Книга - N or M?

N or M?
Agatha Christie


Tommy & Tuppence are hired to track down wartime spies at a seaside resort…It is World War II, and while the RAF struggles to keep the Luftwaffe at bay, Britain faces an even more sinister threat from ‘the enemy within’ – Nazis posing as ordinary citizens.With pressure mounting, the Intelligence service appoints two unlikely spies, Tommy and Tuppence Beresford. Their mission: to seek out a man and a woman from among the colourful guests at Sans Souci, a seaside hotel. But this assignment is no stroll along the promenade. After all, N and M have just murdered Britain’s finest agent…














N or M?








Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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First published in Great Britain by

Collins 1941

Agatha Christie® Tommy & Tuppence® N or M?™

Copyright © 1941 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved.

www.agathachristie.com (http://www.agathachristie.com)

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015 Cover illustration based on photograph © 2014 Endor Productions. Stills photographer: Robert Viglasky

Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780007590612

Ebook Edition © Jan 2015 ISBN: 9780007422616

Version: 2017-04-17


Contents

Cover (#u649c4f01-4eaa-5d20-86bc-cc14b6e317c3)

Title Page (#u0379e288-3957-5078-92c2-66964783b781)

Copyright (#u22087dfe-2c8f-58f8-89a6-fe7f21376c23)

CHAPTER 1 (#u0d9e56bb-6036-51cd-995d-129693e36f20)

CHAPTER 2 (#u0ea2bee2-e0b4-5422-86f0-6d0e64f635d2)

CHAPTER 3 (#u4b318160-768a-540e-b8e3-00f29f2c4e73)

CHAPTER 4 (#u6869e2c7-8637-55f4-8b5d-016307833777)

CHAPTER 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Agatha Christie (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER 1 (#u64b8c3c2-b931-5e24-b5c8-20b4c48fbe1b)


Tommy Beresford removed his overcoat in the hall of the flat. He hung it up with some care, taking time over it. His hat went carefully on the next peg.

He squared his shoulders, affixed a resolute smile to his face and walked into the sitting-room, where his wife sat knitting a Balaclava helmet in khaki wool.

It was the spring of 1940.

Mrs Beresford gave him a quick glance and then busied herself by knitting at a furious rate. She said after a minute or two:

‘Any news in the evening paper?’

Tommy said:

‘The Blitzkrieg is coming, hurray, hurray! Things look bad in France.’

Tuppence said:

‘It’s a depressing world at the moment.’

There was a pause and then Tommy said:

‘Well, why don’t you ask? No need to be so damned tactful.’

‘I know,’ admitted Tuppence. ‘There is something about conscious tact that is very irritating. But then it irritates you if I do ask. And anyway I don’t need to ask. It’s written all over you.’

‘I wasn’t conscious of looking a Dismal Desmond.’

‘No, darling,’ said Tuppence. ‘You had a kind of nailed to the mast smile which was one of the most heartrending things I have ever seen.’

Tommy said with a grin:

‘No, was it really as bad as all that?’

‘And more! Well, come on, out with it. Nothing doing?’

‘Nothing doing. They don’t want me in any capacity. I tell you, Tuppence, it’s pretty thick when a man of forty-six is made to feel like a doddering grandfather. Army, Navy, Air Force, Foreign Office, one and all say the same thing—I’m too old. I may be required later.’

Tuppence said:

‘Well, it’s the same for me. They don’t want people of my age for nursing—no, thank you. Nor for anything else. They’d rather have a fluffy chit who’s never seen a wound or sterilised a dressing than they would have me who worked for three years, 1915 to 1918, in various capacities, nurse in the surgical ward and operating theatre, driver of a trade delivery van and later of a General. This, that and the other—all, I assert firmly, with conspicuous success. And now I’m a poor, pushing, tiresome, middle-aged woman who won’t sit at home quietly and knit as she ought to do.’

Tommy said gloomily:

‘This war is hell.’

‘It’s bad enough having a war,’ said Tuppence, ‘but not being allowed to do anything in it just puts the lid on.’

Tommy said consolingly:

‘Well, at any rate Deborah has got a job.’

Deborah’s mother said:

‘Oh, she’s all right. I expect she’s good at it, too. But I still think, Tommy, that I could hold my own with Deborah.’

Tommy grinned.

‘She wouldn’t think so.’

Tuppence said:

‘Daughters can be very trying. Especially when they will be so kind to you.’

Tommy murmured:

‘The way young Derek makes allowances for me is sometimes rather hard to bear. That “poor old Dad” look in his eye.’

‘In fact,’ said Tuppence, ‘our children, although quite adorable, are also quite maddening.’

But at the mention of the twins, Derek and Deborah, her eyes were very tender.

‘I suppose,’ said Tommy thoughtfully, ‘that it’s always hard for people themselves to realise that they’re getting middle-aged and past doing things.’

Tuppence gave a snort of rage, tossed her glossy dark head, and sent her ball of khaki wool spinning from her lap.

‘Are we past doing things? Are we? Or is it only that everyone keeps insinuating that we are. Sometimes I feel that we never were any use.’

‘Quite likely,’ said Tommy.

‘Perhaps so. But at any rate we did once feel important. And now I’m beginning to feel that all that never really happened. Did it happen, Tommy? Is it true that you were once crashed on the head and kidnapped by German agents? Is it true that we once tracked down a dangerous criminal—and got him! Is it true that we rescued a girl and got hold of important secret papers, and were practically thanked by a grateful country? Us! You and me! Despised, unwanted Mr and Mrs Beresford.’

‘Now dry up, darling. All this does no good.’

‘All the same,’ said Tuppence, blinking back a tear, ‘I’m disappointed in our Mr Carter.’

‘He wrote us a very nice letter.’

‘He didn’t do anything—he didn’t even hold out any hope.’

‘Well, he’s out of it all nowadays. Like us. He’s quite old. Lives in Scotland and fishes.’

Tuppence said wistfully:

‘They might have let us do something in the Intelligence.’

‘Perhaps we couldn’t,’ said Tommy. ‘Perhaps, nowadays, we wouldn’t have the nerve.’

‘I wonder,’ said Tuppence. ‘One feels just the same. But perhaps, as you say, when it came to the point—’

She sighed. She said:

‘I wish we could find a job of some kind. It’s so rotten when one has so much time to think.’

Her eyes rested just for a minute on the photograph of the very young man in the Air Force uniform, with the wide grinning smile so like Tommy’s.

Tommy said:

‘It’s worse for a man. Women can knit, after all—and do up parcels and help at canteens.’

Tuppence said:

‘I can do all that twenty years from now. I’m not old enough to be content with that. I’m neither one thing nor the other.’

The front door bell rang. Tuppence got up. The flat was a small service one.

She opened the door to find a broad-shouldered man with a big fair moustache and a cheerful red face, standing on the mat.

His glance, a quick one, took her in as he asked in a pleasant voice:

‘Are you Mrs Beresford?’

‘Yes.’

‘My name’s Grant. I’m a friend of Lord Easthampton’s. He suggested I should look you and your husband up.’

‘Oh, how nice, do come in.’

She preceded him into the sitting-room.

‘My husband, er—Captain—’

‘Mr.’

‘Mr Grant. He’s a friend of Mr Car—of Lord Easthampton’s.’

The old nom de guerre of the former Chief of the Intelligence, ‘Mr Carter’, always came more easily to her lips than their old friend’s proper title.

For a few minutes the three talked happily together. Grant was an attractive person with an easy manner.

Presently Tuppence left the room. She returned a few minutes later with the sherry and some glasses.

After a few minutes, when a pause came, Mr Grant said to Tommy:

‘I hear you’re looking for a job, Beresford?’

An eager light came into Tommy’s eye.

‘Yes, indeed. You don’t mean—’

Grant laughed, and shook his head.

‘Oh, nothing of that kind. No, I’m afraid that has to be left to the young active men—or to those who’ve been at it for years. The only things I can suggest are rather stodgy, I’m afraid. Office work. Filing papers. Tying them up in red tape and pigeon-holing them. That sort of thing.’

Tommy’s face fell.

‘Oh, I see!’

Grant said encouragingly:

‘Oh well, it’s better than nothing. Anyway, come and see me at my office one day. Ministry of Requirements. Room 22. We’ll fix you up with something.’

The telephone rang. Tuppence picked up the receiver.

‘Hallo—yes—what?’ A squeaky voice spoke agitatedly from the other end. Tuppence’s face changed. ‘When?—Oh, my dear—of course—I’ll come over right away…’

She put back the receiver.

She said to Tommy:

‘That was Maureen.’

‘I thought so—I recognised her voice from here.’

Tuppence explained breathlessly:

‘I’m so sorry, Mr Grant. But I must go round to this friend of mine. She’s fallen and twisted her ankle and there’s no one with her but her little girl, so I must go round and fix up things for her and get hold of someone to come in and look after her. Do forgive me.’

‘Of course, Mrs Beresford. I quite understand.’

Tuppence smiled at him, picked up a coat which had been lying over the sofa, slipped her arms into it and hurried out. The flat door banged.

Tommy poured out another glass of sherry for his guest.

‘Don’t go yet,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’ The other accepted the glass. He sipped it for a moment in silence. Then he said, ‘In a way, you know, your wife’s being called away is a fortunate occurrence. It will save time.’

Tommy stared.

‘I don’t understand.’

Grant said deliberately:

‘You see, Beresford, if you had come to see me at the Ministry, I was empowered to put a certain proposition before you.’

The colour came slowly up in Tommy’s freckled face. He said:

‘You don’t mean—’

Grant nodded.

‘Easthampton suggested you,’ he said. ‘He told us you were the man for the job.’

Tommy gave a deep sigh.

‘Tell me,’ he said.

‘This is strictly confidential, of course.’

Tommy nodded.

‘Not even your wife must know. You understand?’

‘Very well—if you say so. But we worked together before.’

‘Yes, I know. But this proposition is solely for you.’

‘I see. All right.’

‘Ostensibly you will be offered work—as I said just now—office work—in a branch of the Ministry functioning in Scotland—in a prohibited area where your wife cannot accompany you. Actually you will be somewhere very different.’

Tommy merely waited.

Grant said:

‘You’ve read in the newspapers of the Fifth Column? You know, roughly at any rate, just what that term implies.’

Tommy murmured:

‘The enemy within.’

‘Exactly. This war, Beresford, started in an optimistic spirit. Oh, I don’t mean the people who really knew—we’ve known all along what we were up against—the efficiency of the enemy, his aerial strength, his deadly determination, and the co-ordination of his well-planned war machine. I mean the people as a whole. The good-hearted, muddle-headed democratic fellow who believes what he wants to believe—that Germany will crack up, that she’s on the verge of revolution, that her weapons of war are made of tin and that her men are so underfed that they’ll fall down if they try to march—all that sort of stuff. Wishful thinking as the saying goes.

‘Well, the war didn’t go that way. It started badly and it went on worse. The men were all right—the men on the battleships and in the planes and in the dug-outs. But there was mismanagement and unpreparedness—the defects, perhaps, of our qualities. We don’t want war, haven’t considered it seriously, weren’t good at preparing for it.

‘The worst of that is over. We’ve corrected our mistakes, we’re slowly getting the right men in the right place. We’re beginning to run the war as it should be run—and we can win the war—make no mistake about that—but only if we don’t lose it first. And the danger of losing it comes, not from outside—not from the might of Germany’s bombers, not from her seizure of neutral countries and fresh vantage points from which to attack—but from within. Our danger is the danger of Troy—the wooden horse within our walls. Call it the Fifth Column if you like. It is here, among us. Men and women, some of them highly placed, some of them obscure, but all believing genuinely in the Nazi aims and the Nazi creed and desiring to substitute that sternly efficient creed for the muddled easy-going liberty of our democratic institutions.’

Grant leant forward. He said, still in that same pleasant unemotional voice:

‘And we don’t know who they are…’

Tommy said: ‘But surely—’

Grant said with a touch of impatience:

‘Oh, we can round up the small fry. That’s easy enough. But it’s the others. We know about them. We know that there are at least two highly placed in the Admiralty—that one must be a member of General G—’s staff—that there are three or more in the Air Force, and that two, at least, are members of the Intelligence, and have access to Cabinet secrets. We know that because it must be so from the way things have happened. The leakage—a leakage from the top—of information to the enemy, shows us that.’

Tommy said helplessly, his pleasant face perplexed:

‘But what good should I be to you? I don’t know any of these people.’

Grant nodded.

‘Exactly. You don’t know any of them—and they don’t know you.’

He paused to let it sink in and then went on:

‘These people, these high-up people, know most of our lot. Information can’t be very well refused to them. I am at my wits’ end. I went to Easthampton. He’s out of it all now—a sick man—but his brain’s the best I’ve ever known. He thought of you. Over twenty years since you worked for the department. Name quite unconnected with it. Your face not known. What do you say—will you take it on?’

Tommy’s face was almost split in two by the magnitude of his ecstatic grin.

‘Take it on? You bet I’ll take it on. Though I can’t see how I can be of any use. I’m just a blasted amateur.’

‘My dear Beresford, amateur status is just what is needed. The professional is handicapped here. You’ll take the place of the best man we had or are likely to have.’

Tommy looked a question. Grant nodded.

‘Yes. Died in St Bridget’s Hospital last Tuesday. Run down by a lorry—only lived a few hours. Accident case—but it wasn’t an accident.’

Tommy said slowly: ‘I see.’

Grant said quietly:

‘And that’s why we have reason to believe that Farquhar was on to something—that he was getting somewhere at last. By his death that wasn’t an accident.’

Tommy looked a question.

Grant went on:

‘Unfortunately we know next to nothing of what he had discovered. Farquhar had been methodically following up one line after another. Most of them led nowhere.’

Grant paused and then went on:

‘Farquhar was unconscious until a few minutes before he died. Then he tried to say something. What he said was this: N or M. Song Susie.’

‘That,’ said Tommy, ‘doesn’t seem very illuminating.’

Grant smiled.

‘A little more so than you might think. N or M, you see, is a term we have heard before. It refers to two of the most important and trusted German agents. We have come across their activities in other countries and we know just a little about them. It is their mission to organise a Fifth Column in foreign countries and to act as liaison officer between the country in question and Germany. N, we know, is a man. M is a woman. All we know about them is that these two are Hitler’s most highly trusted agents and that in a code message we managed to decipher towards the beginning of the war there occurred this phrase—Suggest N or M for England. Full powers—’

‘I see. And Farquhar—’

‘As I see it, Farquhar must have got on the track of one or other of them. Unfortunately we don’t know which. Song Susie sounds very cryptic—but Farquhar hadn’t a high-class French accent! There was a return ticket to Leahampton in his pocket which is suggestive. Leahampton is on the south coast—a budding Bournemouth or Torquay. Lots of private hotels and guesthouses. Amongst them is one called Sans Souci—’

Tommy said again:

‘Song Susie—Sans Souci—I see.’

Grant said: ‘Do you?’

‘The idea is,’ Tommy said, ‘that I should go there and—well—ferret round.’

‘That is the idea.’

Tommy’s smile broke out again.

‘A bit vague, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘I don’t even know what I’m looking for.’

‘And I can’t tell you. I don’t know. It’s up to you.’

Tommy sighed. He squared his shoulders.

‘I can have a shot at it. But I’m not a very brainy sort of chap.’

‘You did pretty well in the old days, so I’ve heard.’

‘Oh, that was pure luck,’ said Tommy hastily.

‘Well, luck is rather what we need.’

Tommy considered a moment or two. Then he said:

‘About this place, Sans Souci—’

Grant shrugged his shoulders.

‘May be all a mare’s nest. I can’t tell. Farquhar may have been thinking of “Sister Susie sewing shirts for soldiers”. It’s all guesswork.’

‘And Leahampton itself?’

‘Just like any other of these places. There are rows of them. Old ladies, old Colonels, unimpeachable spinsters, dubious customers, fishy customers, a foreigner or two. In fact, a mixed bag.’

‘And N or M amongst them?’

‘Not necessarily. Somebody, perhaps, who’s in touch with N or M. But it’s quite likely to be N or M themselves. It’s an inconspicuous sort of place, a boarding-house at a seaside resort.’

‘You’ve no idea whether it’s a man or a woman I’ve to look for?’

Grant shook his head.

Tommy said: ‘Well, I can but try.’

‘Good luck to your trying, Beresford. Now—to details—’

Half an hour later when Tuppence broke in, panting and eager with curiosity, Tommy was alone, whistling in an armchair with a doubtful expression on his face.

‘Well?’ demanded Tuppence, throwing an infinity of feeling into the monosyllable.

‘Well,’ said Tommy with a somewhat doubtful air, ‘I’ve got a job—of kinds.’

‘What kind?’

Tommy made a suitable grimace.

‘Office work in the wilds of Scotland. Hush-hush and all that, but doesn’t sound very thrilling.’

‘Both of us, or only you?’

‘Only me, I’m afraid.’

‘Blast and curse you. How could our Mr Carter be so mean?’

‘I imagine they segregate the sexes in these jobs. Otherwise too distracting for the mind.’

‘Is it coding—or code breaking? Is it like Deborah’s job? Do be careful, Tommy, people go queer doing that and can’t sleep and walk about all night groaning and repeating 978345286 or something like that and finally have nervous breakdowns and go into homes.’

‘Not me.’

Tuppence said gloomily:

‘I expect you will sooner or later. Can I come too—not to work but just as a wife. Slippers in front of the fire and a hot meal at the end of the day?’

Tommy looked uncomfortable.

‘Sorry, old thing. I am sorry. I hate leaving you—’

‘But you feel you ought to go,’ murmured Tuppence reminiscently.

‘After all,’ said Tommy feebly, ‘you can knit, you know.’

‘Knit?’ said Tuppence. ‘Knit?’

Seizing her Balaclava helmet she flung it on the ground.

‘I hate khaki wool,’ said Tuppence, ‘and Navy wool and Air Force blue. I should like to knit something magenta!’

‘It has a fine military sound,’ said Tommy. ‘Almost a suggestion of Blitzkrieg.’

He felt definitely very unhappy. Tuppence, however, was a Spartan and played up well, admitting freely that of course he had to take the job and that it didn’t really matter about her. She added that she had heard they wanted someone to scrub down the First-Aid Post floors. She might possibly be found fit to do that.

Tommy departed for Aberdeen three days later. Tuppence saw him off at the station. Her eyes were bright and she blinked once or twice, but she kept resolutely cheerful.

Only as the train drew out of the station and Tommy saw the forlorn little figure walking away down the platform did he feel a lump in his own throat. War or no war he felt he was deserting Tuppence…

He pulled himself together with an effort. Orders were orders.

Having duly arrived in Scotland, he took a train the next day to Manchester. On the third day a train deposited him at Leahampton. Here he went to the principal hotel and on the following day made a tour of various private hotels and guesthouses, seeing rooms and inquiring terms for a long stay.

Sans Souci was a dark red Victorian villa, set on the side of a hill with a good view over the sea from its upper windows. There was a slight smell of dust and cooking in the hall and the carpet was worn, but it compared quite favourably with some of the other establishments Tommy had seen. He interviewed the proprietress, Mrs Perenna, in her office, a small untidy room with a large desk covered with loose papers.

Mrs Perenna herself was rather untidy looking, a woman of middle-age with a large mop of fiercely curling black hair, some vaguely applied make-up and a determined smile showing a lot of very white teeth.

Tommy murmured a mention of his elderly cousin, Miss Meadowes, who had stayed at Sans Souci two years ago. Mrs Perenna remembered Miss Meadowes quite well—such a dear old lady—at least perhaps not really old—very active and such a sense of humour.

Tommy agreed cautiously. There was, he knew, a real Miss Meadowes—the department was careful about these points.

And how was dear Miss Meadowes?

Tommy explained sadly that Miss Meadowes was no more and Mrs Perenna clicked her teeth sympathetically and made the proper noises and put on a correct mourning face.

She was soon talking volubly again. She had, she was sure, just the room that would suit Mr Meadowes. A lovely sea view. She thought Mr Meadowes was so right to want to get out of London. Very depressing nowadays, so she understood, and, of course, after such a bad go of influenza—

Still talking, Mrs Perenna led Tommy upstairs and showed him various bedrooms. She mentioned a weekly sum. Tommy displayed dismay. Mrs Perenna explained that prices had risen so appallingly. Tommy explained that his income had unfortunately decreased and what with taxation and one thing and another—

Mrs Perenna groaned and said:

‘This terrible war—’

Tommy agreed and said that in his opinion that fellow Hitler ought to be hanged. A madman, that’s what he was, a madman.

Mrs Perenna agreed and said that what with rations and the difficulty the butchers had in getting the meat they wanted—and sometimes too much and sweet-breads and liver practically disappeared, it all made housekeeping very difficult, but as Mr Meadowes was a relation of Miss Meadowes, she would make it half a guinea less.

Tommy then beat a retreat with the promise to think it over and Mrs Perenna pursued him to the gate, talking more volubly than ever and displaying an archness that Tommy found most alarming. She was, he admitted, quite a handsome woman in her way. He found himself wondering what her nationality was. Surely not quite English? The name was Spanish or Portuguese, but that would be her husband’s nationality, not hers. She might, he thought, be Irish, though she had no brogue. But it would account for the vitality and the exuberance.

It was finally settled that Mr Meadowes should move in the following day.

Tommy timed his arrival for six o’clock. Mrs Perenna came out into the hall to greet him, threw a series of instructions about his luggage to an almost imbecile-looking maid, who goggled at Tommy with her mouth open, and then led him into what she called the lounge.

‘I always introduce my guests,’ said Mrs Perenna, beaming determinedly at the suspicious glares of five people. ‘This is our new arrival, Mr Meadowes—Mrs O’Rourke.’ A terrifying mountain of a woman with beady eyes and a moustache gave him a beaming smile.

‘Major Bletchley.’ Major Bletchley eyed Tommy appraisingly and made a stiff inclination of the head.

‘Mr von Deinim.’ A young man, very stiff, fair-haired and blue-eyed, got up and bowed.

‘Miss Minton.’ An elderly woman with a lot of beads, knitting with khaki wool, smiled and tittered.

‘And Mrs Blenkensop.’ More knitting—an untidy dark head which lifted from an absorbed contemplation of a Balaclava helmet.

Tommy held his breath, the room spun round.

Mrs Blenkensop! Tuppence! By all that was impossible and unbelievable—Tuppence, calmly knitting in the lounge of Sans Souci.

Her eyes met his—polite, uninterested stranger’s eyes.

His admiration rose.

Tuppence!




CHAPTER 2 (#u64b8c3c2-b931-5e24-b5c8-20b4c48fbe1b)


How Tommy got through that evening he never quite knew. He dared not let his eyes stray too often in the direction of Mrs Blenkensop. At dinner three more habitués of Sans Souci appeared—a middle-aged couple, Mr and Mrs Cayley, and a young mother, Mrs Sprot, who had come down with her baby girl from London and was clearly much bored by her enforced stay at Leahampton. She was placed next to Tommy and at intervals fixed him with a pair of pale gooseberry eyes and in a slightly adenoidal voice asked: ‘Don’t you think it’s really quite safe now? Everyone’s going back, aren’t they?’

Before Tommy could reply to these artless queries, his neighbour on the other side, the beaded lady, struck in:

‘What I say is one mustn’t risk anything with children. Your sweet little Betty. You’d never forgive yourself and you know that Hitler has said the Blitzkrieg on England is coming quite soon now—and quite a new kind of gas, I believe.’

Major Bletchley cut in sharply:

‘Lot of nonsense talked about gas. The fellows won’t waste time fiddling round with gas. High explosive and incendiary bombs. That’s what was done in Spain.’

The whole table plunged into the argument with gusto. Tuppence’s voice, high-pitched and slightly fatuous, piped out: ‘My son Douglas says—’

‘Douglas, indeed,’ thought Tommy. ‘Why Douglas, I should like to know.’

After dinner, a pretentious meal of several meagre courses, all of which were equally tasteless, everyone drifted into the lounge. Knitting was resumed and Tommy was compelled to hear a long and extremely boring account of Major Bletchley’s experiences on the North-West Frontier.

The fair young man with the bright blue eyes went out, executing a little bow on the threshold of the room.

Major Bletchley broke off his narrative and administered a kind of dig in the ribs to Tommy.

‘That fellow who’s just gone out. He’s a refugee. Got out of Germany about a month before the war.’

‘He’s a German?’

‘Yes. Not a Jew either. His father got into trouble for criticising the Nazi régime. Two of his brothers are in concentration camps over there. This fellow got out just in time.’

At this moment Tommy was taken possession of by Mr Cayley, who told him at interminable length all about his health. So absorbing was the subject to the narrator that it was close upon bedtime before Tommy could escape.

On the following morning Tommy rose early and strolled down to the front. He walked briskly to the pier returning along the esplanade when he spied a familiar figure coming in the other direction. Tommy raised his hat.

‘Good morning,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Er—Mrs Blenkensop, isn’t it?’

There was no one within earshot. Tuppence replied:

‘Dr Livingstone to you.’

‘How on earth did you get here, Tuppence?’ murmured Tommy. ‘It’s a miracle—an absolute miracle.’

‘It’s not a miracle at all—just brains.’

‘Your brains, I suppose?’

‘You suppose rightly. You and your uppish Mr Grant. I hope this will teach him a lesson.’

‘It certainly ought to,’ said Tommy. ‘Come on, Tuppence, tell me how you managed it. I’m simply devoured with curiosity.’

‘It was quite simple. The moment Grant talked of our Mr Carter I guessed what was up. I knew it wouldn’t be just some miserable office job. But his manner showed me that I wasn’t going to be allowed in on this. So I resolved to go one better. I went to fetch some sherry and, when I did, I nipped down to the Browns’ flat and rang up Maureen. Told her to ring me up and what to say. She played up loyally—nice high squeaky voice—you could hear what she was saying all over the room. I did my stuff, registered annoyance, compulsion, distressed friend, and rushed off with every sign of vexation. Banged the hall door, carefully remaining inside it, and slipped into the bedroom and eased open the communicating door that’s hidden by the tallboy.’

‘And you heard everything?’

‘Everything,’ said Tuppence complacently.

Tommy said reproachfully:

‘And you never let on?’

‘Certainly not. I wished to teach you a lesson. You and your Mr Grant.’

‘He’s not exactly my Mr Grant and I should say you have taught him a lesson.’

‘Mr Carter wouldn’t have treated me so shabbily,’ said Tuppence. ‘I don’t think the Intelligence is anything like what it was in our day.’

Tommy said gravely: ‘It will attain its former brilliance now we’re back in it. But why Blenkensop?’

‘Why not?’

‘It seems such an odd name to choose.’

‘It was the first one I thought of and it’s handy for underclothes.’

‘What do you mean, Tuppence?’

‘B, you idiot. B for Beresford. B for Blenkensop. Embroidered on my camiknickers. Patricia Blenkensop. Prudence Beresford. Why did you choose Meadowes? It’s a silly name.’

‘To begin with,’ said Tommy, ‘I don’t have large B’s embroidered on my pants. And to continue, I didn’t choose it. I was told to call myself Meadowes. Mr Meadowes is a gentleman with a respectable past—all of which I’ve learnt by heart.’

‘Very nice,’ said Tuppence. ‘Are you married or single?’

‘I’m a widower,’ said Tommy with dignity. ‘My wife died ten years ago at Singapore.’

‘Why at Singapore?’

‘We’ve all got to die somewhere. What’s wrong with Singapore?’

‘Oh, nothing. It’s probably a most suitable place to die. I’m a widow.’

‘Where did your husband die?’

‘Does it matter? Probably in a nursing home. I rather fancy he died of cirrhosis of the liver.’

‘I see. A painful subject. And what about your son Douglas?’

‘Douglas is in the Navy.’

‘So I heard last night.’

‘And I’ve got two other sons. Raymond is in the Air Force and Cyril, my baby, is in the Territorials.’

‘And suppose someone takes the trouble to check up on these imaginary Blenkensops?’

‘They’re not Blenkensops. Blenkensop was my second husband. My first husband’s name was Hill. There are three pages of Hills in the telephone book. You couldn’t check up on all the Hills if you tried.’

Tommy sighed.

‘It’s the old trouble with you, Tuppence. You will overdo things. Two husbands and three sons. It’s too much. You’ll contradict yourself over the details.’

‘No, I shan’t. And I rather fancy the sons may come in useful. I’m not under orders, remember. I’m a freelance. I’m in this to enjoy myself and I’m going to enjoy myself.’

‘So it seems,’ said Tommy. He added gloomily: ‘If you ask me the whole thing’s a farce.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, you’ve been at Sans Souci longer than I have. Can you honestly say you think any of these people who were there last night could be a dangerous enemy agent?’

Tuppence said thoughtfully:

‘It does seem a little incredible. There’s the young man, of course.’

‘Carl von Deinim. The police check up on refugees, don’t they?’

‘I suppose so. Still, it might be managed. He’s an attractive young man, you know.’

‘Meaning, the girls will tell him things? But what girls? No Generals’ or Admirals’ daughters floating around here. Perhaps he walks out with a Company Commander in the ATS.’

‘Be quiet, Tommy. We ought to be taking this seriously.’

‘I am taking it seriously. It’s just that I feel we’re on a wild-goose chase.’

Tuppence said seriously:

‘It’s too early to say that. After all, nothing’s going to be obvious about this business. What about Mrs Perenna?’

‘Yes,’ said Tommy thoughtfully. ‘There’s Mrs Perenna, I admit—she does want explaining.’

Tuppence said in a business-like tone:

‘What about us? I mean, how are we going to cooperate?’

Tommy said thoughtfully:

‘We mustn’t be seen about too much together.’

‘No, it would be fatal to suggest we know each other better than we appear to do. What we want to decide is the attitude. I think—yes, I think—pursuit is the best angle.’

‘Pursuit?’

‘Exactly. I pursue you. You do your best to escape, but being a mere chivalrous male don’t always succeed. I’ve had two husbands and I’m on the look-out for a third. You act the part of the hunted widower. Every now and then I pin you down somewhere, pen you in a café, catch you walking on the front. Everyone sniggers and thinks it very funny.’

‘Sounds feasible,’ agreed Tommy.

Tuppence said: ‘There’s a kind of age-long humour about the chased male. That ought to stand us in good stead. If we are seen together, all anyone will do is to snigger and say, “Look at poor old Meadowes.”’

Tommy gripped her arm suddenly.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Look ahead of you.’

By the corner of one of the shelters a young man stood talking to a girl. They were both very earnest, very wrapped up in what they were saying.

Tuppence said softly:

‘Carl von Deinim. Who’s the girl, I wonder?’

‘She’s remarkably good-looking, whoever she is.’

Tuppence nodded. Her eyes dwelt thoughtfully on the dark passionate face, and on the tight-fitting pullover that revealed the lines of the girl’s figure. She was talking earnestly, with emphasis. Carl von Deinim was listening to her.

Tuppence murmured:

‘I think this is where you leave me.’

‘Right,’ agreed Tommy.

He turned and strolled in the opposite direction.

At the end of the promenade he encountered Major Bletchley. The latter peered at him suspiciously and then grunted out, ‘Good morning.’

‘Good morning.’

‘See you’re like me, an early riser,’ remarked Bletchley.

Tommy said:

‘One gets in the habit of it out East. Of course, that’s many years ago now, but I still wake early.’

‘Quite right, too,’ said Major Bletchley with approval. ‘God, these young fellows nowadays make me sick. Hot baths—coming down to breakfast at ten o’clock or later. No wonder the Germans have been putting it over on us. No stamina. Soft lot of young pups. Army’s not what it was, anyway. Coddle ’em, that’s what they do nowadays. Tuck ’em up at night with hot-water bottles. Faugh! Makes me sick!’

Tommy shook his head in melancholy fashion and Major Bletchley, thus encouraged, went on:

‘Discipline, that’s what we need. Discipline. How are we going to win the war without discipline? Do you know, sir, some of these fellows come on parade in slacks—so I’ve been told. Can’t expect to win a war that way. Slacks! My God!’

Mr Meadowes hazarded the opinion that things were very different from what they had been.

‘It’s all this democracy,’ said Major Bletchley gloomily. ‘You can overdo anything. In my opinion they’re overdoing the democracy business. Mixing up the officers and the men, feeding together in restaurants—Faugh!—the men don’t like it, Meadowes. The troops know. The troops always know.’

‘Of course,’ said Mr Meadowes, ‘I have no real knowledge of Army matters myself—’

The Major interrupted him, shooting a quick sideways glance. ‘In the show in the last war?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Thought so. Saw you’d been drilled. Shoulders. What regiment?’

‘Fifth Corfeshires.’ Tommy remembered to produce Meadowes’ military record.

‘Ah yes, Salonica!’

‘Yes.’

‘I was in Mespot.’

Bletchley plunged into reminiscences. Tommy listened politely. Bletchley ended up wrathfully.

‘And will they make use of me now? No, they will not. Too old. Too old be damned. I could teach one or two of these young cubs something about war.’

‘Even if it’s only what not to do?’ suggested Tommy with a smile.

‘Eh, what’s that?’

A sense of humour was clearly not Major Bletchley’s strong suit. He peered suspiciously at his companion. Tommy hastened to change the conversation.

‘Know anything about that Mrs—Blenkensop, I think her name is?’

‘That’s right, Blenkensop. Not a bad-looking woman—bit long in the tooth—talks too much. Nice woman, but foolish. No, I don’t know her. She’s only been at Sans Souci a couple of days.’ He added: ‘Why do you ask?’

Tommy explained.

‘Happened to meet her just now. Wondered if she was always out as early as this?’

‘Don’t know, I’m sure. Women aren’t usually given to walking before breakfast—thank God,’ he added.

‘Amen,’ said Tommy. He went on: ‘I’m not much good at making polite conversation before breakfast. Hope I wasn’t rude to the woman, but I wanted my exercise.’

Major Bletchley displayed instant sympathy.

‘I’m with you, Meadowes. I’m with you. Women are all very well in their place, but not before breakfast.’ He chuckled a little. ‘Better be careful, old man. She’s a widow, you know.’

‘Is she?’

The Major dug him cheerfully in the ribs.

‘We know what widows are. She’s buried two husbands and if you ask me she’s on the look-out for number three. Keep a very wary eye open, Meadowes. A wary eye. That’s my advice.’

And in high good humour Major Bletchley wheeled about at the end of the parade and set the pace for a smart walk back to breakfast at Sans Souci.

In the meantime, Tuppence had gently continued her walk along the esplanade, passing quite close to the shelter and the young couple talking there. As she passed she caught a few words. It was the girl speaking.

‘But you must be careful, Carl. The very least suspicion—’

Tuppence was out of earshot. Suggestive words? Yes, but capable of any number of harmless interpretations. Unobtrusively she turned and again passed the two. Again words floated to her.

‘Smug, detestable English…’

The eyebrows of Mrs Blenkensop rose ever so slightly. Carl von Deinim was a refugee from Nazi persecution, given asylum and shelter by England. Neither wise nor grateful to listen assentingly to such words.

Again Tuppence turned. But this time, before she reached the shelter, the couple had parted abruptly, the girl to cross the road leaving the sea front, Carl von Deinim to come along to Tuppence’s direction.

He would not, perhaps, have recognised her but for her own pause and hesitation. Then quickly he brought his heels together and bowed.

Tuppence twittered at him:

‘Good morning, Mr von Deinim, isn’t it? Such a lovely morning.’

‘Ah, yes. The weather is fine.’

Tuppence ran on:

‘It quite tempted me. I don’t often come out before breakfast. But this morning, what with not sleeping very well—one often doesn’t sleep well in a strange place, I find. It takes a day or two to accustom oneself, I always say.’

‘Oh yes, no doubt that is so.’

‘And really this little walk has quite given me an appetite for breakfast.’

‘You go back to Sans Souci now? If you permit I will walk with you.’ He walked gravely by her side.

Tuppence said:

‘You also are out to get an appetite?’

Gravely, he shook his head.

‘Oh no. My breakfast I have already had it. I am on my way to work.’

‘Work?’

‘I am a research chemist.’

‘So that’s what you are,’ thought Tuppence, stealing a quick glance at him.

Carl von Deinim went on, his voice stiff:

‘I came to this country to escape Nazi persecution. I had very little money—no friends. I do now what useful work I can.’

He stared straight ahead of him. Tuppence was conscious of some undercurrent of strong feeling moving him powerfully.

She murmured vaguely:

‘Oh yes, I see. Very creditable, I am sure.’

Carl von Deinim said:

‘My two brothers are in concentration camps. My father died in one. My mother died of sorrow and fear.’

Tuppence thought:

‘The way he says that—as though he had learned it by heart.’

Again she stole a quick glance at him. He was still staring ahead of him, his face impassive.

They walked in silence for some moments. Two men passed them. One of them shot a quick glance at Carl. She heard him mutter to his companion:

‘Bet you that fellow is a German.’

Tuppence saw the colour rise in Carl von Deinim’s cheeks.

Suddenly he lost command of himself. That tide of hidden emotion came to the surface. He stammered:

‘You heard—you heard—that is what they say—I—’

‘My dear boy,’ Tuppence reverted suddenly to her real self. Her voice was crisp and compelling. ‘Don’t be an idiot. You can’t have it both ways.’

He turned his head and stared at her.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re a refugee. You have to take the rough with the smooth. You’re alive, that’s the main thing. Alive and free. For the other—realise that it’s inevitable. This country’s at war. You’re a German.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘You can’t expect the mere man in the street—literally the man in the street—to distinguish between bad Germans and good Germans, if I may put it so crudely.’

He still stared at her. His eyes, so very blue, were poignant with suppressed feeling. Then suddenly he too smiled. He said:

‘They said of Red Indians, did they not, that a good Indian was a dead Indian.’ He laughed. ‘To be a good German I must be on time at my work. Please. Good morning.’

Again that stiff bow. Tuppence stared after his retreating figure. She said to herself:

‘Mrs Blenkensop, you had a lapse then. Strict attention to business in future. Now for breakfast at Sans Souci.’

The hall door of Sans Souci was open. Inside, Mrs Perenna was conducting a vigorous conversation with someone.

‘And you’ll tell him what I think of that last lot of margarine. Get the cooked ham at Quillers—it was twopence cheaper last time there, and be careful about the cabbages—’ She broke off as Tuppence entered.

‘Oh, good morning, Mrs Blenkensop, you are an early bird. You haven’t had breakfast yet. It’s all ready in the dining-room.’ She added, indicating her companion: ‘My daughter Sheila. You haven’t met her. She’s been away and only came home last night.’

Tuppence looked with interest at the vivid, handsome face. No longer full of tragic energy, bored now and resentful. ‘My daughter Sheila.’ Sheila Perenna.

Tuppence murmured a few pleasant words and went into the dining-room. There were three people breakfasting—Mrs Sprot and her baby girl, and big Mrs O’Rourke. Tuppence said ‘Good morning’ and Mrs O’Rourke replied with a hearty ‘The top of the morning to you’ that quite drowned Mrs Sprot’s more anaemic salutation.

The old woman stared at Tuppence with a kind of devouring interest.

‘’Tis a fine thing to be out walking before breakfast,’ she observed. ‘A grand appetite it gives you.’

Mrs Sprot said to her offspring:

‘Nice bread and milk, darling,’ and endeavoured to insinuate a spoonful into Miss Betty Sprot’s mouth.

The latter cleverly circumvented this endeavour by an adroit movement of her head, and continued to stare at Tuppence with large round eyes.

She pointed a milky finger at the newcomer, gave her a dazzling smile and observed in gurgling tones: ‘Ga—ga bouch.’

‘She likes you,’ cried Mrs Sprot, beaming on Tuppence as on one marked out for favour. ‘Sometimes she’s so shy with strangers.’

‘Bouch,’ said Betty Sprot. ‘Ah pooth ah bag,’ she added with emphasis.

‘And what would she be meaning by that?’ demanded Mrs O’Rourke, with interest.

‘She doesn’t speak awfully clearly yet,’ confessed Mrs Sprot. ‘She’s only just over two, you know. I’m afraid most of what she says is just bosh. She can say Mama, though, can’t you, darling?’

Betty looked thoughtfully at her mother and remarked with an air of finality:

‘Cuggle bick.’

‘’Tis a language of their own they have, the little angels,’ boomed out Mrs O’Rourke. ‘Betty, darling, say Mama now.’

Betty looked hard at Mrs O’Rourke, frowned and observed with terrific emphasis: ‘Nazer—’

‘There now, if she isn’t doing her best! And a lovely sweet girl she is.’

Mrs O’Rourke rose, beamed in a ferocious manner at Betty, and waddled heavily out of the room.

‘Ga, ga, ga,’ said Betty with enormous satisfaction, and beat with a spoon on the table.

Tuppence said with a twinkle:

‘What does Nazer really mean?’

Mrs Sprot said with a flush: ‘I’m afraid, you know, it’s what Betty says when she doesn’t like anyone or anything.’

‘I rather thought so,’ said Tuppence.

Both women laughed.

‘After all,’ said Mrs Sprot, ‘Mrs O’Rourke means to be kind but she is rather alarming—with that deep voice and the beard and—and everything.’

With her head on one side Betty made a cooing noise at Tuppence.

‘She has taken to you, Mrs Blenkensop,’ said Mrs Sprot.

There was a slight jealous chill, Tuppence fancied, in her voice. Tuppence hastened to adjust matters.

‘They always like a new face, don’t they?’ she said easily.

The door opened and Major Bletchley and Tommy appeared. Tuppence became arch.

‘Ah, Mr Meadowes,’ she called out. ‘I’ve beaten you, you see. First past the post. But I’ve left you just a little breakfast!’

She indicated with the faintest of gestures the seat beside her.

Tommy, muttering vaguely: ‘Oh—er—rather—thanks,’ sat down at the other end of the table.

Betty Sprot said ‘Putch!’ with a fine splutter of milk at Major Bletchley, whose face instantly assumed a sheepish but delighted expression.

‘And how’s little Miss Bo Peep this morning?’ he asked fatuously. ‘Bo Peep!’ He enacted the play with a newspaper.

Betty crowed with delight.

Serious misgivings shook Tuppence. She thought:

‘There must be some mistake. There can’t be anything going on here. There simply can’t!’

To believe in Sans Souci as a headquarters of the Fifth Column needed the mental equipment of the White Queen in Alice.




CHAPTER 3 (#u64b8c3c2-b931-5e24-b5c8-20b4c48fbe1b)


On the sheltered terrace outside, Miss Minton was knitting.

Miss Minton was thin and angular, her neck was stringy. She wore pale sky-blue jumpers, and chains or bead necklaces. Her skirts were tweedy and had a depressed droop at the back. She greeted Tuppence with alacrity.

‘Good morning, Mrs Blenkensop. I do hope you slept well.’

Mrs Blenkensop confessed that she never slept very well the first night or two in a strange bed. Miss Minton said, Now, wasn’t that curious? It was exactly the same with her.

Mrs Blenkensop said, ‘What a coincidence, and what a very pretty stitch that was.’ Miss Minton, flushing with pleasure, displayed it. Yes, it was rather uncommon, and really quite simple. She could easily show it to Mrs Blenkensop if Mrs Blenkensop liked. Oh, that was very kind of Miss Minton, but Mrs Blenkensop was so stupid, she wasn’t really very good at knitting, not at following patterns, that was to say. She could only do simple things like Balaclava helmets, and even now she was afraid she had gone wrong somewhere. It didn’t look right, somehow, did it?

Miss Minton cast an expert eye over the khaki mass. Gently she pointed out just what had gone wrong. Thankfully, Tuppence handed the faulty helmet over. Miss Minton exuded kindness and patronage. Oh, no, it wasn’t a trouble at all. She had knitted for so many years.

‘I’m afraid I’ve never done any before this dreadful war,’ confessed Tuppence. ‘But one feels so terribly, doesn’t one, that one must do something.’

‘Oh yes, indeed. And you actually have a boy in the Navy, I think I heard you say last night?’

‘Yes, my eldest boy. Such a splendid boy he is—though I suppose a mother shouldn’t say so. Then I have a boy in the Air Force and Cyril, my baby, is out in France.’

‘Oh dear, dear, how terribly anxious you must be.’

Tuppence thought:

‘Oh Derek, my darling Derek… Out in the hell and mess—and here I am playing the fool—acting the thing I’m really feeling…’

She said in her most righteous voice:

‘We must all be brave, mustn’t we? Let’s hope it will all be over soon. I was told the other day on very high authority indeed that the Germans can’t possibly last out more than another two months.’

Miss Minton nodded with so much vigour that all her bead chains rattled and shook.

‘Yes, indeed, and I believe’—(her voice lowered mysteriously)—‘that Hitler is suffering from a disease—absolutely fatal—he’ll be raving mad by August.’

Tuppence replied briskly:

‘All this Blitzkrieg is just the Germans’ last effort. I believe the shortage is something frightful in Germany. The men in the factories are very dissatisfied. The whole thing will crack up.’

‘What’s this? What’s all this?’

Mr and Mrs Cayley came out on the terrace, Mr Cayley putting his questions fretfully. He settled himself in a chair and his wife put a rug over his knees. He repeated fretfully:

‘What’s that you are saying?’

‘We’re saying,’ said Miss Minton, ‘that it will all be over by the autumn.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Cayley. ‘This war is going to last at least six years.’

‘Oh, Mr Cayley,’ protested Tuppence. ‘You don’t really think so?’

Mr Cayley was peering about him suspiciously.

‘Now I wonder,’ he murmured. ‘Is there a draught? Perhaps it would be better if I moved my chair back into the corner.’

The resettlement of Mr Cayley took place. His wife, an anxious-faced woman who seemed to have no other aim in life than to minister to Mr Cayley’s wants, manipulating cushions and rugs, asking from time to time: ‘Now how is that, Alfred? Do you think that will be all right? Ought you, perhaps, to have your sun-glasses? There is rather a glare this morning.’

Mr Cayley said irritably:

‘No, no. Don’t fuss, Elizabeth. Have you got my muffler? No, no, my silk muffler. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I dare say this will do—for once. But I don’t want to get my throat overheated, and wool—in this sunlight—well, perhaps you had better fetch the other.’ He turned his attention back to matters of public interest. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I give it six years.’

He listened with pleasure to the protests of the two women.

‘You dear ladies are just indulging in what we call wishful thinking. Now I know Germany. I may say I know Germany extremely well. In the course of my business before I retired I used to be constantly to and fro. Berlin, Hamburg, Munich, I know them all. I can assure you that Germany can hold out practically indefinitely. With Russia behind her—’

Mr Cayley plunged triumphantly on, his voice rising and falling in pleasurably melancholy cadences, only interrupted when he paused to receive the silk muffler his wife brought him and wind it round his throat.

Mrs Sprot brought out Betty and plumped her down with a small woollen dog that lacked an ear and a woolly doll’s jacket.

‘There, Betty,’ she said. ‘You dress up Bonzo ready for his walk while Mummy gets ready to go out.’

Mr Cayley’s voice droned on, reciting statistics and figures, all of a depressing character. The monologue was punctuated by a cheerful twittering from Betty talking busily to Bonzo in her own language.

‘Truckle—truckly—pah bat,’ said Betty. Then, as a bird alighted near her, she stretched out loving hands to it and gurgled. The bird flew away and Betty glanced round the assembled company and remarked clearly:

‘Dicky,’ and nodded her head with great satisfaction.

‘That child is learning to talk in the most wonderful way,’ said Miss Minton. ‘Say “Ta ta”, Betty. “Ta ta.”’

Betty looked at her coldly and remarked:

‘Gluck!’

Then she forced Bonzo’s one arm into his woolly coat and, toddling over to a chair, picked up the cushion and pushed Bonzo behind it. Chuckling gleefully, she said with terrific pains:

‘Hide! Bow wow. Hide!’

Miss Minton, acting as a kind of interpreter, said with vicarious pride:

‘She loves hide-and-seek. She’s always hiding things.’ She cried out with exaggerated surprise:

‘Where is Bonzo? Where is Bonzo? Where can Bonzo have gone?’

Betty flung herself down and went into ecstasies of mirth.

MrCayley, finding attention diverted from his explanation of Germany’s methods of substitution of raw materials, looked put out and coughed aggressively.

Mrs Sprot came out with her hat on and picked up Betty.

Attention returned to Mr Cayley.

‘You were saying, Mr Cayley?’ said Tuppence.

But Mr Cayley was affronted. He said coldly:

‘That woman is always plumping that child down and expecting people to look after it. I think I’ll have the woollen muffler after all, dear. The sun is going in.’

‘Oh, but, Mr Cayley, do go on with what you were telling us. It was so interesting,’ said Miss Minton.

Mollified, Mr Cayley weightily resumed his discourse, drawing the folds of the woolly muffler closer round his stringy neck.

‘As I was saying, Germany has so perfected her system of—’

Tuppence turned to Mrs Cayley, and asked:

‘What do you think about the war, Mrs Cayley?’

Mrs Cayley jumped.

‘Oh, what do I think? What—what do you mean?’

‘Do you think it will last as long as six years?’

Mrs Cayley said doubtfully:

‘Oh, I hope not. It’s a very long time, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. A long time. What do you really think?’

Mrs Cayley seemed quite alarmed by the question. She said:

‘Oh, I—I don’t know. I don’t know at all. Alfred says it will.’

‘But you don’t think so?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s difficult to say, isn’t it?’

Tuppence felt a wave of exasperation. The chirruping Miss Minton, the dictatorial Mr Cayley, the nit-witted Mrs Cayley—were these people really typical of her fellow-countrymen? Was Mrs Sprot any better with her slightly vacant face and boiled gooseberry eyes? What could she, Tuppence, ever find out here? Not one of these people, surely—

Her thought was checked. She was aware of a shadow. Someone behind her who stood between her and the sun. She turned her head.

Mrs Perenna, standing on the terrace, her eyes on the group. And something in those eyes—scorn, was it? A kind of withering contempt. Tuppence thought:

‘I must find out more about Mrs Perenna.’

Tommy was establishing the happiest of relationships with Major Bletchley.

‘Brought down some golf clubs with you, didn’t you, Meadowes?’

Tommy pleaded guilty.

‘Ha! I can tell you, my eyes don’t miss much. Splendid. We must have a game together. Ever played on the links here?’

Tommy replied in the negative.

‘They’re not bad—not bad at all. Bit on the short side, perhaps, but lovely view over the sea and all that. And never very crowded. Look here, what about coming along with me this morning? We might have a game.’

‘Thanks very much. I’d like it.’

‘Must say I’m glad you’ve arrived,’ remarked Bletchley as they were trudging up the hill. ‘Too many women in that place. Gets on one’s nerves. Glad I’ve got another fellow to keep me in countenance. You can’t count Cayley—the man’s a kind of walking chemist’s shop. Talks of nothing but his health and the treatment he’s tried and the drugs he’s taking. If he threw away all his little pill-boxes and went out for a good ten-mile walk every day he’d be a different man. The only other male in the place is von Deinim, and to tell you the truth, Meadowes, I’m not too easy in my mind about him.’

‘No?’ said Tommy.

‘No. You take my word for it, this refugee business is dangerous. If I had my way I’d intern the lot of them. Safety first.’

‘A bit drastic, perhaps.’

‘Not at all. War’s war. And I’ve got my suspicions of Master Carl. For one thing he’s clearly not a Jew. Then he came over here just a month—only a month, mind you—before war broke out. That’s a bit suspicious.’

Tommy said invitingly:

‘Then you think—?’

‘Spying—that’s his little game!’

‘But surely there’s nothing of great military or naval importance hereabouts?’

‘Ah, old man, that’s where the artfulness comes in! If he were anywhere near Plymouth or Portsmouth he’d be under supervision. In a sleepy place like this, nobody bothers. But it’s on the coast, isn’t it? The truth of it is the Government is a great deal too easy with these enemy aliens. Anyone who cared could come over here and pull a long face and talk about their brothers in concentration camps. Look at that young man—arrogance in every line of him. He’s a Nazi—that’s what he is—a Nazi.’

‘What we really need in this country is a witch doctor or two,’ said Tommy pleasantly.

‘Eh, what’s that?’

‘To smell out the spies,’ Tommy explained gravely.

‘Ha, very good that—very good. Smell ’em out—yes, of course.’

Further conversation was brought to an end, for they had arrived at the clubhouse.

Tommy’s name was put down as a temporary member, he was introduced to the secretary, a vacant-looking elderly man, and the subscription duly paid. Tommy and the Major started on their round.

Tommy was a mediocre golfer. He was glad to find that his standard of play was just about right for his new friend. The Major won by two up and one to play, a very happy state of events.

‘Good match, Meadowes, very good match—you had bad luck with that mashie shot, just turned off at the last minute. We must have a game fairly often. Come along and I’ll introduce you to some of the fellows. Nice lot on the whole, some of them inclined to be rather old women, if you know what I mean? Ah, here’s Haydock—you’ll like Haydock. Retired naval wallah. Has that house on the cliff next door to us. He’s our local ARP warden.’

Commander Haydock was a big hearty man with a weather-beaten face, intensely blue eyes, and a habit of shouting most of his remarks.

He greeted Tommy with friendliness.

‘So you’re going to keep Bletchley countenance at Sans Souci? He’ll be glad of another man. Rather swamped by female society, eh, Bletchley?’

‘I’m not much of a ladies’ man,’ said Major Bletchley.

‘Nonsense,’ said Haydock. ‘Not your type of lady, my boy, that’s it. Old boarding-house pussies. Nothing to do but gossip and knit.’

‘You’re forgetting Miss Perenna,’ said Bletchley.

‘Ah, Sheila—she’s an attractive girl all right. Regular beauty if you ask me.’

‘I’m a bit worried about her,’ said Bletchley.

‘What do you mean? Have a drink, Meadowes? What’s yours, Major?’

The drinks ordered and the men settled on the veranda of the clubhouse, Haydock repeated his question.

Major Bletchley said with some violence:

‘That German chap. She’s seeing too much of him.’

‘Getting sweet on him, you mean? H’m, that’s bad. Of course he’s a good-looking young chap in his way. But it won’t do. It won’t do, Bletchley. We can’t have that sort of thing. Trading with the enemy, that’s what it amounts to. These girls—where’s their proper spirit? Plenty of decent young English fellows about.’

Bletchley said:

‘Sheila’s a queer girl—she gets odd sullen fits when she will hardly speak to anyone.’

‘Spanish blood,’ said the Commander. ‘Her father was half Spanish, wasn’t he?’

‘Don’t know. It’s a Spanish name, I should think.’

The Commander glanced at his watch.

‘About time for the news. We’d better go in and listen to it.’

The news was meagre that day, little more in it than had been already in the morning papers. After commenting with approval on the latest exploits of the Air Force—first-rate chaps, brave as lions—the Commander went on to develop his own pet theory—that sooner or later the Germans would attempt a landing at Leahampton itself—his argument being that it was such an unimportant spot.

‘Not even an anti-aircraft gun in the place! Disgraceful!’

The argument was not developed, for Tommy and the Major had to hurry back to lunch at Sans Souci. Haydock extended a cordial invitation to Tommy to come and see his little place, ‘Smugglers’ Rest’. ‘Marvellous view—my own beach—every kind of handy gadget in the house. Bring him along, Bletchley.’

It was settled that Tommy and Major Bletchley should come in for drinks on the evening of the following day.

After lunch was a peaceful time at Sans Souci. Mr Cayley went to have his ‘rest’ with the devoted Mrs Cayley in attendance. Mrs Blenkensop was conducted by Miss Minton to a depot to pack and address parcels for the Front.

Mr Meadowes strolled gently out into Leahampton and along the front. He bought a few cigarettes, stopped at Smith’s to purchase the latest number of Punch, then after a few minutes of apparent irresolution, he entered a bus bearing the legend, ‘OLD PIER’.

The old pier was at the extreme end of the promenade. That part of Leahampton was known to house agents as the least desirable end. It was West Leahampton and poorly thought of. Tommy paid 2d, and strolled up the pier. It was a flimsy and weather-worn affair, with a few moribund penny-in-the-slot machines placed at far distant intervals. There was no one on it but some children running up and down and screaming in voices that matched quite accurately the screaming of the gulls, and one solitary man sitting on the end fishing.

Mr Meadowes strolled up to the end and gazed down into the water. Then he asked gently:

‘Caught anything?’

The fisherman shook his head.

‘Don’t often get a bite.’ Mr Grant reeled in his line a bit. He said without turning his head:

‘What about you, Meadowes?’

Tommy said:

‘Nothing much to report as yet, sir. I’m digging myself in.’

‘Good. Tell me.’

Tommy sat on an adjacent bollard, so placed that he commanded the length of the pier. Then he began:

‘I’ve gone down quite all right, I think. I gather you’ve already got a list of the people there?’ Grant nodded. ‘There’s nothing to report as yet. I’ve struck up a friendship with Major Bletchley. We played golf this morning. He seems the ordinary type of retired officer. If anything, a shade too typical. Cayley seems a genuine hypochondriacal invalid. That, again, would be an easy part to act. He has, by his own admission, been a good deal in Germany during the last few years.’

‘A point,’ said Grant laconically.

‘Then there’s von Deinim.’

‘Yes, I don’t need to tell you, Meadowes, that von Deinim’s the one I’m most interested in.’

‘You think he’s N?’

Grant shook his head.

‘No, I don’t. As I see it, N couldn’t afford to be a German.’

‘Not a refugee from Nazi persecution, even?’

‘Not even that. We watch, and they know we watch all the enemy aliens in this country. Moreover—this is in confidence, Beresford—very nearly all enemy aliens between 16 and 60 will be interned. Whether our adversaries are aware of that fact or not, they can at any rate anticipate that such a thing might happen. They would never risk the head of their organisation being interned. N therefore must be either a neutral—or else he is (apparently) an Englishman. The same, of course, applies to M. No, my meaning about von Deinim is this. He may be a link in the chain. N or M may not be at Sans Souci, it may be Carl von Deinim who is there and through him we may be led to our objective. That does seem to me highly possible. The more so as I cannot very well see that any of the other inmates of Sans Souci are likely to be the person we are seeking.’

‘You’ve had them more or less vetted, I suppose, sir?’

Grant sighed—a sharp, quick sigh of vexation.

‘No, that’s just what it’s impossible for me to do. I could have them looked up by the department easily enough—but I can’t risk it, Beresford. For, you see, the rot is in the department itself. One hint that I’ve got my eye on Sans Souci for any reason—and the organisation may be put wise. That’s where you come in, the outsider. That’s why you’ve got to work in the dark, without help from us. It’s our only chance—and I daren’t risk alarming them. There’s only one person I’ve been able to check up on.’

‘Who’s that, sir?’

‘Carl von Deinim himself. That’s easy enough. Routine. I can have him looked up—not from the Sans Souci angle, but from the enemy alien angle.’

Tommy asked curiously:

‘And the result?’

A curious smile came over the other’s face.

‘Master Carl is exactly what he says he is. His father was indiscreet, was arrested and died in a concentration camp. Carl’s elder brothers are in camps. His mother died in great distress of mind a year ago. He escaped to England a month before war broke out. Von Deinim has professed himself anxious to help this country. His work in a chemical research laboratory has been excellent and most helpful on the problem of immunising certain gases and in general decontamination experiments.’

Tommy said:

‘Then he’s all right?’

‘Not necessarily. Our German friends are notorious for their thoroughness. If von Deinim was sent as an agent to England, special care would be taken that his record should be consistent with his own account of himself. There are two possibilities. The whole von Deinim family may be parties to the arrangement—not improbable under the painstaking Nazi régime. Or else this is not really Carl von Deinim but a man playing the part of Carl von Deinim.’

Tommy said slowly: ‘I see.’ He added inconsequently:

‘He seems an awfully nice young fellow.’

Sighing, Grant said: ‘They are—they nearly always are. It’s an odd life this service of ours. We respect our adversaries and they respect us. You usually like your opposite number, you know—even when you’re doing your best to down him.’

There was silence as Tommy thought over the strange anomaly of war. Grant’s voice broke into his musings.

‘But there are those for whom we’ve neither respect nor liking—and those are the traitors within our own ranks—the men who are willing to betray their country and accept office and promotion from the foreigner who has conquered it.’

Tommy said with feeling:

‘My God, I’m with you, sir. That’s a skunk’s trick.’

‘And deserves a skunk’s end.’

Tommy said incredulously:

‘And there really are these—these swine?’

‘Everywhere. As I told you. In our service. In the fighting forces. On Parliamentary benches. High up in the Ministries. We’ve got to comb them out—we’ve got to! And we must do it quickly. It can’t be done from the bottom—the small fry, the people who speak in the parks, who sell their wretched little news-sheets, they don’t know who the big bugs are. It’s the big bugs we want, they’re the people who can do untold damage—and will do it unless we’re in time.’

Tommy said confidently:

‘We shall be in time, sir.’

Grant asked:

‘What makes you say that?’

Tommy said:

‘You’ve just said it—we’ve got to be!’

The man with the fishing line turned and looked full at his subordinate for a minute or two, taking in anew the quiet resolute line of the jaw. He had a new liking and appreciation of what he saw. He said quietly:

‘Good man.’

He went on:

‘What about the women in this place? Anything strike you as suspicious there?’

‘I think there’s something odd about the woman who runs it.’

‘Mrs Perenna?’

‘Yes. You don’t—know anything about her?’

Grant said slowly:

‘I might see what I could do about checking her antecedents, but as I told you, it’s risky.’

‘Yes, better not take any chances. She’s the only one who strikes me as suspicious in any way. There’s a young mother, a fussy spinster, the hypochondriac’s brainless wife, and a rather fearsome-looking old Irishwoman. All seem harmless enough on the face of it.’

‘That’s the lot, is it?’

‘No. There’s a Mrs Blenkensop—arrived three days ago.’

‘Well?’

Tommy said: ‘Mrs Blenkensop is my wife.’

‘What?’

In the surprise of the announcement Grant’s voice was raised. He spun round, sharp anger in his gaze. ‘I thought I told you, Beresford, not to breathe a word to your wife!’

‘Quite right, sir, and I didn’t. If you’ll just listen—’

Succinctly, Tommy narrated what had occurred. He did not dare look at the other. He carefully kept out of his voice the pride that he secretly felt.

There was a silence when he brought the story to an end. Then a queer noise escaped from the other. Grant was laughing. He laughed for some minutes.

He said: ‘I take my hat off to the woman! She’s one in a thousand!’

‘I agree,’ said Tommy.

‘Easthampton will laugh when I tell him this. He warned me not to leave her out. Said she’d get the better of me if I did. I wouldn’t listen to him. It shows you, though, how damned careful you’ve got to be. I thought I’d taken every precaution against being overheard. I’d satisfied myself beforehand that you and your wife were alone in the flat. I actually heard the voice in the telephone asking your wife to come round at once, and so—and so I was tricked by the old simple device of the banged door. Yes, she’s a smart woman, your wife.’

He was silent for a minute, then he said:

‘Tell her from me, will you, that I eat dirt?’

‘And I suppose, now, she’s in on this?’

Mr Grant made an expressive grimace.

‘She’s in on it whether we like it or not. Tell her the department will esteem it an honour if she will condescend to work with us over the matter.’

‘I’ll tell her,’ said Tommy with a faint grin.

Grant said seriously:

‘You couldn’t persuade her, I suppose, to go home and stay home?’

Tommy shook his head.

‘You don’t know Tuppence.’

‘I think I am beginning to. I said that because—well, it’s a dangerous business. If they get wise to you or to her—’

He left the sentence unfinished.

Tommy said gravely: ‘I do understand that, sir.’

‘But I suppose even you couldn’t persuade your wife to keep out of danger.’

Tommy said slowly:

‘I don’t know that I really would want to do that… Tuppence and I, you see, aren’t on those terms. We go into things—together!’

In his mind was that phrase, uttered years ago, at the close of an earlier war. A joint venture…

That was what his life with Tuppence had been and would always be—a Joint Venture…




CHAPTER 4 (#u64b8c3c2-b931-5e24-b5c8-20b4c48fbe1b)


When Tuppence entered the lounge at Sans Souci just before dinner, the only occupant of the room was the monumental Mrs O’Rourke, who was sitting by the window looking like some gigantic Buddha.

She greeted Tuppence with a lot of geniality and verve.

‘Ah now, if it isn’t Mrs Blenkensop! You’re like myself; it pleases you to be down to time and get a quiet minute or two before going into the dining-room, and a pleasant room this is in good weather with the windows open in the way that you’ll not be noticing the smell of cooking. Terrible that is, in all of these places, and more especially if it’s onion or cabbage that’s on the fire. Sit here now, Mrs Blenkensop, and tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself this fine day and how you like Leahampton.’

There was something about Mrs O’Rourke that had an unholy fascination for Tuppence. She was rather like an ogress dimly remembered from early fairy tales. With her bulk, her deep voice, her unabashed beard and moustache, her deep twinkling eyes and the impression she gave of being more than life-size, she was indeed not unlike some childhood’s fantasy.

Tuppence replied that she thought she was going to like Leahampton very much, and be happy there.

‘That is,’ she added in a melancholy voice, ‘as happy as I can be anywhere with this terrible anxiety weighing on me all the time.’

‘Ah now, don’t you be worrying yourself,’ Mrs O’Rourke advised comfortably. ‘Those boys of yours will come back to you safe and sound. Not a doubt of it. One of them’s in the Air Force, so I think you said?’

‘Yes, Raymond.’

‘And is he in France now, or in England?’

‘He’s in Egypt at the moment, but from what he said in his last letter—not exactly said—but we have a little private code if you know what I mean?—certain sentences mean certain things. I think that’s quite justified, don’t you?’

Mrs O’Rourke replied promptly:

‘Indeed I do. ’Tis a mother’s privilege.’

‘Yes, you see I feel I must know just where he is.’

Mrs O’Rourke nodded the Buddha-like head.

‘I feel for you entirely, so I do. If I had a boy out there I’d be deceiving the censor in the very same way, so I would. And your other boy, the one in the Navy?’

Tuppence entered obligingly upon a saga of Douglas.

‘You see,’ she cried, ‘I feel so lost without my three boys. They’ve never been all away together from me before. They’re all so sweet to me. I really do think they treat me more as a friend than a mother.’ She laughed self-consciously. ‘I have to scold them sometimes and make them go out without me.’

(‘What a pestilential woman I sound,’ thought Tuppence to herself.)

She went on aloud:

‘And really I didn’t know quite what to do or where to go. The lease of my house in London was up and it seemed so foolish to renew it, and I thought if I came somewhere quiet, and yet with a good train service—’ She broke off.

Again the Buddha nodded.

‘I agree with you entirely. London is no place at the present. Ah! the gloom of it! I’ve lived there myself for many a year now. I’m by way of being an antique dealer, you know. You may know my shop in Cornaby Street, Chelsea? Kate Kelly’s the name over the door. Lovely stuff I had there too—oh, lovely stuff—mostly glass—Waterford, Cork—beautiful. Chandeliers and lustres and punchbowls and all the rest of it. Foreign glass, too. And small furniture—nothing large—just small period pieces—mostly walnut and oak. Oh, lovely stuff—and I had some good customers. But there, when there’s a war on, all that goes west. I’m lucky to be out of it with as little loss as I’ve had.’

A faint memory flickered through Tuppence’s mind. A shop filled with glass, through which it was difficult to move, a rich persuasive voice, a compelling massive woman. Yes, surely, she had been into that shop.

Mrs O’Rourke went on:

‘I’m not one of those that like to be always complaining—not like some that’s in this house. Mr Cayley for one, with his muffler and his shawls and his moans about his business going to pieces. Of course it’s to pieces, there’s a war on—and his wife with never boo to say to a goose. Then there’s that little Mrs Sprot, always fussing about her husband.’

‘Is he out at the Front?’

‘Not he. He’s a tuppenny-halfpenny clerk in an insurance office, that’s all, and so terrified of air raids he’s had his wife down here since the beginning of the war. Mind you, I think that’s right where the child’s concerned—and a nice wee mite she is—but Mrs Sprot she frets, for all that her husband comes down when he can… Keeps saying Arthur must miss her so. But if you ask me Arthur’s not missing her overmuch—maybe he’s got other fish to fry.’

Tuppence murmured:

‘I’m terribly sorry for all these mothers. If you let your children go away without you, you never stop worrying. And if you go with them it’s hard on the husbands being left.’

‘Ah! yes, and it comes expensive running two establishments.’

‘This place seems quite reasonable,’ said Tuppence.





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