The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection (78 page)

Mrs. Sprot merely shook her head, her lips pressed tightly together.

Tuppence said:

“We must put ourselves in their places. Where would they have waited in the car? Somewhere as near Sans Souci as possible, but where a car wouldn't be noticed. Now let's
think.
The woman and Betty walk down the hill together. At the bottom is the esplanade. The car might have been drawn up there. So long as you don't leave it unattended you can stop there for quite a while. The only other places are the car park in James's Square, also quite near, or else one of the small streets that lead off from the esplanade.”

It was at that moment that a small man, with a diffident manner and pince nez, stepped up to them and said, stammering a little:

“Excuse me . . . No offence, I hope . . . but I c-ccouldn't help overhearing what you were asking the porter just now” (he now directed his remarks to Major Bletchley). “I was not listening, of course, just come down to see about a parcel—extraordinary how long things are delayed just now—movements of troops, they say—but really most difficult when it's perishable—the parcel, I mean—and so, you see, I happened to overhear—and really it did seem the most wonderful coincidence. . . .”

Mrs. Sprot sprang forward. She seized him by the arm.

“You've seen her? You've seen my little girl?”

“Oh really, your little girl, you say? Now fancy that—”

Mrs. Sprot cried: “Tell me.” And her fingers bit into the little man's arm so that he winced.

Tuppence said quickly:

“Please tell us anything you have seen as quickly as you can. We shall be most grateful if you would.”

“Oh, well, really, of course, it may be nothing at all. But the description fitted so well—”

Tuppence felt the woman beside her trembling, but she herself strove to keep her manner calm and unhurried. She knew the type with which they were dealing—fussy, muddle-headed, diffident, incapable of going straight to the point and worse if hurried. She said:

“Please tell us.”

“It was only—my name is Robbins, by the way, Edward Robbins—”

“Yes, Mr. Robbins?”

“I live at Whiteways in Ernes Cliff Road, one of those new houses on the new road—most labour saving, and really every convenience, and a beautiful view and the downs only a stone's throw away.”

Tuppence quelled Major Bletchley, who she saw was about to break out, with a glance, and said:

“And you saw the little girl we are looking for?”

“Yes, I really think it
must
be. A little girl with a foreign-looking woman, you said? It was really the woman I noticed. Because, of course, we are all on the lookout nowadays for Fifth Columnists, aren't we? A sharp lookout, that is what they say, and I always try to do so, and so, as I say, I noticed this woman. A nurse, I thought, or a maid—a lot of spies came over here in that capacity, and this woman was most unusual looking and walking up the road and on to the downs—with a little girl—and the little girl seemed tired and rather lagging, and half-past seven, well, most children go to bed then, so I looked at the woman pretty sharply. I think it flustered her. She hurried up the road, pulling the child after her, and finally picked her up and went on up the path out on to the cliff, which I thought
strange,
you know, because there are no houses there at all—nothing—not until you get to Whitehaven—about five miles over the downs—a favourite walk for hikers. But in this case I thought it odd. I wondered if the woman was going to signal, perhaps. One hears of so much enemy activity, and she certainly looked uneasy when she saw me staring at her.”

Commander Haydock was back in the car and had started the engine. He said:

“Ernes Cliff Road, you say. That's right the other side of the town, isn't it?”

“Yes, you go along the esplanade and past the old town and then up—”

The others had jumped in, not listening further to Mr. Robbins.

Tuppence called out:

“Thank you, Mr. Robbins,” and they drove off, leaving him staring after them with his mouth open.

They drove rapidly through the town, avoiding accidents more by good luck than by skill. But the luck held. They came out at last at a mass of straggling building development, somewhat marred by proximity to the gas works. A series of little roads led up towards the downs, stopping abruptly a short way up the hill. Ernes Cliff Road was the third of these.

Commander Haydock turned smartly into it and drove up. At the end the road petered out on to bare hillside, up which a footpath meandered upwards.

“Better get out and walk here,” said Bletchley.

Haydock said dubiously:

“Could almost take the car up. Ground's firm enough. Bit bumpy but I think she could do it.”

Mrs. Sprot cried:

“Oh yes, please, please . . . We must be quick.”

The Commander murmured to himself:

“Hope to goodness we're after the right lot. That little pipsqueak may have seen any woman with a kid.”

The car groaned uneasily as it ploughed its way up over the rough ground. The gradient was severe, but the turf was short and springy. They came out without mishap on the top of the rise. Here the view was uninterrupted till it rested in the distance on the curve of Whitehaven Bay.

Bletchley said:

“Not a bad idea. The woman could spend the night up here if need be, drop down into Whitehaven tomorrow morning and take a train there.”

Haydock said:

“No sign of them as far as I can see.”

He was standing up holding some field glasses that he had thoughtfully brought with him to his eyes. Suddenly his figure became tense as he focused the glasses on two small moving dots.

“Got 'em, by Jove. . . .”

He dropped into the driver's seat again and the car bucketed forward. The chase was a short one now. Shot up in the air, tossed from side to side, the occupants of the car gained rapidly on those two small dots. They could be distinguished now—a tall figure and a short one—nearer still, a woman holding a child by the hand—still nearer, yes, a child in a green gingham frock. Betty.

Mrs. Sprot gave a strangled cry.

“All right now, my dear,” said Major Bletchley, patting her kindly. “We've got 'em.”

They went on. Suddenly the woman turned and saw the car advancing towards her.

With a cry she caught up the child in her arms and began running.

She ran, not forwards, but sideways towards the edge of the cliff.

The car, after a few yards, could not follow; the ground was too uneven and blocked with big boulders. It stopped and the occupants tumbled out.

Mrs. Sprot was out first and running wildly after the two fugitives.

The others followed her.

When they were within twenty yards, the other woman turned at bay. She was standing now at the very edge of the cliff. With a hoarse cry she clutched the child closer.

Haydock cried out:

“My God, she's going to throw the kid over the cliff. . . .”

The woman stood there, clutching Betty tightly. Her face was disfigured with a frenzy of hate. She uttered a long hoarse sentence that none of them understood. And still she held the child and looked from time to time at the drop below—not a yard from where she stood.

It seemed clear that she was threatening to throw the child over the cliff.

All of them stood there, dazed, terrified, unable to move for fear of precipitating a catastrophe.

Haydock was tugging at his pocket. He pulled out a service revolver.

He shouted: “Put that child down—or I fire.”

The foreign woman laughed. She held the child closer to her breast. The two figures were moulded into one.

Haydock muttered:

“I daren't shoot. I'd hit the child.”

Tommy said:

“The woman's crazy. She'll jump over with the child in another moment.”

Haydock said again, helplessly:

“I daren't shoot—”

But at that moment a shot rang out. The woman swayed and fell, the child still clasped in her arms.

The men ran forward, Mrs. Sprot stood swaying, the smoking pistol in her hands, her eyes dilated.

She took a few stiff steps forward.

Tommy was kneeling by the bodies. He turned them gently. He saw the woman's face—noted appreciatively its strange wild beauty. The eyes opened, looked at him, then went blank. With a sigh, the woman died, shot through the head.

Unhurt, little Betty Sprot wriggled out and ran towards the woman standing like a statue.

Then, at last, Mrs. Sprot crumpled. She flung away the pistol and dropped down, clutching the child to her.

She cried:

“She's safe—she's safe—oh, Betty—
Betty.
” And then, in a low, awed whisper:

“Did I—did I—kill her?”

Tuppence said firmly:

“Don't think about it—don't think about it. Think about Betty. Just think about Betty.”

Mrs. Sprot held the child close against her, sobbing.

Tuppence went forward to join the men.

Haydock murmured:

“Bloody miracle. I couldn't have brought off a shot like that. Don't believe the woman's ever handled a pistol before either—sheer instinct. A miracle, that's what it is.”

Tuppence said:

“Thank God! It was a near thing!” And she looked down at the sheer drop to the sea below and shuddered.

Eight

T
he inquest on the dead woman was held some days later. There had been an adjournment whilst the police identified her as a certain Vanda Polonska, a Polish refugee.

After the dramatic scene on the cliffs, Mrs. Sprot and Betty, the former in a state of collapse, had been driven back to Sans Souci, where hot bottles, nice cups of tea, ample curiosity, and finally a stiff dollop of brandy had been administered to the half-fainting heroine of the night.

Commander Haydock had immediately got in touch with the police, and under his guidance they had gone out to the scene of the tragedy on the cliff.

But for the disturbing war news, the tragedy would probably have been given much greater space in the papers than it was. Actually it occupied only one small paragraph.

Both Tuppence and Tommy had to give evidence at the inquest, and in case any reporters should think fit to take pictures of the more unimportant witnesses, Mr. Meadowes was unfortunate enough to get something in his eye which necessitated a highly disfiguring eyeshade. Mrs. Blenkensop was practically obliterated by her hat.

However, such interest as there was focused itself entirely on Mrs. Sprot and Commander Haydock. Mr. Sprot, hysterically summoned by telegraph, rushed down to see his wife, but had to go back again the same day. He seemed an amiable but not very interesting young man.

The inquest opened with the formal identification of the body by a certain Mrs. Calfont, a thin-lipped, gimlet-eyed woman who had been dealing for some months with refugee relief.

Polonska, she said, had come to England in company with a cousin and his wife who were her only relatives, so far as she knew. The woman, in her opinion, was slightly mental. She understood from her that she had been through scenes of great horror in Poland and that her family, including several children, had all been killed. The woman seemed not at all grateful for anything done for her, and was suspicious and taciturn. She muttered to herself a lot, and did not seem normal. A domestic post was found for her, but she had left it without notice some weeks ago and without reporting to the police.

The coroner asked why the woman's relatives had not come forward, and at this point Inspector Brassey made an explanation.

The couple in question were being detained under the Defence of the Realm Act for an offence in connection with a Naval dockyard. He stated that these two aliens had posed as refugees to enter the country, but had immediately tried to obtain employment near a Naval base. The whole family was looked upon with suspicion. They had had a larger sum of money in their possession than could be accounted for. Nothing was actually known against the deceased woman Polonska—except that her sentiments were believed to have been anti-British. It was possible that she also had been an enemy agent, and that her pretended stupidity was assumed.

Mrs. Sprot, when called, dissolved at once into tears. The coroner was gentle with her, leading her tactfully along the path of what had occurred.

“It's so awful,” gasped Mrs. Sprot. “So awful to have killed someone. I didn't mean to do that—I mean I never thought—but it was Betty—and I thought that woman was going to throw her over the cliff and I had to stop her—and oh, dear—I don't know how I did it.”

“You are accustomed to the use of firearms?”

“Oh, no! Only those rifles at regattas—at fairs—when you shoot at booths, and even then I never used to hit anything. Oh, dear—I feel as though I'd
murdered
someone.”

The coroner soothed her and asked if she had ever come in contact with the dead woman.

“Oh,
no.
I'd never seen her in my life. I think she must have been quite mad—because she didn't even
know
me or Betty.”

In reply to further questions, Mrs. Sprot said that she had attended a sewing party for comforts for Polish refugees, but that that was the extent of her connection with Poles in this country.

Haydock was the next witness, and he described the steps he had taken to track down the kidnapper and what had eventually happened.

“You are clear in your mind that the woman was definitely preparing to jump over the cliff?”

“Either that or to throw the child over. She seemed to be quite demented with hate. It would have been impossible to reason with her. It was a moment for immediate action. I myself conceived the idea of firing and crippling her, but she was holding up the child as a shield. I was afraid of killing the child if I fired. Mrs. Sprot took the risk and was successful in saving her little girl's life.”