The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection (5 page)

“Certainly not,” agreed Tommy hastily. “No one would ever think of sentiment in connexion with you.”

“That's not very polite,” replied Tuppence. “But I daresay you mean it all right. Well, there it is! I'm ready and willing—but I never meet any rich men! All the boys I know are about as hard up as I am.”

“What about the general?” inquired Tommy.

“I fancy he keeps a bicycle shop in time of peace,” explained Tuppence. “No, there it is! Now
you
could marry a rich girl.”

“I'm like you. I don't know any.”

“That doesn't matter. You can always get to know one. Now, if I see a man in a fur coat come out of the Ritz I can't rush up to him and say: ‘Look here, you're rich. I'd like to know you.' ”

“Do you suggest that I should do that to a similarly garbed female?”

“Don't be silly. You tread on her foot, or pick up her handkerchief, or something like that. If she thinks you want to know her she's flattered, and will manage it for you somehow.”

“You overrate my manly charms,” murmured Tommy.

“On the other hand,” proceeded Tuppence, “my millionaire would probably run for his life! No—marriage is fraught with difficulties. Remains—to
make
money!”

“We've tried that, and failed,” Tommy reminded her.

“We've tried all the orthodox ways, yes. But suppose we try the unorthodox. Tommy, let's be adventurers!”

“Certainly,” replied Tommy cheerfully. “How do we begin?”

“That's the difficulty. If we could make ourselves known, people might hire us to commit crimes for them.”

“Delightful,” commented Tommy. “Especially coming from a clergyman's daughter!”

“The moral guilt,” Tuppence pointed out, “would be theirs—not mine. You must admit that there's a difference between stealing a diamond necklace for yourself and being hired to steal it?”

“There wouldn't be the least difference if you were caught!”

“Perhaps not. But I shouldn't be caught. I'm so clever.”

“Modesty always was your besetting sin,” remarked Tommy.

“Don't rag. Look here, Tommy, shall we really? Shall we form a business partnership?”

“Form a company for the stealing of diamond necklaces?”

“That was only an illustration. Let's have a—what do you call it in bookkeeping?”

“Don't know. Never did any.”

“I have—but I always got mixed up, and used to put credit entries on the debit side, and vice versa—so they fired me out. Oh, I know—a joint venture! It struck me as such a romantic phrase to come across in the middle of musty old figures. It's got an Elizabethan flavour about it—makes one think of galleons and doubloons. A joint venture!”

“Trading under the name of the Young Adventurers, Ltd.? Is that your idea, Tuppence?”

“It's all very well to laugh, but I feel there might be something in it.”

“How do you propose to get in touch with your would-be employers?”

“Advertisement,” replied Tuppence promptly. “Have you got a bit of paper and a pencil? Men usually seem to have. Just like we have hairpins and powder puffs.”

Tommy handed over a rather shabby green notebook, and Tuppence began writing busily.

“Shall we begin: ‘Young officer, twice wounded in the war—' ”

“Certainly not.”

“Oh, very well, my dear boy. But I can assure you that that sort of thing might touch the heart of an elderly spinster, and she might adopt you, and then there would be no need for you to be a young adventurer at all.”

“I don't want to be adopted.”

“I forgot you had a prejudice against it. I was only ragging you! The papers are full up to the brim with that type of thing. Now listen—how's this? ‘Two young adventurers for hire. Willing to do anything, go anywhere. Pay must be good.' (We might as well make that clear from the start.) Then we might add: ‘No reasonable offer refused'—like flats and furniture.”

“I should think any offer we get in answer to that would be a pretty
un
reasonable one!”

“Tommy! You're a genius! That's ever so much more chic. ‘No unreasonable offer refused—if pay is good.' How's that?”

“I shouldn't mention pay again. It looks rather eager.”

“It couldn't look as eager as I feel! But perhaps you are right. Now I'll read it straight through. ‘Two young adventurers for hire. Willing to do anything, go anywhere. Pay must be good. No unreasonable offer refused.' How would that strike you if you read it?”

“It would strike me as either being a hoax, or else written by a lunatic.”

“It's not half so insane as a thing I read this morning beginning ‘Petunia' and signed ‘Best Boy.' ” She tore out the leaf and handed it to Tommy. “There you are.
The Times,
I think. Reply to Box so-and-so. I expect it will be about five shillings. Here's half a crown for my share.”

Tommy was holding the paper thoughtfully. His face burned a deeper red.

“Shall we really try it?” he said at last. “Shall we, Tuppence? Just for the fun of the thing?”

“Tommy, you're a sport! I knew you would be! Let's drink to success.” She poured some cold dregs of tea into the two cups.

“Here's to our joint venture, and may it prosper!”

“The Young Adventurers, Ltd.!” responded Tommy.

They put down the cups and laughed rather uncertainly. Tuppence rose.

“I must return to my palatial suite at the hostel.”

“Perhaps it is time I strolled round to the Ritz,” agreed Tommy with a grin. “Where shall we meet? And when?”

“Twelve o'clock tomorrow. Piccadilly Tube station. Will that suit you?”

“My time is my own,” replied Mr. Beresford magnificently.

“So long, then.”

“Good-bye, old thing.”

The two young people went off in opposite directions. Tuppence's hostel was situated in what was charitably called Southern Belgravia. For reasons of economy she did not take a bus.

She was halfway across St. James's Park, when a man's voice behind her made her start.

“Excuse me,” it said. “But may I speak to you for a moment?”

Two

M
R.
W
HITTINGTON'S
O
FFER

T
uppence turned sharply, but the words hovering on the tip of her tongue remained unspoken for the man's appearance and manner did not bear out her first and most natural assumption. She hesitated. As if he read her thoughts, the man said quickly:

“I can assure you I mean no disrespect.”

Tuppence believed him. Although she disliked and distrusted him instinctively, she was inclined to acquit him of the particular motive which she had at first attributed to him. She looked him up and down. He was a big man, clean-shaven, with a heavy jowl. His eyes were small and cunning, and shifted their glance under her direct gaze.

“Well, what is it?” she asked.

The man smiled.

“I happened to overhear part of your conversation with the young gentleman in Lyons'.”

“Well—what of it?”

“Nothing—except that I think I may be of some use to you.”

Another inference forced itself into Tuppence's mind.

“You followed me here?”

“I took that liberty.”

“And in what way do you think you could be of use to me?”

The man took a card from his pocket and handed it to her with a bow.

Tuppence took it and scrutinized it carefully. It bore the inscription “Mr. Edward Whittington.” Below the name were the words “Esthonia Glassware Co.,” and the address of a city office. Mr. Whittington spoke again:

“If you will call upon me tomorrow morning at eleven o'clock, I will lay the details of my proposition before you.”

“At eleven o'clock?” said Tuppence doubtfully.

“At eleven o'clock.”

Tuppence made up her mind.

“Very well. I'll be there.”

“Thank you. Good evening.”

He raised his hat with a flourish, and walked away. Tuppence remained for some minutes gazing after him. Then she gave a curious movement of her shoulders, rather as a terrier shakes himself.

“The adventures have begun,” she murmured to herself. “What does he want me to do, I wonder? There's something about you, Mr. Whittington, that I don't like at all. But, on the other hand, I'm not the least bit afraid of you. And as I've said before, and shall doubtless say again, little Tuppence can look after herself, thank you!”

And with a short, sharp nod of her head she walked briskly onward. As a result of further meditations, however, she turned aside from the direct route and entered a post office. There she pondered for some moments, a telegraph form in her hand. The thought of a possible five shillings spent unnecessarily spurred her to action, and she decided to risk the waste of ninepence.

Disdaining the spiky pen and thick, black treacle which a beneficent Government had provided, Tuppence drew out Tommy's pencil which she had retained and wrote rapidly: “Don't put in advertisement. Will explain tomorrow.” She addressed it to Tommy at his club, from which in one short month he would have to resign, unless a kindly fortune permitted him to renew his subscription.

“It may catch him,” she murmured. “Anyway it's worth trying.”

After handing it over the counter she set out briskly for home, stopping at a baker's to buy three-pennyworth of new buns.

Later, in her tiny cubicle at the top of the house she munched buns and reflected on the future. What was the Esthonia Glassware Co., and what earthly need could it have for her services? A pleasurable thrill of excitement made Tuppence tingle. At any rate, the country vicarage had retreated into the background again. The morrow held possibilities.

It was a long time before Tuppence went to sleep that night, and, when at length she did, she dreamed that Mr. Whittington had set her to washing up a pile of Esthonia Glassware, which bore an unaccountable resemblance to hospital plates!

It wanted some five minutes to eleven when Tuppence reached the block of buildings in which the offices of the Esthonia Glassware Co. were situated. To arrive before the time would look over eager. So Tuppence decided to walk to the end of the street and back again. She did so. On the stroke of eleven she plunged into the recesses of the building. The Esthonia Glassware Co. was on the top floor. There was a lift, but Tuppence chose to walk up.

Slightly out of breath, she came to a halt outside the ground glass door with the legend painted across it: “Esthonia Glassware Co.”

Tuppence knocked. In response to a voice from within, she turned the handle and walked into a small, rather dirty office.

A middle-aged clerk got down from a high stool at a desk near the window and came towards her inquiringly.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Whittington,” said Tuppence.

“Will you come this way, please.” He crossed to a partition door with “Private” on it, knocked, then opened the door and stood aside to let her pass in.

Mr. Whittington was seated behind a large desk covered with papers. Tuppence felt her previous judgment confirmed. There was something wrong about Mr. Whittington. The combination of his sleek prosperity and his shifty eye was not attractive.

He looked up and nodded.

“So you've turned up all right? That's good. Sit down, will you?”

Tuppence sat down on the chair facing him. She looked particularly small and demure this morning. She sat there meekly with downcast eyes whilst Mr. Whittington sorted and rustled amongst his papers. Finally he pushed them away, and leaned over the desk.

“Now, my dear young lady, let us come to business.” His large face broadened into a smile. “You want work? Well, I have work to offer you. What should you say now to
£
100 down, and all expenses paid?” Mr. Whittington leaned back in his chair, and thrust his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat.

Tuppence eyed him warily.

“And the nature of the work?” she demanded.

“Nominal—purely nominal. A pleasant trip, that is all.”

“Where to?”

Mr. Whittington smiled again.

“Paris.”

“Oh!” said Tuppence thoughtfully. To herself she said: “Of course, if father heard that he would have a fit! But somehow I don't see Mr. Whittington in the rôle of the gay deceiver.”

“Yes,” continued Whittington. “What could be more delightful? To put the clock back a few years—a very few, I am sure—and re-enter one of those charming
pensionnats de jeunes filles
with which Paris abounds—”

Tuppence interrupted him.

“A
pensionnat?
”

“Exactly. Madame Colombier's in the Avenue de Neuilly.”

Tuppence knew the name well. Nothing could have been more select. She had had several American friends there. She was more than ever puzzled.

“You want me to go to Madame Colombier's? For how long?”

“That depends. Possibly three months.”

“And that is all? There are no other conditions?”

“None whatever. You would, of course, go in the character of my ward, and you would hold no communication with your friends. I should have to request absolute secrecy for the time being. By the way, you are English, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you speak with a slight American accent?”

“My great pal in hospital was a little American girl. I daresay I picked it up from her. I can soon get out of it again.”

“On the contrary, it might be simpler for you to pass as an American. Details about your past life in England might be more difficult to sustain. Yes, I think that would be decidedly better. Then—”

“One moment, Mr. Whittington! You seem to be taking my consent for granted.”