The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection (51 page)

“Yes,” said Tommy. “Very likely.”

“You know, Mr. Beresford, I'm new to this sort of high life. All these swell dames and the rest of the outfit. Only made my pile a short while back. Came right over to Yurrop to see life.”

Tommy nodded. He made a mental note to the effect that with the aid of Marguerite Laidlaw Mr. Ryder would probably see a good deal of life and that the price charged would be heavy.

Meantime, for the second time, he had evidence that the forged notes were being distributed pretty near at hand, and that in all probability Marguerite Laidlaw had a hand in their distribution.

On the following night he himself was given a proof.

It was at that small select meeting place mentioned by Inspector Marriot. There was dancing there, but the real attraction of the place lay behind a pair of imposing folding doors. There were two rooms there with green baize-covered tables, where vast sums changed hands nightly.

Marguerite Laidlaw, rising at last to go, thrust a quantity of small notes into Tommy's hands.

“They are so bulkee, Tommee—you will change them, yes? A beeg note. See my so sweet leetle bag, it bulges him to distraction.”

Tommy brought her the hundred pound note she asked for. Then in a quiet corner he examined the notes she had given him. At least a quarter of them were counterfeit.

But where did she get her supplies from? To that he had as yet no answer. By means of Albert's cooperation, he was almost sure that Laidlaw was not the man. His movements had been watched closely and had yielded no result.

Tommy suspected her father, the saturnine M. Heroulade. He went to and fro to France fairly often. What could be simpler than to bring the notes across with him? A false bottom to the trunk—something of that kind.

Tommy strolled slowly out of the Club, absorbed in these thoughts, but was suddenly recalled to immediate necessities. Outside in the street was Mr. Hank P. Ryder, and it was clear at once that Mr. Ryder was not strictly sober. At the moment he was trying to hang his hat on the radiator of a car, and missing it by some inches every time.

“This goddarned hatshtand, this goddarned hatshtand,” said Mr. Ryder tearfully. “Not like that in the Shtates. Man can hang up his hat every night—every night, sir. You're wearing two hatshs. Never sheen a man wearing two hatshs before. Must be effect—climate.”

“Perhaps I've got two heads,” said Tommy gravely.

“Sho you have,” said Mr. Ryder. “Thatsh odd. Thatsh remarkable fac.” Letsh have a cocktail. Prohibition—probishun thatsh whatsh done me in. I guess I'm drunk—constootionally drunk. Cocktailsh—mixed 'em—Angel's Kiss—that's Marguerite—lovely creature, fon o' me too. Horshes Neck, two Martinis—three Road to Ruinsh—no, roadsh to roon—mixed 'em all—in a beer tankard. Bet me I wouldn't—I shaid—to hell, I shaid—”

Tommy interrupted.

“That's all right,” he said soothingly. “Now what about getting home?”

“No home to go to,” said Mr. Ryder sadly, and wept.

“What hotel are you staying at?” asked Tommy.

“Can't go home,” said Mr. Ryder. “Treasure hunt. Swell thing to do. She did it. Whitechapel—white heartsh, white headsn shorrow to the grave—”

But Mr. Ryder became suddenly dignified. He drew himself erect and attained a sudden miraculous command over his speech.

“Young man, I'm telling you. Margee took me. In her car. Treasure hunting. English aristocrashy all do it. Under the cobblestones. Five hundred poundsh. Solemn thought,
'tis
solemn thought. I'm
telling
you, young man. You've been kind to me. I've got your welfare at heart, sir, at heart. We Americans—”

Tommy interrupted him this time with even less ceremony.

“What's that you say? Mrs. Laidlaw took you in a car?”

The American nodded with a kind of owlish solemnity.

“To Whitechapel?” Again that owlish nod.

“And you found five hundred pounds there?”

Mr. Ryder struggled for words.

“S-she did,” he corrected his questioner. “Left me outside. Outside the door. Always left outside. It's kinder sad. Outside—always outside.”

“Would you know your way there?”

“I guess so. Hank Ryder doesn't lose his bearings—”

Tommy hauled him along unceremoniously. He found his own car where it was waiting, and presently they were bowling eastward. The cool air revived Mr. Ryder. After slumping against Tommy's shoulder in a kind of stupor, he awoke clearheaded and refreshed.

“Say, boy, where are we?” he demanded.

“Whitechapel,” said Tommy crisply. “Is this where you came with Mrs. Laidlaw tonight?”

“It looks kinder familiar,” admitted Mr. Ryder, looking round. “Seems to me we turned off to the left somewhere down here. That's it—that street there.”

Tommy turned off obediently. Mr. Ryder issued directions.

“That's it. Sure. And round to the right. Say, aren't the smells awful. Yes, past that pub at the corner—sharp round, and stop at the mouth of that little alley. But what's the big idea? Hand it to me. Some of the oof left behind? Are we going to put one over on them?”

“That's exactly it,” said Tommy. “We're going to put one over on them. Rather a joke, isn't it?”

“I'll tell the world,” assented Mr. Ryder. “Though I'm just a mite hazed about it all,” he ended wistfully.

Tommy got out and assisted Mr. Ryder to alight also. They advanced into the alleyway. On the left were the backs of a row of dilapidated houses, most of which had doors opening into the alley. Mr. Ryder came to a stop before one of these doors.

“In here she went,” he declared. “It was this door—I'm plumb certain of it.”

“They all look very alike,” said Tommy. “Reminds me of the story of the soldier and the Princess. You remember, they made a cross on the door to show which one it was. Shall we do the same?”

Laughing, he drew a piece of white chalk from his pocket and made a rough cross low down on the door. Then he looked up at various dim shapes that prowled high on the walls of the alley, one of which was uttering a blood-curdling yawl.

“Lots of cats about,” he remarked cheerfully.

“What is the procedure?” asked Mr. Ryder. “Do we step inside?”

“Adopting due precautions, we do,” said Tommy.

He glanced up and down the alley way, then softly tried the door. It yielded. He pushed it open and peered into a dim yard.

Noiselessly he passed through, Mr. Ryder on his heels.

“Gee,” said the latter, “there's someone coming down the alley.”

He slipped outside again. Tommy stood still for a minute, then hearing nothing went on. He took a torch from his pocket and switched on the light for a brief second. That momentary flash enabled him to see his way ahead. He pushed forward and tried the closed door ahead of him. That too gave, and very softly he pushed it open and went in.

After standing still a second and listening, he again switched on the torch, and at that flash, as though at a given signal, the place seemed to rise round him. Two men were in front of him, two men were behind him. They closed in on him and bore him down.

“Lights,” growled a voice.

An incandescent gas burner was lit. By its light Tommy saw a circle of unpleasing faces. His eyes wandered gently round the room and noted some of the objects in it.

“Ah!” he said pleasantly. “The headquarters of the counterfeiting industry, if I am not mistaken.”

“Shut your jaw,” growled one of the men.

The door opened and shut behind Tommy, and a genial and well-known voice spoke.

“Got him, boys. That's right. Now, Mr. Busy, let me tell you you're up against it.”

“That dear old word,” said Tommy. “How it thrills me. Yes. I am the Mystery Man of Scotland Yard. Why, it's Mr. Hank Ryder. This
is
a surprise.”

“I guess you mean that too. I've been laughing fit to bust all this evening—leading you here like a little child. And you so pleased with your cleverness. Why, sonny, I was on to you from the start. You weren't in with that crowd for your health. I let you play about for a while, and when you got real suspicious of the lovely Marguerite, I said to myself: ‘Now's the time to lead him to it.' I guess your friends won't be hearing of you for some time.”

“Going to do me in? That's the correct expression, I believe. You have got it in for me.”

“You've got a nerve all right. No, we shan't attempt violence. Just keep you under restraint, so to speak.”

“I'm afraid you're backing the wrong horse,” said Tommy. “I've no intention of being ‘kept under restraint,' as you call it.”

Mr. Ryder smiled genially. From outside a cat uttered a melancholy cry to the moon.

“Banking on that cross you put on the door, eh, sonny?” said Mr. Ryder. “I shouldn't if I were you. Because I know that story you mentioned. Heard it when I was a little boy. I stepped back into the alleyway to enact the part of the dog with eyes as big as cartwheels. If you were in that alley now, you would observe that every door in the alley is marked with an identical cross.”

Tommy dropped his head despondently.

“Thought you were mighty clever, didn't you?” said Ryder.

As the words left his lips a sharp rapping sounded on the door.

“What's that?” he cried, starting.

At the same time an assault began on the front of the house. The door at the back was a flimsy affair. The lock gave almost immediately and Inspector Marriot showed in the doorway.

“Well done, Marriot,” said Tommy. “You were quite right as to the district. I'd like you to make the acquaintance of Mr. Hank Ryder who knows all the best fairy tales.

“You see, Mr. Ryder,” he added gently, “I've had my suspicions of you. Albert (that important-looking boy with the big ears is Albert) had orders to follow on his motorcycle if you and I went off joyriding at any time. And whilst I was ostentatiously marking a chalk cross on the door to engage your attention, I also emptied a little bottle of valerian on the ground. Nasty smell, but cats love it. All the cats in the neighbourhood were assembled outside to mark the right house when Albert and the police arrived.”

He looked at the dumbfounded Mr. Ryder with a smile, then rose to his feet.

“I said I would get you Crackler, and I have got you,” he observed.

“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Mr. Ryder. “What do you mean—Crackler?”

“You will find it in the glossary of the next criminal dictionary,” said Tommy. “Etymology doubtful.”

He looked round him with a happy smile.

“And all done without a nose,” he murmured brightly. “Good night, Marriot. I must go now to where the happy ending of the story awaits me. No reward like the love of a good woman—and the love of a good woman awaits me at home—that is, I hope it does, but one never knows nowadays. This has been a very dangerous job, Marriot. Do you know Captain Jimmy Faulkener? His dancing is simply too marvellous, and as for his taste in cocktails—! Yes, Marriot, it has been a very dangerous job.”

Eleven

T
HE
S
UNNINGDALE
M
YSTERY

“D
o you know where we are going to lunch today, Tuppence?”

Mrs. Beresford considered the question.

“The Ritz?” she suggested hopefully.

“Think again.”

“That nice little place in Soho?”

“No.” Tommy's tone was full of importance. “An ABC shop. This one, in fact.”

He drew her deftly inside an establishment of the kind indicated, and steered her to a corner marble-topped table.

“Excellent,” said Tommy with satisfaction, as he seated himself. “Couldn't be better.”

“Why has this craze for the simple life come upon you?” demanded Tuppence.

“
You see, Watson, but you do not observe.
I wonder now whether one of these haughty damsels would condescend to notice us? Splendid, she drifts this way. It is true that she appears to be thinking of something else, but doubtless her subconscious mind is functioning busily with such matters as ham and eggs and pots of tea. Chop and fried potatoes, please, miss, and a large coffee, a roll and butter, and a plate of tongue for the lady.”

The waitress repeated the order in a scornful tone, but Tuppence leant forward suddenly and interrupted her.

“No, not a chop and fried potatoes. This gentleman will have a cheesecake and a glass of milk.”

“A cheesecake and a milk,” said the waitress with even deeper scorn, if that were possible. Still thinking of something else, she drifted away again.

“That was uncalled for,” said Tommy coldly.

“But I'm right, aren't I? You are the Old Man in the Corner? Where's your piece of string?”

Tommy drew a long twisted mesh of string from his pocket and proceeded to tie a couple of knots in it.

“Complete to the smallest detail,” he murmured.

“You made a small mistake in ordering your meal, though.”

“Women are so literal-minded,” said Tommy. “If there's one thing I hate it's milk to drink, and cheesecakes are always so yellow and bilious-looking.”

“Be an artist,” said Tuppence. “Watch me attack my cold tongue. Jolly good stuff, cold tongue. Now then, I'm all ready to be Miss Polly Burton. Tie a large knot and begin.”

“First of all,” said Tommy, “speaking in a strictly unofficial capacity, let me point out this. Business is not too brisk lately. If business does not come to us, we must go to business. Apply our minds to one of the great public mysteries of the moment. Which brings me to the point—the Sunningdale Mystery.”

“Ah!” said Tuppence, with deep interest. “The Sunningdale Mystery!”

Tommy drew a crumpled piece of newspaper from his pocket and laid it on the table.