The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection (42 page)

Tommy eased his stiff jaws, rolled his tongue round his mouth, swallowed twice—and said nothing at all.

“I congratulate you on your restraint,” said the other. “You appreciate the position, I see. Have you nothing at all to say?”

“What I have to say will keep,” said Tommy. “And it won't spoil by waiting.”

“Ah! What I have to say will not keep. In plain English, Mr. Blunt, where is that letter?”

“My dear fellow, I don't know,” said Tommy cheerfully. “I haven't got it. But you know that as well as I do. I should go on looking about if I were you. I like to see you and friend Coggins playing hide-and-seek together.”

The other's face darkened.

“You are pleased to be flippant, Mr. Blunt. You see that square box over there. That is Coggins's little outfit. In it there is vitriol . . . yes, vitriol . . . and irons that can be heated in the fire, so that they are red hot and burn. . . .”

Tommy shook his head sadly.

“An error in diagnosis,” he murmured. “Tuppence and I labelled this adventure wrong. It's not a Clubfoot story. It's a Bull-dog Drummond, and you are the inimitable Carl Peterson.”

“What is this nonsense you are talking,” snarled the other.

“Ah!” said Tommy. “I see you are unacquainted with the classics. A pity.”

“Ignorant fool! Will you do what we want or will you not? Shall I tell Coggins to get out his tools and begin?”

“Don't be so impatient,” said Tommy. “Of course I'll do what you want, as soon as you tell me what it is. You don't suppose I want to be carved up like a filleted sole and fried on a gridiron? I loathe being hurt.”

Dymchurch looked at him in contempt.

“Gott! What cowards are these English.”

“Common sense, my dear fellow, merely common sense. Leave the vitriol alone and let us come down to brass tacks.”

“I want the letter.”

“I've already told you I haven't got it.”

“We know that—we also know who must have it. The girl.”

“Very possibly you're right,” said Tommy. “She may have slipped it into her handbag when your pal Carl startled us.”

“Oh, you do not deny. That is wise. Very good, you will write to this Tuppence, as you call her, bidding her bring the letter here immediately.”

“I can't do that,” began Tommy.

The other cut in before he had finished the sentence.

“Ah! You can't? Well, we shall soon see. Coggins!”

“Don't be in such a hurry,” said Tommy. “And do wait for the end of the sentence. I was going to say that I can't do that unless you untie my arms. Hang it all, I'm not one of those freaks who can write with their noses or their elbows.”

“You are willing to write, then?”

“Of course. Haven't I been telling you so all along? I'm all out to be pleasant and obliging. You won't do anything unkind to Tuppence, of course. I'm sure you won't. She's such a nice girl.”

“We only want the letter,” said Dymchurch, but there was a singularly unpleasant smile on his face.

At a nod from him the brutal Coggins knelt down and unfastened Tommy's arms. The latter swung them to and fro.

“That's better,” he said cheerfully. “Will kind Coggins hand me my fountain pen? It's on the table, I think, with my other miscellaneous property.”

Scowling, the man brought it to him, and provided a sheet of paper.

“Be careful what you say,” Dymchurch said menacingly. “We leave it to you, but failure means—death—and slow death at that.”

“In that case,” said Tommy, “I will certainly do my best.”

He reflected a minute or two, then began to scribble rapidly.

“How will this do?” he asked, handing over the completed epistle.

Dear Tuppence,

Can you come along at once and bring that blue letter with you? We want to decode it here and now.

In haste,

Francis.

“Francis?” queried the bogus Inspector, with lifted eyebrows. “Was that the name she called you?”

“As you weren't at my christening,” said Tommy, “I don't suppose you can know whether it's my name or not. But I think the cigarette case you took from my pocket is a pretty good proof that I'm speaking the truth.”

The other stepped over to the table and took up the case, read “Francis from Tuppence” with a faint grin and laid it down again.

“I am glad to find you are behaving so sensibly,” he said. “Coggins, give that note to Vassilly. He is on guard outside. Tell him to take it at once.”

The next twenty minutes passed slowly, the ten minutes after that more slowly still. Dymchurch was striding up and down with a face that grew darker and darker. Once he turned menacingly on Tommy.

“If you have dared to double-cross us,” he growled.

“If we'd had a pack of cards here, we might have had a game of picquet to pass the time,” drawled Tommy. “Women always keep one waiting. I hope you're not going to be unkind to little Tuppence when she comes?”

“Oh, no,” said Dymchurch. “We shall arrange for you to go to the same place—together.”

“Will you, you swine,” said Tommy under his breath.

Suddenly there was a stir in the outer office. A man whom Tommy had not yet seen poked his head in and growled something in Russian.

“Good,” said Dymchurch. “She is coming—and coming alone.”

For a moment a faint anxiety caught at Tommy's heart.

The next minute he heard Tuppence's voice.

“Oh! there you are, Inspector Dymchurch. I've brought the letter. Where is Francis?”

With the last words she came through the door, and Vassilly sprang on her from behind, clapping his hand over her mouth. Dymchurch tore the handbag from her grasp and turned over its contents in a frenzied search.

Suddenly he uttered an ejaculation of delight and held up a blue envelope with a Russian stamp on it. Coggins gave a hoarse shout.

And just in that minute of triumph the other door, the door into Tuppence's own office, opened noiselessly and Inspector Marriot and two men armed with revolvers stepped into the room, with the sharp command: “Hands up.”

There was no fight. The others were taken at a hopeless disadvantage. Dymchurch's automatic lay on the table, and the two others were not armed.

“A very nice little haul,” said Inspector Marriot with approval, as he snapped the last pair of handcuffs. “And we'll have more as time goes on, I hope.”

White with rage, Dymchurch glared at Tuppence.

“You little devil,” he snarled. “It was you put them on to us.”

Tuppence laughed.

“It wasn't all my doing. I ought to have guessed, I admit, when you brought in the number sixteen this afternoon. But it was Tommy's note clinched matters. I rang up Inspector Marriot, got Albert to meet him with the duplicate key of the office, and came along myself with the empty blue envelope in my bag. The letter I forwarded according to my instructions as soon as I had parted with you two this afternoon.”

But one word had caught the other's attention.

“Tommy?”
he queried.

Tommy, who had just been released from his bonds, came towards them.

“Well done, brother Francis,” he said to Tuppence, taking both her hands in his. And to Dymchurch: “As I told you, my dear fellow, you really ought to read the classics.”

Five

F
INESSING
THE
K
ING

I
t was a wet Wednesday in the offices of the International Detective Agency. Tuppence let the
Daily Leader
fall idly from her hand.

“Do you know what I've been thinking, Tommy?”

“It's impossible to say,” replied her husband. “You think of so many things, and you think of them all at once.”

“I think it's time we went dancing again.”

Tommy picked up the
Daily Leader
hastily.

“Our advertisement looks well,” he remarked, his head on one side. “Blunt's Brilliant Detectives. Do you realise, Tuppence, that you and you alone are Blunt's Brilliant Detectives? There's glory for you, as Humpty Dumpty would say.”

“I was talking about dancing.”

“There's a curious point that I have observed about newspapers. I wonder if you have ever noticed it. Take these three copies of the
Daily Leader.
Can you tell me how they differ one from the other?”

Tuppence took them with some curiosity.

“It seems fairly easy,” she remarked witheringly. “One is today's, one is yesterday's, and one is the day before's.”

“Positively scintillating, my dear Watson. But that was not my meaning. Observe the headline, ‘Daily Leader.' Compare the three—do you see any difference between them?”

“No, I don't,” said Tuppence, “and what's more, I don't believe there is any.”

Tommy sighed and brought the tips of his fingers together in the most approved Sherlock Holmes fashion.

“Exactly. Yet you read the papers as much—in fact, more than I do. But I have observed and you have not. If you will look at today's
Daily Leader,
you will see that in the middle of the downstroke of the D is a small white dot, and there is another in the L of the same word. But in yesterday's paper the white dot is not in DAILY at all. There are two white dots in the L of LEADER. That of the day before again has two dots in the D of DAILY. In fact, the dot, or dots, are in a different position every day.”

“Why?” asked Tuppence.

“That's a journalistic secret.”

“Meaning you don't know, and can't guess.”

“I will merely say this—the practice is common to all newspapers.”

“Aren't you clever?” said Tuppence. “Especially at drawing red herrings across the track. Let's go back to what we were talking about before.”

“What were we talking about?”

“The Three Arts Ball.”

Tommy groaned.

“No, no, Tuppence. Not the Three Arts Ball. I'm not young enough. I assure you I'm not young enough.”

“When I was a nice young girl,” said Tuppence, “I was brought up to believe that men—especially husbands—were dissipated beings, fond of drinking and dancing and staying up late at night. It took an exceptionally beautiful and clever wife to keep them at home. Another illusion gone! All the wives I know are hankering to go out and dance, and weeping because their husbands will wear bedroom slippers and go to bed at half past nine. And you do dance so nicely, Tommy dear.”

“Gently with the butter, Tuppence.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Tuppence, “it's not purely for pleasure that I want to go. I'm intrigued by this advertisement.”

She picked up the
Daily Leader
again and read it out.

“I should go three hearts. 12 tricks. Ace of Spades. Necessary to finesse the King.”

“Rather an expensive way of learning bridge,” was Tommy's comment.

“Don't be an ass. That's nothing to do with bridge. You see, I was lunching with a girl yesterday at the Ace of Spades. It's a queer little underground den in Chelsea, and she told me that it's quite the fashion at these big shows to trundle round there in the course of the evening for bacon and eggs and Welsh rarebits—Bohemian sort of stuff. It's got screened-off booths all around it. Pretty hot place, I should say.”

“And your idea is—?”

“Three hearts stands for the Three Arts Ball, tomorrow night, 12 tricks is twelve o'clock, and the Ace of Spades is the Ace of Spades.”

“And what about its being necessary to finesse the King?”

“Well, that's what I thought we'd find out.”

“I shouldn't wonder if you weren't right, Tuppence,” said Tommy magnanimously. “But I don't quite see why you want to butt in upon other people's love affairs.”

“I shan't butt in. What I'm proposing is an interesting experiment in detective work. We
need
practice.”

“Business is certainly not too brisk,” agreed Tommy. “All the same, Tuppence, what you want is to go to the Three Arts Ball and dance! Talk of red herrings.”

Tuppence laughed shamelessly.

“Be a sport, Tommy. Try and forget you're thirty-two and have got one grey hair in your left eyebrow.”

“I was always weak where women were concerned,” murmured her husband. “Have I got to make an ass of myself in fancy dress?”

“Of course, but you can leave that to me. I've got a splendid idea.”

Tommy looked at her with some misgiving. He was always profoundly mistrustful of Tuppence's brilliant ideas.

When he returned to the flat on the following evening, Tuppence came flying out of her bedroom to meet him.

“It's come,” she announced.

“What's come?”

“The costume. Come and look at it.”

Tommy followed her. Spread out on the bed was a complete fireman's kit with shining helmet.

“Good God!” groaned Tommy. “Have I joined the Wembley fire brigade?”

“Guess again,” said Tuppence. “You haven't caught the idea yet. Use your little grey cells,
mon ami.
Scintillate, Watson. Be a bull that has been more than ten minutes in the arena.”

“Wait a minute,” said Tommy. “I begin to see. There is a dark purpose in this. What are you going to wear, Tuppence?”

“An old suit of your clothes, an American hat and some horn spectacles.”

“Crude,” said Tommy. “But I catch the idea. McCarty incog. And I am Riordan.”

“That's it. I thought we ought to practise American detective methods as well as English ones. Just for once I am going to be the star, and you will be the humble assistant.”

“Don't forget,” said Tommy warningly, “that it's always an innocent remark by the simple Denny that puts McCarty on the right track.”