The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection (73 page)

“Good fellow, Haydock,” he said. “But he's not content to let a good thing alone. We've heard all about that business again and again until we're sick of it. He's as proud of the whole bag of tricks up there as a cat of its kittens.”

The simile was not too far-fetched, and Tommy assented with a smile.

The conversation then turning to Major Bletchley's own successful unmasking of a dishonest bearer in 1923, Tommy's attention was free to pursue its own inward line of thought punctuated by sympathetic “Not reallys?”—“You don't say so?” and “What an extraordinary business” which was all Major Bletchley needed in the way of encouragement.

More than ever now Tommy felt that when the dying Farquhar had mentioned Sans Souci he had been on the right track. Here, in this out of the world spot, preparations had been made a long time beforehand. The arrival of the German Hahn and his extensive installation showed clearly enough that this particular part of the coast had been selected for a rallying point, a focus of enemy activity.

That particular game had been defeated by the unexpected activity of the suspicious Commander Haydock. Round one had gone to Britain. But supposing that Smugglers' Rest had been only the first outpost of a complicated scheme of attack? Smugglers' Rest, that is to say, had represented sea communications. Its beach, inaccessible save for the path down from above, would lend itself admirably to the plan. But it was only a part of the whole.

Defeated on that part of the plan by Haydock, what had been the enemy's response? Might not he have fallen back upon the next best thing—that is to say, Sans Souci. The exposure of Hahn had come about four years ago. Tommy had an idea, from what Sheila Perenna had said, that it was very soon after that that Mrs. Perenna had returned to England and bought Sans Souci. The next move in the game?

It would seem therefore that Leahampton was definitely an enemy centre—that there were already installations and affiliations in the neighbourhood.

His spirits rose. The depression engendered by the harmless and futile atmosphere of Sans Souci disappeared. Innocent as it seemed, that innocence was no more than skin deep. Behind that innocuous mask things were going on.

And the focus of it all, so far as Tommy could judge, was Mrs. Perenna. The first thing to do was to know more about Mrs. Perenna, to penetrate behind her apparently simple routine of running her boarding establishment. Her correspondence, her acquaintances, her social or war-working activities—somewhere in all these must lie the essence of her real activities. If Mrs. Perenna was the renowned woman agent—M—then it was she who controlled the whole of the Fifth Column activities in this country. Her identity would be known to few—only to those at the top. But communications she must have with her chiefs of staff, and it was those communications that he and Tuppence had got to tap.

At the right moment, as Tommy saw well enough, Smugglers' Rest could be seized and held—by a few stalwarts operating from Sans Souci. That moment was not yet, but it might be very near.

Once the German army was established in control of the channel ports in France and Belgium, they could concentrate on the invasion and subjugation of Britain, and things were certainly going very badly in France at the moment.

Britain's Navy was all-powerful on the sea, so the attack must come by air and by internal treachery—and if the threads of internal treachery were in Mrs. Perenna's keeping there was no time to lose.

Major Bletchley's words chimed in with his thoughts:

“I saw, you know, that there was no time to lose. I got hold of Abdul, my syce—good fellow, Abdul—”

The story droned on.

Tommy was thinking:

“Why Leahampton? Any reason? It's out of the mainstream—bit of a backwater. Conservative, old-fashioned. All those points make it desirable. Is there anything else?”

There was a stretch of flat agricultural country behind it running inland. A lot of pasture. Suitable, therefore, for the landing of troop-carrying airplanes or of parachute troops. But that was true of many other places. There was also a big chemical works where, it might be noted, Carl von Deinim was employed.

Carl von Deinim. How did he fit in? Only too well. He was not, as Grant had pointed out, the real head. A cog, only, in the machine. Liable to suspicion and internment at any moment. But in the meantime he might have accomplished what had been his task. He had mentioned to Tuppence that he was working on decontamination problems and on the immunising of certain gases. There were probabilities there—probabilities unpleasant to contemplate.

Carl, Tommy decided (a little reluctantly), was in it. A pity, because he rather liked the fellow. Well, he was working for his country—taking his life in his hands. Tommy had respect for such an adversary—down him by all means—a firing party was the end, but you knew that when you took on your job.

It was the people who betrayed their own land—from within—that really roused a slow vindictive passion in him. By God, he'd get them!

“—And that's how I got them!” The Major wound up his story triumphantly. “Pretty smart bit of work, eh?”

Unblushingly Tommy said:

“Most ingenious thing I've heard in my life, Major.”

II

Mrs. Blenkensop was reading a letter on thin foreign paper stamped outside with the censor's mark.

Incidentally the direct result of her conversation with “Mr. Faraday.”

“Dear Raymond,” she murmured. “I was so happy about him out in Egypt, and now, it seems, there is a big change round. All
very
secret, of course, and he can't
say
anything—just that there really is a marvellous plan and that I'm to be ready for some
big surprise
soon. I'm glad to know where he's being sent, but I really don't see why—”

Bletchley grunted.

“Surely he's not allowed to tell you that?”

Tuppence gave a deprecating laugh and looked round the breakfast table as she folded up her precious letter.

“Oh! we have our methods,” she said archly. “Dear Raymond knows that if only I know where he is or where he's going I don't worry quite so much. It's quite a simple way, too. Just a certain word, you know, and after it the initial letters of the next words spell out the place. Of course it makes rather a funny sentence sometimes—but Raymond is really most ingenious. I'm sure
nobody
would notice.”

Little murmurs arose round the table. The moment was well chosen; everybody happened to be at the breakfast table together for once.

Bletchley, his face rather red, said:

“You'll excuse me, Mrs. Blenkensop, but that's a damned foolish thing to do. Movements of troops and air squadrons are just what the Germans want to know.”

“Oh, but I never tell anyone,” cried Tuppence. “I'm very, very careful.”

“All the same it's an unwise thing to do—and your boy will get into trouble over it some day.”

“Oh, I do hope not. I'm his
mother,
you see. A mother
ought
to know.”

“Indeed and I think you're right,” boomed out Mrs. O'Rourke. “Wild horses wouldn't drag the information from you—we know that.”

“Letters can be read,” said Bletchley.

“I'm very careful never to leave letters lying about,” said Tuppence with an air of outraged dignity. “I always keep them locked up.”

Bletchley shook his head doubtfully.

III

It was a grey morning with the wind blowing coldly from the sea. Tuppence was alone at the far end of the beach.

She took from her bag two letters that she had just called for at a small newsagent's in the town.

They had taken some time in coming since they had been readdressed there, the second time to a Mrs. Spender. Tuppence liked crossing her tracks. Her children believed her to be in Cornwall with an old aunt.

She opened the first letter.

“Dearest Mother,

“Lots of funny things I could tell you only I mustn't. We're putting up a good show, I think. Five German planes before breakfast is today's market quotation. Bit of a mess at the moment and all that, but we'll get there all right in the end.

“It's the way they machine-gun the poor civilian devils on the roads that gets me. It makes us all see red. Gus and Trundles want to be remembered to you. They're still going strong.

“Don't worry about me. I'm all right. Wouldn't have missed this show for the world. Love to old Carrot Top—have the W.O. given him a job yet?

“Yours ever,

“Derek.”

Tuppence's eyes were very bright and shining as she read and reread this.

Then she opened the other letter.

“Dearest Mum,

“How's old Aunt Gracie? Going strong? I think you're wonderful to stick it. I couldn't.

“No news. My job is very interesting, but so hush-hush I can't tell you about it. But I really do feel I'm doing something worthwhile. Don't fret about not getting any war work to do—it's so silly all these elderly women rushing about wanting to
do
things. They only really want people who are young and efficient. I wonder how Carrots is getting on at his job up in Scotland? Just filling up forms, I suppose. Still he'll be happy to feel he is doing something.

“Lots of love,

“Deborah.”

Tuppence smiled.

She folded the letters, smoothed them lovingly, and then under the shelter of a breakwater she struck a match and set them on fire. She waited until they were reduced to ashes.

Taking out her fountain pen and a small writing pad, she wrote rapidly.

“Langherne,

Cornwall.

“Dearest Deb,

“It seems so remote from the war here that I can hardly believe there is a war going on. Very glad to get your letter and know that your work is interesting.

“Aunt Gracie has grown much more feeble and very hazy in her mind. I think she is glad to have me here. She talks a good deal about the old days and sometimes, I think, confuses me with my own mother. They are growing more vegetables than usual—have turned the rose garden into potatoes. I help old Sikes a bit. It makes me feel I am doing something in the war. Your father seems a bit disgruntled, but I think, as you say, he too is glad to be doing something.

“Love from your

“T
UPPENNY
M
OTHER
.”

She took a fresh sheet.

“Darling Derek,

“A great comfort to get your letter. Send field postcards often if you haven't time to write.

“I've come down to be with Aunt Gracie a bit. She is very feeble. She will talk of you as though you were seven and gave me ten shillings yesterday to send you as a tip.

“I'm still on the shelf and nobody wants my invaluable services! Extraordinary! Your father, as I told you, has got a job in the Ministry of Requirements. He is up north somewhere. Better than nothing, but not what he wanted, poor old Carrot Top. Still I suppose we've got to be humble and take a back seat and leave the war to you young idiots.

“I won't say ‘Take care of yourself,' because I gather that the whole point is that you should do just the opposite. But don't go and be stupid.

“Lots of love,

“T
UPPENCE
.”

She put the letters into envelopes, addressed and stamped them, and posted them on her way back to Sans Souci.

As she reached the bottom of the cliff her attention was caught by two figures standing talking a little way up.

Tuppence stopped dead. It was the same woman she had seen yesterday and talking to her was Carl von Deinim.

Regretfully Tuppence noted the fact that there was no cover. She could not get near them unseen and overhear what was being said.

Moreover, at that moment, the young German turned his head and saw her. Rather abruptly, the two figures parted. The woman came rapidly down the hill, crossing the road and passing Tuppence on the other side.

Carl von Deinim waited until Tuppence came up to him.

Then, gravely and politely, he wished her good morning.

Tuppence said immediately:

“What a very odd-looking woman that was to whom you were talking, Mr. Deinim.”

“Yes. It is a Central European type. She is a Pole.”

“Really? A—a friend of yours?”

Tuppence's tone was a very good copy of the inquisitive voice of Aunt Gracie in her younger days.

“Not at all,” said Carl stiffly. “I never saw the woman before.”

“Oh really. I thought—” Tuppence paused artistically.

“She asked me only for a direction. I speak German to her because she does not understand much English.”

“I see. And she was asking the way somewhere?”

“She asked me if I knew a Mrs. Gottlieb near here. I do not, and she says she has, perhaps, got the name of the house wrong.”

“I see,” said Tuppence thoughtfully.

Mr. Rosenstein. Mrs. Gottlieb.

She stole a swift glance at Carl von Deinim. He was walking beside her with a set stiff face.

Tuppence felt a definite suspicion of this strange woman. And she felt almost convinced that when she had first caught sight of them, the woman and Carl had been already talking some time together.

Carl von Deinim?

Carl and Sheila that morning.
“You must be careful.”

Tuppence thought:

“I hope—I hope these young things
aren't
in it!”

Soft, she told herself, middle-aged and soft! That's what she was! The Nazi creed was a youth creed. Nazi agents would in all probability be young. Carl and Sheila. Tommy said Sheila wasn't in it. Yes, but Tommy was a man, and Sheila was beautiful with a queer breathtaking beauty.