

  First published in 1973

  © Estate of Michael Gilbert; House of Stratus 1973-2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of Michael Gilbert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755105214 9780755105212 Print

  0755131983 9780755131983 Kindle

  0755132351 9780755132355 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  Born in Lincolnshire, England, Michael Francis Gilbert graduated in law from the University of London in 1937, shortly after which he first spent some time teaching at a prep-school which was followed by six years serving with the Royal Horse Artillery. During World War II he was captured following service in North Africa and Italy, and his prisoner-of-war experiences later leading to the writing of the acclaimed novel ‘Death in Captivity’ in 1952.

  After the war, Gilbert worked as a solicitor in London, but his writing continued throughout his legal career and in addition to novels he wrote stage plays and scripts for radio and television. He is, however, best remembered for his novels, which have been described as witty and meticulously-plotted espionage and police procedural thrillers, but which exemplify realism.

  HRF Keating stated that ‘Smallbone Deceased’ was amongst the 100 best crime and mystery books ever published. "The plot," wrote Keating, "is in every way as good as those of Agatha Christie at her best: as neatly dovetailed, as inherently complex yet retaining a decent credibility, and as full of cunningly-suggested red herrings." It featured Chief Inspector Hazlerigg, who went on to appear in later novels and short stories, and another series was built around Patrick Petrella, a London based police constable (later promoted) who was fluent in four languages and had a love for both poetry and fine wine. Other memorable characters around which Gilbert built stories included Calder and Behrens. They are elderly but quite amiable agents, who are nonetheless ruthless and prepared to take on tasks too much at the dirty end of the business for their younger colleagues. They are brought out of retirement periodically upon receiving a bank statement containing a code.

  Much of Michael Gilbert’s writing was done on the train as he travelled from home to his office in London: "I always take a latish train to work," he explained in 1980, "and, of course, I go first class. I have no trouble in writing because I prepare a thorough synopsis beforehand.". After retirement from the law, however, he nevertheless continued and also reviewed for ‘The Daily Telegraph’, as well as editing ‘The Oxford Book of Legal Anecdotes’.

  Gilbert was appointed CBE in 1980. Generally regarded as ‘one of the elder statesmen of the British crime writing fraternity, he was a founder-member of the British Crime Writers’ Association and in 1988 he was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, before receiving the Lifetime ‘Anthony’ Achievement award at the 1990 Boucheron in London.

  Michael Gilbert died in 2006, aged ninety three, and was survived by his wife and their two sons and five daughters.

  Quote

  For there is an upstart crow, beautified with our feathers that, with his tiger’s heart wrapped in a player’s hide, supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank verse as the best of you.

  —Robert Greene, The Groatsworth of Wit Bought with a Million of Repentance

  Part One

  PERSONNEL

  Chapter One

  The Ninety-first Tiger

  The Tiger stared down at the girl who knelt on the pile of sacking beside him. His shirt, ripped down the back, showed his magnificent dorsal muscles. A blue-black bruise, yellowing at the centre, disfigured the left-hand side of his handsome face, but his eyes were keenly alive.

  ‘You realise what they plan to do to us?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  They will shoot us as soon as it is light.’

  The girl was small, but well built. She was dressed in a loose wrap-around garment. From her face and accent she could have been Burmese or Malaysian. Her name was Lai-lo Padme, or Unspotted Lotus.

  ‘Odd thing to be happy about,’ said the Tiger.

  ‘I am afraid they will torture us first.’

  ‘They will do neither. Because, when they come for us, we shall not be here.’

  ‘How can we get out? There is a sentry who passes this door every ten minutes. He looks in. But he has his orders. He will not come in.’

  ‘If he saw you naked, might he not come in?’

  Lai-lo Padme appeared to consider the matter. She said, ‘If he cannot see you, he will guess that you are hiding behind the door, and he will not come in, even if he sees me naked!’

  ‘That’s the whole point. He will see me. Or he’ll think he sees me. I shall be lying in the corner, on my face. He will think I have passed out after that last beating.’

  ‘How do you mean, he will think he sees you? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Because I am going to take all my clothes off too. There is plenty of straw. We can make a dummy life-like enough to deceive him in this light—’

  ‘We could try it, I suppose,’ said the Unspotted Lotus doubtfully.

  ‘Now here’s where we cut,’ said the producer. ‘We’ll have the dummy just off camera. It can be pushed into position. There’s no difficulty about you, Hugo. You just take off your shirt and trousers. You’ll be wearing bathing trunks underneath. Remember to keep your right side to the camera as much as possible. We want to high-light those bruises and scars. It’s Jenny we’ve got to be careful about. If we don’t get the camera angles dead right, we’ll have those old telephones getting red-hot.’

  ‘If I take this thing off,’ said Jenny, speaking in an accent which was suddenly more Mersey-side than Malaysian, ‘they’ll see everything down to my navel. You realise I’ll have to be made-up down to the hips?’

  ‘That’s the least of our worries,’ said the producer. ‘We can’t have any frontal view at all. Not on a show that comes out at seven-thirty. We start with number one camera, on your back. O.K. Jack?’

  ‘What have two and three got that I haven’t?’ said the number one camera-man who had red hair and a reputation for wit.

  ‘We cut the frame off just above the hips. Then, when we cue in the guard on three, you start turning, quite slowly, Jenny, and we pick up a half front view on number two. And when I say half front, I mean rather less than half front.’

  ‘One tit and you’re oot,’ said Jack.

  ‘That’s quite enough from you,’ said the producer. He was making notes on his script. ‘We’ll need a two-shot on three when Hugo gives the guard a karate chop. Two, you’ll have to track up quite close to the door, or you’ll block the sound boom.’

  ‘If I get too close to the door,’ said the number two cameraman, ‘I shan’t be able to pan round and follow Hugo out.’

&nb
sp; The producer considered the matter. Number two was an experienced operator and didn’t make unnecessary difficulties.

  He said, ‘If we angle the shot slightly, there should be room for both of you. It’ll be a squeeze.’ He took a piece of chalk from his pocket and drew two lines on the floor.

  ‘What about keeping the mike further back?’

  ‘No. We want it close in when Hugo hits the guard. Viewers nowadays know all about karate chops. They like to hear them as well as see them. All right everyone. I’m going upstairs. We’ll give it a dry run first time.’

  ‘I wish they’d heat these bloody studios properly,’ said the Unspotted Lotus.

  ‘It’s no good, Sam,’ said Philippa Hayes-Borton. ‘It’s just not on. It’s not that I’m against it personally. In fact, I’m on your side. You know how I had to fight to get the last thirteen for you.’

  ‘The last series got good ratings.’

  ‘They’ve all had good ratings. From number one down to number seven.’

  ‘Then why not keep on with it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you why, Sam. It’s because television’s growing up. And people are growing up with it. Nowadays, they’ve got to feel themselves involved. This Tiger character lives in a dream world.’

  ‘Most people live in dream worlds,’ said Sam. He realised that he was up against it, but he wasn’t going to give up without a fight. His private opinion of Philippa Hayes-Borton was that she was a bitch. And not even an attractive bitch, with her square face and her grey hair, which seemed to be tinged at the edges with yellow from the countless cigarettes she smoked. But since she was head of series, she had to be played up. And Sam, as an agent, had to do most of the playing. It was how he earned his ten per cent.

  He said, ‘In a balanced programme there’s room for all sorts.’

  ‘Do you think I haven’t told them that? I like Hugo. He’s a good actor. And he’s got a big following. It’s the series that’s wrong, not him.’

  ‘Suppose we told the script-writers to up-date the series.’

  Miss Hayes-Borton shook her heavy grey head so emphatically that her swinging grey hair nearly knocked the cigarette out of her mouth.

  She said, ‘You’re talking nonsense, Sam. And you know it. Look. We’ve had – how many? Seven times thirteen. Ninety-one episodes. That means the Tiger has rescued ninety-one girls and knocked out ninety-one villains. Mostly foreigners. There’s hardly a member of the United Nations hasn’t contributed at least one villain. The series is set hard. Set in concrete. If you tried to modernise it you’d crack it wide open.’

  Sam didn’t bother to argue with this, because he knew it was true. Like the seasoned campaigner he was, he shifted his ground and said, ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it. The trouble is, Hugo’s an awkward age. Getting on for forty.’

  ‘Thirty-seven.’

  ‘Thirty-eight next month.’ She had it all down on the paper in front of her. ‘He’s not quite old enough for father of a problem family. We’ve got one or two series of that sort on the drawing-board.’

  Sam shuddered. He said, ‘Teenage children. The pill. Student revolt. Pot. Generation gap. Inability to communicate. Do people really want that sort of thing after supper.’

  ‘Whether they want it or not, they’re going to get it. It’s the Company’s new image.’

  ‘I think it’s mad,’ said Sam. Real life is so bloody nowadays that no one wants it on the screen as well. If you have to live on stew all day, you don’t want it served up cold in the evening.’

  ‘We have got other slots. Has Hugo ever thought about the classics? We’re doing Trollope this autumn. A lot of good supporting characters in Trollope.’

  ‘Hugo isn’t a supporting character,’ said Sam. ‘He’s a star.’

  As he said it, he seemed to be speaking some sort of epitaph.

  Hugo went down in the lift with Geoffrey Larrimore, a big middle-aged man running comfortably to fat. Geoffrey had featured in most of the Tiger episodes. He played the big wheel, the man who spent his working day in a comfortable office, despatching other men on dangerous assignments.

  As they crossed the entrance hall, George, the one-armed receptionist, said, ‘Good night, Mr. Larrimore. Good night, Mr. Greest. I’m sorry we shan’t be having any more of the Tiger. My family all looked forward to it.’

  ‘If you’ve heard that,’ said Hugo, ‘you’ve heard more than I have.’

  ‘George always gets things in advance,’ said Larrimore. ‘I believe he’s got all the conference rooms wired for sound.’

  ‘Well, I hope it’s wrong, sir. It was only a buzz.’

  ‘Your buzzes are never wrong,’ said Hugo.

  As they stepped out of the television building, a group of boys, who had been waiting in the shadows, hurried forward, holding autograph books in front of them, but saying nothing. Each one wore, in his button-hole or pinned to his coat, the dull bronze tiger’s head which was the badge of the Tiger Fan Club.

  Hugo scribbled his name on each page as it was offered to him.

  He had devised a special signature, with a flourish at the end which looked like a tiger’s tall. Each boy, as his book was signed, muttered a word which might have been anything at all and slid off into the darkness.

  ‘What do you suppose they do with them?’ said Larrimore.

  ‘I’ve often wondered,’ said Hugo. ‘One boy, I recognised him because he had a terrific squint, I must have signed his book twenty times.’

  ‘Perhaps he used them as swaps. One actor for two politicians.’

  ‘Or three actors for one soccer player. I want a drink. What about it?’

  ‘Twist my arm hard enough.’

  The saloon bar was not more than half full. The landlord recognised Hugo and gave him the big smile he reserved for ranking television personalities. The wall behind the bar was papered with signed photographs, place of honour being reserved for the landlord shaking hands with Bob Hope. He served them himself and they took their glasses to a table in the corner.

  Larrimore said, ‘Do you think George is right? I hadn’t heard anything definite.”

  ‘George is always right,’ said Hugo. He finished his first whisky quickly, and fetched two more. ‘I haven’t heard anything myself, but I know Sam’s having a heart-to-heart with la Hayes-Borton this evening.’

  ‘Why they wanted to make that cow head of series passes my feeble comprehension. If ever there was a man’s job, I should have thought that was it.’

  ‘I don’t know. They say that nearly three-quarters of the viewers are women.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s why they need a man to cater for them. I’m going to get myself a sandwich. The corned beef and pickle are rather good.’

  They ate corned beef and pickle sandwiches with their third drinks. The room was filling up now. Larrimore lit a cigarette, said, ‘I smoke too much,’ in the tone of voice of someone who hasn’t the slightest intention of stopping, and, ‘Just one more, if you insist,’ when Hugo looked at their empty glasses. ‘Only more water in mine this time.’

  When Hugo came back with the drinks he had to push his way through the crowd. Quite a few of them were minor characters from the studios, who grinned at him. The rest were locals from the down-at-heels part of London in which, for no logical reason, the great television complex had sprung up. The two elements had not fused together very well, and there was a town-and-gown hostility which flared up from time to time.

  ‘If George is right,’ said Hugo, returning to the subject which was on both their minds, ‘what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘What I’d like to do,’ said Larrimore, ‘is a season in rep. But that’s what almost everyone wants when he gets slung out of television, so I don’t suppose I shall get it. Failing that, I’m going to have a shot at this Trollope lark. I’ve always fancied myself as an archdeacon.’

  ‘It’s all very well for you,’ said Hugo. ‘You’ve got plenty of options. I’m
stuck. To the public, I’m the Tiger. If I turned up as a curate at Barchester, they’d think it was a gag.’

  ‘Sam will work the oracle.’

  ‘Sam Maxfeldt’s a bloody good agent. He saved my bacon when I got into the top line. I made the mistake everyone makes when that happens to them. Stop me if I’m boring you.’

  ‘When I get bored, I yawn. When you see me yawning, you can stop.’

  ‘Well, you know how it is. For a long time, even if you get the breaks, you’re lucky to make more than a thousand a year.’

  ‘You’re bloody lucky if you make that.’

  ‘Then, for no particular reason, you go clear up through the stratosphere, and make twenty thousand.’

  ‘Go on. I like hearing about it.’

  ‘That’s when the trouble starts. The first year, you spend it. Every gorgeous penny of it. The second year, you spend most of it, but you’ve got a niggling feeling that you ought to put something by. The third year, you wake up. The dream’s over. That’s when you have to pay tax on the previous year and surtax on the year before. And you haven’t got it.’

  ‘So what do you do?’

  ‘Well, there’s several things you can do. You can shoot yourself, or file your bankruptcy petition – or put yourself into Sam’s hands and do exactly what he tells you. For the next three years, I never touched a penny of what I earned. It all went straight to Sam, and he doled me out a weekly allowance. I gave up my flat in Albany, my Jack Barclay Bentley and about six clubs. I stopped buying a new suit every week, and I went home to share a house with my mother. It was like coming off a drug jag. I didn’t like it, but it’s beginning to work. Sam got the tax people off my back, and one more Tiger series would have cleared me. That’s why it’s such a bore they have to stop right now. Time for one more?’