The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection (74 page)

Carl and Sheila, and behind them that enigmatic figure: Mrs. Perenna. Mrs. Perenna, sometimes the voluble commonplace guesthouse hostess, sometimes, for fleeting minutes, a tragic, violent personality.

Tuppence went slowly upstairs to her bedroom.

That evening, when she went to bed, she pulled out the long drawer of her bureau. At one side of it was a small japanned box with a flimsy cheap lock. Tuppence slipped on gloves, unlocked the box, and opened it. A pile of letters lay inside. On the top was the one received that morning from “Raymond.” Tuppence unfolded it with due precautions.

Then her lips set grimly. There had been an eyelash in the fold of the paper this morning. The eyelash was not there now.

She went to the washstand. There was a little bottle labelled innocently: “Grey powder” with a dose.

Adroitly Tuppence dusted a little of the powder on to the letter and on to the surface of the glossy japanned enamel of the box.

There were no fingerprints on either of them.

Again Tuppence nodded her head with a certain grim satisfaction.

For there should have been fingerprints—her own.

A servant might have read the letters out of curiosity, though it seemed unlikely—certainly unlikely that she should have gone to the trouble of finding a key to fit the box.

But a servant would not think of wiping off fingerprints.

Mrs. Perenna? Sheila? Somebody else? Somebody, at least, who was interested in the movements of British armed forces.

IV

Tuppence's plan of campaign had been simple in its outlines. First, a general sizing up of probabilities and possibilities. Second, an experiment to determine whether there was or was not an inmate of Sans Souci who was interested in troop movements and anxious to conceal the fact. Third—who that person was?

It was concerning that third operation that Tuppence pondered as she lay in bed the following morning. Her train of thought was slightly hampered by Betty Sprot, who had pranced in at an early hour, preceding indeed the cup of somewhat tepid inky liquid known as Morning Tea.

Betty was both active and voluble. She had taken a great fancy to Tuppence. She climbed up on the bed and thrust an extremely tattered picture book under Tuppence's nose, commanding with brevity:

“Wead.”

Tuppence read obediently.

“Goosey goosey gander, whither will you wander?

“Upstairs, downstairs, in my lady's chamber.”

Betty rolled with mirth—repeating in an ecstasy:

“Upstares—upstares—upstares—” and then with a sudden climax,
“Down—”
and proceeded to roll off the bed with a thump.

This proceeding was repeated several times until it palled. Then Betty crawled about the floor, playing with Tuppence's shoes and muttering busily to herself in her own particular idiom:

“Ag do—bah pit—soo—soodah—putch—”

Released to fly back to its own perplexities, Tuppence's mind forgot the child. The words of the nursery rhyme seemed to mock at her.

“Goosey—goosey, gander, whither shall ye wander?”

Whither indeed? Goosey, that was her, Gander was Tommy. It was, at any rate, what they appeared to be! Tuppence had the heartiest contempt for Mrs. Blenkensop. Mr. Meadowes, the thought, was a little better—stolid, British, unimaginative—quite incredibly stupid. Both of them, she hoped, fitting nicely into the background of Sans Souci. Both such possible people to be there.

All the same, one must not relax—a slip was so easy. She had made one the other day—nothing that mattered, but just a sufficient indication to warn her to be careful. Such an easy approach to intimacy and good relations—an indifferent knitter asking for guidance. But she had forgotten that one evening, her fingers had slipped into their own practised efficiency, the needles clicking busily with the even note of the experienced knitter. Mrs. O'Rourke had noticed it. Since then, she had carefully struck a medium course—not so clumsy as she had been at first—but not so rapid as she could be.

“Ag boo bate?” demanded Betty. She reiterated the question: “Ag boo bate?”

“Lovely, darling,” said Tuppence absently. “Beautiful.”

Satisfied, Betty relapsed into murmurs again.

Her next step, Tuppence thought, could be managed easily enough. That is to say with the connivance of Tommy. She saw exactly how to do it—

Lying there planning, time slipped by. Mrs. Sprot came in, breathless, to seek for Betty.

“Oh, here she is. I couldn't think where she had got to. Oh, Betty, you naughty girl—oh, dear, Mrs. Blenkensop, I am so sorry.”

Tuppence sat up in bed. Betty, with an angelic face, was contemplating her handiwork.

She had removed all the laces from Tuppence's shoes and had immersed them in a toothglass of water. She was prodding them now with a gleeful finger.

Tuppence laughed and cut short Mrs. Sprot's apologies.

“How frightfully funny. Don't worry, Mrs. Sprot, they'll recover all right. It's my fault. I should have noticed what she was doing. She was rather quiet.”

“I know,” Mrs. Sprot sighed. “Whenever they're quiet, it's a bad sign. I'll get you some more laces this morning, Mrs. Blenkensop.”

“Don't bother,” said Tuppence. “They'll dry none the worse.”

Mrs. Sprot bore Betty away and Tuppence got up to put her plan into execution.

Six

T
ommy looked rather gingerly at the packet that Tuppence thrust upon him.

“Is this it?”

“Yes. Be careful. Don't get it over you.”

Tommy took a delicate sniff at the packet and replied with energy.

“No, indeed. What is this frightful stuff?”

“Asafoetida,” replied Tuppence. “A pinch of that and you will wonder why your boyfriend is no longer attentive, as the advertisements say.”

“Shades of BO,” murmured Tommy.

Shortly after that, various incidents occurred.

The first was the smell in Mr. Meadowes' room.

Mr. Meadowes, not a complaining man by nature, spoke about it mildly at first, then with increasing firmness.

Mrs. Perenna was summoned into conclave. With all the will to resist in the world, she had to admit that there was a smell. A pronounced unpleasant smell. Perhaps, she suggested, the gas tap of the fire was leaking.

Bending down and sniffing dubiously, Tommy remarked that he did not think the smell came from there. Nor from under the floor. He himself thought, definitely—a dead rat.

Mrs. Perenna admitted that she had heard of such things—but she was sure there were no rats at Sans Souci. Perhaps a mouse—though she herself had never seen a mouse.

Mr. Meadowes said with firmness that he thought the smell indicated at least a rat—and he added, still more firmly, that he was not going to sleep another night in the room until the matter had been seen to. He would ask Mrs. Perenna to change his room.

Mrs. Perenna said, “Of course, she had just been about to suggest the same thing. She was afraid that the only room vacant was rather a small one and unfortunately it had no sea view, but if Mr. Meadowes did not mind that—”

Mr. Meadowes did not. His only wish was to get away from the smell. Mrs. Perenna thereupon accompanied him to a small bedroom, the door of which happened to be just opposite the door of Mrs. Blenkensop's room, and summoned the adenoidal semi-idiotic Beatrice to “move Mr. Meadowes' things.” She would, she explained, send for “a man” to take up the floor and search for the origin of the smell.

Matters were settled satisfactorily on this basis.

II

The second incident was Mr. Meadowes' hay fever. That was what he called it at first. Later he admitted doubtfully that he might just possibly have caught cold. He sneezed a good deal, and his eyes ran. If there was a faint elusive suggestion of raw onion floating in the breeze in the vicinity of Mr. Meadowes' large silk handkerchief nobody noticed the fact, and indeed a pungent amount of eau de cologne masked the more penetrating odour.

Finally, defeated by incessant sneezing and noseblowing, Mr. Meadowes retired to bed for the day.

It was on the morning of that day that Mrs. Blenkensop received a letter from her son Douglas. So excited and thrilled was Mrs. Blenkensop that everybody at Sans Souci heard about it. The letter had not been censored at all, she explained, because fortunately one of Douglas's friends coming on leave had brought it, so for once Douglas had been able to write quite fully.

“And it just shows,” declared Mrs. Blenkensop, wagging her head sagely, “how little we know really of what is going on.”

After breakfast she went upstairs to her room, opened the japanned box and put the letter away. Between the folded pages were some unnoticeable grains of rice powder. She closed the box again, pressing her fingers firmly on its surface.

As she left her room she coughed, and from opposite came the sound of a highly histrionic sneeze.

Tuppence smiled and proceeded downstairs.

She had already made known her intention of going up to London for the day—to see her lawyer on some business and to do a little shopping.

Now she was given a good send-off by the assembled boarders and entrusted with various commissions—“only if you have time, of course.”

Major Bletchley held himself aloof from this female chatter. He was reading his paper and uttering appropriate comments aloud. “Damned swines of Germans. Machine-gunning civilian refugees on the roads. Damned brutes. If I were our people—”

Tuppence left him still outlining what
he
would do if he were in charge of operations.

She made a detour through the garden to ask Betty Sprot what she would like as a present from London.

Betty ecstatically clasping a snail in two hot hands gurgled appreciatively. In response to Tuppence's suggestions—“A pussy. A picture book? Some coloured chalks to draw with?”—Betty decided, “Betty dwar.” So the coloured chalks were noted down on Tuppence's list.

As she passed on meaning to rejoin the drive by the path at the end of the garden she came unexpectedly upon Carl von Deinim. He was standing leaning on the wall. His hands were clenched, and as Tuppence approached he turned on her, his usually impassive face convulsed with emotion.

Tuppence paused involuntarily and asked:

“Is anything the matter?”

“Ach, yes, everything is the matter.” His voice was hoarse and unnatural. “You have a saying here that a thing is neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red herring, have you not?”

Tuppence nodded.

Carl went on bitterly:

“That is what I am. It cannot go on, that is what I say. It cannot go on. It would be best, I think, to end everything.”

“What do you mean?”

The young man said:

“You have spoken kindly to me. You would, I think, understand. I fled from my own country because of injustice and cruelty. I came here to find freedom. I hated Nazi Germany. But, alas, I am still a German. Nothing can alter that.”

Tuppence murmured:

“You may have difficulties, I know—”

“It is not that. I am a German, I tell you. In my heart—in my feeling. Germany is still my country. When I read of German cities bombed, of German soldiers dying, of German aeroplanes brought down—they are my people who die. When that old fire-eating Major reads out from his paper, when he say ‘those swine'—I am moved to fury—I cannot bear it.”

He added quietly:

“And so I think it would be best, perhaps, to end it all. Yes, to end it.”

Tuppence took hold of him firmly by the arm.

“Nonsense,” she said robustly. “Of course you feel as you do. Anyone would. But you've got to stick it.”

“I wish they would intern me. It would be easier so.”

“Yes, probably it would. But in the meantime you're doing useful work—or so I've heard. Useful not only to England but to humanity. You're working on decontamination problems, aren't you?”

His face lit up slightly.

“Ah yes, and I begin to have much success. A process very simple, easily made and not complicated to apply.”

“Well,” said Tuppence, “that's worth doing. Anything that mitigates suffering is worthwhile—and anything that's constructive and not destructive. Naturally we've got to call the other side names. They're doing just the same in Germany. Hundreds of Major Bletchleys—foaming at the mouth. I hate the Germans myself. ‘The Germans,' I say, and feel waves of loathing. But when I think of individual Germans, mothers sitting anxiously waiting for news of their sons, and boys leaving home to fight, and peasants getting in the harvests, and little shopkeepers and some of the nice kindly German people I know, I feel quite different. I know then that they are just human beings and that we're all feeling alike. That's the real thing. The other is just the war mask that you put on. It's a part of war—probably a necessary part—but it's ephemeral.”

As she spoke she thought, as Tommy had done not long before, of Nurse Cavell's words: “Patriotism is not enough. I must have no hatred in my heart.”

That saying of a most truly patriotic woman had always seemed to them both the high-water mark of sacrifice.

Carl von Deinim took her hand and kissed it. He said:

“I thank you. What you say is good and true. I will have more fortitude.”

“Oh, dear,” thought Tuppence as she walked down the road into the town. “How very unfortunate that the person I like best in this place should be a German. It makes everything cockeyed!”

III

Tuppence was nothing if not thorough. Although she had no wish to go to London, she judged it wise to do exactly as she had said she was going to do. If she merely made an excursion somewhere for the day, somebody might see her and the fact would get round to Sans Souci.

No, Mrs. Blenkensop had said she was going to London, and to London she must go.