The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection (81 page)

“—and we're still honeycombed with spies—riddled with 'em. It was the same in the last war—hairdressers, waiters—”

Tommy, leaning back, catching the profile of Appledore as the latter hovered deft-footed, thought—“Waiters? You could call that fellow Fritz easier than Appledore. . . .”

Well, why not? The fellow spoke perfect English, true, but then many Germans did. They had perfected their English by years in English restaurants. And the racial type was not unlike. Fair-haired, blue-eyed—often betrayed by the shape of the head—yes, the head—where had he seen a head lately. . . .

He spoke on an impulse. The words fitted in appositely enough with what the Commander was just saying.

“All these damned forms to fill in. No good at all, Meadowes. Series of idiotic questions—”

Tommy said:

“I know. Such as ‘What is your name?' Answer N or M.”

There was a swerve—a crash. Appledore, the perfect servant, had blundered. A stream of crême de menthe soaked over Tommy's cuff and hand.

The man stammered, “Sorry, sir.”

Haydock blazed out in fury:

“You damned clumsy fool! What the hell do you think you're doing?”

His usually red face was quite purple with anger. Tommy thought, “Talk of an Army temper—Navy beats it hollow!” Haydock continued with a stream of abuse. Appledore was abject in apologies.

Tommy felt uncomfortable for the man, but suddenly, as though by magic, the Commander's wrath passed and he was his hearty self again.

“Come along and have a wash. Beastly stuff. It would be the crême de menthe.”

Tommy followed him indoors and was soon in the sumptuous bathroom with the innumerable gadgets. He carefully washed off the sticky sweet stuff. The Commander talked from the bedroom next door. He sounded a little shamefaced.

“Afraid I let myself go a bit. Poor old Appledore—he knows I let go a bit more than I mean always.”

Tommy turned from the washbasin drying his hands. He did not notice that a cake of soap had slipped on to the floor. His foot stepped on it. The linoleum was highly polished.

A moment later Tommy was doing a wild ballet dancer step. He shot across the bathroom, arms outstretched. One came up against the right-hand tap of the bath, the other pushed heavily against the side of a small bathroom cabinet. It was an extravagant gesture never likely to be achieved except by some catastrophe such as had just occurred.

His foot skidded heavily against the end panel of the bath.

The thing happened like a conjuring trick. The bath slid out from the wall, turning on a concealed pivot. Tommy found himself looking into a dim recess. He had no doubt whatever as to what occupied that recess. It contained a transmitting wireless apparatus.

The Commander's voice had ceased. He appeared suddenly in the doorway. And with a click, several things fell into place in Tommy's brain.

Had he been blind up to now? That jovial florid face—the face of a “hearty Englishman”—was only a mask. Why had he not seen it all along for what it was—the face of a bad-tempered overbearing Prussian officer. Tommy was helped, no doubt, by the incident that had just happened. For it recalled to him another incident, a Prussian bully turning on a subordinate and rating him with the Junker's true insolence. So had Commander Haydock turned on his subordinate that evening when the latter had been taken unawares.

And it all fitted in—it fitted in like magic. The double bluff. The enemy agent Hahn, sent first, preparing the place, employing foreign workmen, drawing attention to himself, and proceeding finally to the next stage in the plan, his own unmasking by the gallant British sailor Commander Haydock. And then how natural that the Englishman should buy the place and tell the story to everyone, boring them by constant repetition. And so N, securely settled in his appointed place, with sea communications and his secret wireless and his staff officers at Sans Souci close at hand, is ready to carry out Germany's plan.

Tommy was unable to resist a flash of genuine admiration. The whole thing had been so perfectly planned. He himself had never suspected Haydock—he had accepted Haydock as the genuine article—only a completely unforeseen accident had given the show away.

All this passed through Tommy's mind in a few seconds. He knew, only too well, that he was, that he must necessarily be, in deadly peril. If only he could act the part of the credulous thick-headed Englishman well enough.

He turned to Haydock with what he hoped was a natural-sounding laugh.

“By Jove, one never stops getting surprises at your place. Was this another of Hahn's little gadgets? You didn't show me this the other day.”

Haydock was standing still. There was a tensity about his big body as it stood there blocking the door.

“More than a match for me,” Tommy thought. “And there's that confounded servant, too.”

For an instant Haydock stood as though moulded in stone, then he relaxed. He said with a laugh:

“Damned funny, Meadowes. You went skating over the floor like a ballet dancer! Don't suppose a thing like that would happen once in a thousand times. Dry your hands and come into the other room.”

Tommy followed him out of the bathroom. He was alert and tense in every muscle. Somehow or other he must get safely away from this house with his knowledge. Could he succeed in fooling Haydock? The latter's tone sounded natural enough.

With an arm round Tommy's shoulders, a casual arm, perhaps (or perhaps not), Haydock shepherded him into the sitting room. Turning, he shut the door behind them.

“Look here, old boy, I've got something to say to you.”

His voice was friendly, natural—just a shade embarrassed. He motioned to Tommy to sit down.

“It's a bit awkward,” he said. “Upon my word, it's a bit awkward! Nothing for it, though, but to take you into my confidence. Only you'll have to keep dark about it, Meadowes. You understand that?”

Tommy endeavoured to throw an expression of eager interest upon his face.

Haydock sat down and drew his chair confidentially close.

“You see, Meadowes, it's like this. Nobody's supposed to know it but I'm working on Intelligence MI42 BX—that's my department. Ever heard of it?”

Tommy shook his head and intensified the eager expression.

“Well, it's pretty secret. Kind of inner ring, if you know what I mean. We transmit certain information from here—but it would be absolutely fatal if that fact got out, you understand?”

“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Meadowes. “Most interesting! Naturally you can count on me not to say a word.”

“Yes, that's absolutely vital. The whole thing is extremely confidential.”

“I quite understand. Your work must be most thrilling. Really most thrilling. I should like so much to know more about it—but I suppose I mustn't ask that?”

“No, I'm afraid not. It's very secret, you see.”

“Oh yes, I see. I really do apologise—a most extraordinary accident—”

He thought to himself, “Surely he can't be taken in? He can't imagine I'd fall for this stuff?”

It seemed incredible to him. Then he reflected that vanity had been the undoing of many men. Commander Haydock was a clever man, a big fellow—this miserable chap Meadowes was a stupid Britisher—the sort of man who would believe anything! If only Haydock continued to think that.

Tommy went on talking. He displayed keen interest and curiosity. He knew he mustn't ask questions but—He supposed Commander Haydock's work must be very dangerous? Had he ever been in Germany, working there?

Haydock replied genially enough. He was intensely the British sailor now—the Prussian officer had disappeared. But Tommy, watching him with a new vision, wondered how he could ever have been deceived. The shape of the head—the line of the jaw—nothing British about them.

Presently Mr. Meadowes rose. It was the supreme test. Would it go off all right?

“I really must be going now—getting quite late—feel terribly apologetic, but can assure you will not say a word to anybody.”

(“It's now or never. Will he let me go or not? I must be ready—a straight to his jaw would be best—”)

Talking amiably and with pleasurable excitement, Mr. Meadowes edged towards the door.

He was in the hall . . . he had opened the front door. . . .

Through the door on the right he caught a glimpse of Appledore setting the breakfast things ready on a tray for the morning. (The damned fools were going to let him get away with it!)

The two men stood in the porch, chatting—fixing up another match for next Saturday.

Tommy thought grimly: “There'll be no next Saturday for you, my boy.”

Voices came from the road outside. Two men returning from a tramp on the headland. They were men that both Tommy and the Commander knew slightly. Tommy hailed them. They stopped. Haydock and he exchanged a few words with them, all standing at the gate, then Tommy waved a genial farewell to his host and stepped off with the two men.

He had got away with it.

Haydock, damned fool, had been taken in!

He heard Haydock go back to his house, go in and shut the door. Tommy tramped carefully down the hill with his two new-found friends.

Weather looked likely to change.

Old Monroe was off his game again.

That fellow Ashby refused to join the LDV. Said it was no damned good. Pretty thick, that. Young Marsh, the assistant caddy master, was a conscientious objector. Didn't Meadowes think that matter ought to be put up to the committee. There had been a pretty bad raid on Southampton the night before last—quite a lot of damage done. What did Meadowes think about Spain? Were they turning nasty? Of course, ever since the French collapse—

Tommy could have shouted aloud. Such good casual normal talk. A stroke of providence that these two men had turned up just at that moment.

He said goodbye to them at the gate of Sans Souci and turned in.

He walked up the drive whistling softly to himself.

He had just turned the dark corner by the rhododendrons when something heavy descended on his head. He crashed forward, pitching into blackness and oblivion.

Ten

“D
id you say Three Spades, Mrs. Blenkensop?”

Yes, Mrs. Blenkensop had said Three Spades. Mrs. Sprot, returning breathless from the telephone: “And they've changed the time of the ARP exam, again, it's
too
bad,” demanded to have the bidding again.

Miss Minton, as usual, delayed things by ceaseless reiterations.

“Was it Two Clubs I said? Are you sure? I rather thought, you know, that it might have been one No Trump—Oh yes, of course, I remember now. Mrs. Cayley said One Heart, didn't she? I was going to say one No Trump although I hadn't quite got the count, but I do think one should play a plucky game—and then Mrs. Cayley said One Heart and so I had to go Two Clubs. I always think it's so difficult when one has two short suits—”

“Sometimes,” Tuppence thought to herself, “it would save time if Miss Minton just put her hand down on the table to show them all. She was quite incapable of not telling exactly what was in it.”

“So now we've got it right,” said Miss Minton triumphantly. “One Heart, Two Clubs.”

“Two Spades,” said Tuppence.

“I passed, didn't I?” said Mrs. Sprot.

They looked at Mrs. Cayley, who was leaning forward listening. Miss Minton took up the tale.

“Then Mrs. Cayley said Two Hearts and I said Three Diamonds.”

“And I said Three Spades,” said Tuppence.

“Pass,” said Mrs. Sprot.

Mrs. Cayley sat in silence. At last she seemed to become aware that everyone was looking at her.

“Oh dear,” she flushed. “I'm so sorry. I thought perhaps Mr. Cayley needed me. I hope he's all right out there on the terrace.”

She looked from one to the other of them.

“Perhaps, if you don't mind, I'd better just go and
see.
I heard rather an odd noise. Perhaps he's dropped his book.”

She fluttered out of the window. Tuppence gave an exasperated sigh.

“She ought to have a string tied to her wrist,” she said. “Then he could pull it when he wanted her.”

“Such a devoted wife,” said Miss Minton. “It's very nice to see, isn't it?”

“Is it?” said Tuppence, who was feeling far from good-tempered.

The three women sat in silence for a minute or two.

“Where's Sheila tonight?” asked Miss Minton.

“She went to the pictures,” said Mrs. Sprot.

“Where's Mrs. Perenna?” asked Tuppence.

“She said she was going to do accounts in her room,” said Miss Minton. “Poor dear. So tiring, doing accounts.”

“She's not been doing accounts all evening,” said Mrs. Sprot, “because she came in just now when I was telephoning in the hall.”

“I wonder where she'd been,” said Miss Minton, whose life was taken up with such small wonderments. “Not to the pictures, they wouldn't be out yet.”

“She hadn't got a hat on,” said Mrs. Sprot. “Nor a coat. Her hair was all anyhow and I think she'd been running or something. Quite out of breath. She ran upstairs without a word and she glared—positively glared at me—and I'm sure
I
hadn't done anything.”

Mrs. Cayley reappeared at the window.

“Fancy,” she said. “Mr. Cayley has walked all round the garden by himself. He quite enjoyed it, he said. Such a mild night.”

She sat down again.

“Let me see—oh, do you think we could have the bidding over again?”

Tuppence suppressed a rebellious sigh. They had the bidding all over again and she was left to play Three Spades.

Mrs. Perenna came in just as they were cutting for the next deal.

“Did you enjoy your walk?” asked Miss Minton.

Mrs. Perenna stared at her. It was a fierce and unpleasant stare. She said: