The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection

by Agatha Christie

  “What about meals?” inquired the practical Tommy.

  “How like a man! What does mere food matter?”

  “That’s all very well. You’ve just had a thundering good breakfast. No one’s got a better appetite than you have, Tuppence, and by teatime you’d be eating the flags, pins and all. But, honestly, I don’t think much of the idea. Whittington mayn’t be in London at all.”

  “That’s true. Anyway, I think clue No. 2 is more promising.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “It’s nothing much. Only a Christian name—Rita. Whittington mentioned it that day.”

  “Are you proposing a third advertisement: Wanted, female crook, answering to the name of Rita?”

  “I am not. I propose to reason in a logical manner. That man, Danvers, was shadowed on the way over, wasn’t he? And it’s more likely to have been a woman than a man—”

  “I don’t see that at all.”

  “I am absolutely certain that it would be a woman, and a good-looking one,” replied Tuppence calmly.

  “On these technical points I bow to your decision,” murmured Mr. Beresford.

  “Now, obviously, this woman, whoever she was, was saved.”

  “How do you make that out?”

  “If she wasn’t, how would they have known Jane Finn had got the papers?”

  “Correct. Proceed, O Sherlock!”

  “Now there’s just a chance, I admit it’s only a chance, that this woman may have been ‘Rita.’ ”

  “And if so?”

  “If so, we’ve got to hunt through the survivors of the Lusitania till we find her.”

  “Then the first thing is to get a list of the survivors.”

  “I’ve got it. I wrote a long list of things I wanted to know, and sent it to Mr. Carter. I got his reply this morning, and among other things it encloses the official statement of those saved from the Lusitania. How’s that for clever little Tuppence?”

  “Full marks for industry, zero for modesty. But the great point is, is there a ‘Rita’ on the list?”

  “That’s just what I don’t know,” confessed Tuppence.

  “Don’t know?”

  “Yes, look here.” Together they bent over the list. “You see, very few Christian names are given. They’re nearly all Mrs. or Miss.”

  Tommy nodded.

  “That complicates matters,” he murmured thoughtfully.

  Tuppence gave her characteristic “terrier” shake.

  “Well, we’ve just got to get down to it, that’s all. We’ll start with the London area. Just note down the addresses of any of the females who live in London or roundabout, while I put on my hat.”

  Five minutes later the young couple emerged into Piccadilly, and a few seconds later a taxi was bearing them to The Laurels, Glendower Road, N.7., the residence of Mrs. Edgar Keith, whose name figured first in a list of seven reposing in Tommy’s pocketbook.

  The Laurels was a dilapidated house, standing back from the road with a few grimy bushes to support the fiction of a front garden. Tommy paid off the taxi, and accompanied Tuppence to the front doorbell. As she was about to ring it, he arrested her hand.

  “What are you going to say?”

  “What am I going to say? Why, I shall say—Oh dear, I don’t know. It’s very awkward.”

  “I thought as much,” said Tommy with satisfaction. “How like a woman! No foresight! Now just stand aside, and see how easily the mere male deals with the situation.” He pressed the bell. Tuppence withdrew to a suitable spot.

  A slatternly-looking servant, with an extremely dirty face and a pair of eyes that did not match, answered the door.

  Tommy had produced a notebook and pencil.

  “Good morning,” he said briskly and cheerfully. “From the Hampstead Borough Council. The New Voting Register. Mrs. Edgar Keith lives here, does she not?”

  “Yaas,” said the servant.

  “Christian name?” asked Tommy, his pencil poised.

  “Missus’s? Eleanor Jane.”

  “Eleanor,” spelt Tommy. “Any sons or daughters over twenty-one?”

  “Naow.”

  “Thank you.” Tommy closed the notebook with a brisk snap. “Good morning.”

  The servant volunteered her first remark:

  “I thought perhaps as you’d come about the gas,” she observed cryptically, and shut the door.

  Tommy rejoined his accomplice.

  “You see, Tuppence,” he observed. “Child’s play to the masculine mind.”

  “I don’t mind admitting that for once you’ve scored handsomely. I should never have thought of that.”

  “Good wheeze, wasn’t it? And we can repeat it ad lib.”

  Lunchtime found the young couple attacking steak and chips in an obscure hostelry with avidity. They had collected a Gladys Mary and a Marjorie, been baffled by one change of address, and had been forced to listen to a long lecture on universal suffrage from a vivacious American lady whose Christian name had proved to be Sadie.

  “Ah!” said Tommy, imbibing a long draught of beer. “I feel better. Where’s the next draw?”

  The notebook lay on the table between them. Tuppence picked it up.

  “Mrs. Vandemeyer,” she read, “20 South Audley Mansions. Miss Wheeler, 43 Clapington Road, Battersea. She’s a lady’s maid, as far as I remember, so probably won’t be there, and, anyway, she’s not likely.”

  “Then the Mayfair lady is clearly indicated as the first port of call.”

  “Tommy, I’m getting discouraged.”

  “Buck up, old bean. We always knew it was an outside chance. And, anyway, we’re only starting. If we draw a blank in London, there’s a fine tour of England, Ireland and Scotland before us.”

  “True,” said Tuppence, her flagging spirits reviving. “And all expenses paid! But, oh, Tommy, I do like things to happen quickly. So far, adventure has succeeded adventure, but this morning has been dull as dull.”

  “You must stifle this longing for vulgar sensation, Tuppence. Remember that if Mr. Brown is all he is reported to be, it’s a wonder that he has not ere now done us to death. That’s a good sentence, quite a literary flavour about it.”

  “You’re really more conceited than I am—with less excuse! Ahem! But it certainly is queer that Mr. Brown has not yet wreaked vengeance upon us. (You see, I can do it too.) We pass on our way unscathed.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t think us worth bothering about,” suggested the young man simply.

  Tuppence received the remark with great disfavour.

  “How horrid you are, Tommy. Just as though we didn’t count.”

  “Sorry, Tuppence. What I meant was that we work like moles in the dark, and that he has no suspicion of our nefarious schemes. Ha ha!”

  “Ha ha!” echoed Tuppence approvingly, as she rose.

  South Audley Mansions was an imposing looking block of flats just off Park Lane. No. 20 was on the second floor.

  Tommy had by this time the glibness born of practice. He rattled off the formula to the elderly woman, looking more like a housekeeper than a servant, who opened the door to him.

  “Christian name?”

  “Margaret.”

  Tommy spelt it, but the other interrupted him.

  “No, g u e.”

  “Oh, Marguerite; French way, I see.” He paused then plunged boldly. “We had her down as Rita Vandermeyer, but I suppose that’s correct?”

  “She’s mostly called that, sir, but Marguerite’s her name.”

  “Thank you. That’s all. Good morning.”

  Hardly able to contain his excitement, Tommy hurried down the stairs. Tuppence was waiting at the angle of the turn.

  “You heard?”

  “Yes. Oh, Tommy!”

  Tommy squeezed her arm sympathetically.

  “I know, old thing. I feel the same.”

  “It’s—it’s so lovely to think of things—and then for them really to happen!” cried Tuppence enthusiastically.

&
nbsp; Her hand was still in Tommy’s. They had reached the entrance hall. There were footsteps on the stairs above them, and voices.

  Suddenly, to Tommy’s complete surprise, Tuppence dragged him into the little space by the side of the lift where the shadow was deepest.

  “What the—”

  “Hush!”

  Two men came down the stairs and passed out through the entrance. Tuppence’s hand closed tighter on Tommy’s arm.

  “Quick—follow them. I daren’t. He might recognize me. I don’t know who the other man is, but the bigger of the two was Whittington.”

  Seven

  THE HOUSE IN SOHO

  Whittington and his companion were walking at a good pace. Tommy started in pursuit at once, and was in time to see them turn the corner of the street. His vigorous strides soon enabled him to gain upon them, and by the time he, in his turn, reached the corner the distance between them was sensibly lessened. The small Mayfair streets were comparatively deserted, and he judged it wise to content himself with keeping them in sight.

  The sport was a new one to him. Though familiar with the technicalities from a course of novel reading, he had never before attempted to “follow” anyone, and it appeared to him at once that, in actual practice, the proceeding was fraught with difficulties. Supposing, for instance, that they should suddenly hail a taxi? In books, you simply leapt into another, promised the driver a sovereign—or its modern equivalent—and there you were. In actual fact, Tommy foresaw that it was extremely likely there would be no second taxi. Therefore he would have to run. What happened in actual fact to a young man who ran incessantly and persistently through the London streets? In a main road he might hope to create the illusion that he was merely running for a bus. But in these obscure aristocratic byways he could not but feel that an officious policeman might stop him to explain matters.

  At this juncture in his thoughts a taxi with flag erect turned the corner of the street ahead. Tommy held his breath. Would they hail it?

  He drew a sigh of relief as they allowed it to pass unchallenged. Their course was a zigzag one designed to bring them as quickly as possible to Oxford Street. When at length they turned into it, proceeding in an easterly direction, Tommy slightly increased his pace. Little by little he gained upon them. On the crowded pavement there was little chance of his attracting their notice, and he was anxious if possible to catch a word or two of their conversation. In this he was completely foiled: they spoke low and the din of the traffic drowned their voices effectually.

  Just before the Bond Street Tube station they crossed the road, Tommy, unperceived, faithfully at their heels, and entered the big Lyons’. There they went up to the first floor, and sat at a small table in the window. It was late, and the place was thinning out. Tommy took a seat at the table next to them sitting directly behind Whittington in case of recognition. On the other hand, he had a full view of the second man and studied him attentively. He was fair, with a weak, unpleasant face, and Tommy put him down as being either a Russian or a Pole. He was probably about fifty years of age, his shoulders cringed a little as he talked, and his eyes, small and crafty, shifted unceasingly.

  Having already lunched heartily, Tommy contented himself with ordering a Welsh rarebit and a cup of coffee. Whittington ordered a substantial lunch for himself and his companion; then, as the waitress withdrew, he moved his chair a little closer to the table and began to talk earnestly in a low voice. The other man joined in. Listen as he would, Tommy could only catch a word here and there; but the gist of it seemed to be some directions or orders which the big man was impressing on his companion, and with which the latter seemed from time to time to disagree. Whittington addressed the other as Boris.

  Tommy caught the word “Ireland” several times, also “propaganda,” but of Jane Finn there was no mention. Suddenly, in a lull in the clatter of the room, he got one phrase entire. Whittington was speaking. “Ah, but you don’t know Flossie. She’s a marvel. An archbishop would swear she was his own mother. She gets the voice right every time, and that’s really the principal thing.”

  Tommy did not hear Boris’s reply, but in response to it Whittington said something that sounded like: “of course—only in an emergency. . . .”

  Then he lost the thread again. But presently the phrases became distinct again, whether because the other two had insensibly raised their voices, or because Tommy’s ears were getting more attuned, he could not tell. But two words certainly had a most stimulating effect upon the listener. They were uttered by Boris and they were: “Mr. Brown.”

  Whittington seemed to remonstrate with him, but he merely laughed.

  “Why not, my friend? It is a name most respectable—most common. Did he not choose it for that reason? Ah, I should like to meet him—Mr. Brown.”

  There was a steely ring in Whittington’s voice as he replied:

  “Who knows? You may have met him already.”

  “Bah!” retorted the other. “That is children’s talk—a fable for the police. Do you know what I say to myself sometimes? That he is a fable invented by the Inner Ring, a bogy to frighten us with. It might be so.”

  “And it might not.”

  “I wonder . . . or is it indeed true that he is with us and amongst us, unknown to all but a chosen few? If so, he keeps his secret well. And the idea is a good one, yes. We never know. We look at each other—one of us is Mr. Brown—which? He commands—but also he serves. Among us—in the midst of us. And no one knows which he is. . . .”

  With an effort the Russian shook off the vagary of his fancy. He looked at his watch.

  “Yes,” said Whittington. “We might as well go.”

  He called the waitress and asked for his bill. Tommy did likewise, and a few moments later was following the two men down the stairs.

  Outside, Whittington hailed a taxi, and directed the driver to Waterloo.

  Taxis were plentiful here, and before Whittington’s had driven off another was drawing up to the curb in obedience to Tommy’s peremptory hand.

  “Follow that other taxi,” directed the young man. “Don’t lose it.”

  The elderly chauffeur showed no interest. He merely grunted and jerked down his flag. The drive was uneventful. Tommy’s taxi came to rest at the departure platform just after Whittington’s. Tommy was behind him at the booking office. He took a first-class single to Bournemouth, Tommy did the same. As he emerged, Boris remarked, glancing up at the clock: “You are early. You have nearly half an hour.”

  Boris’s words had aroused a new train of thought in Tommy’s mind. Clearly Whittington was making the journey alone, while the other remained in London. Therefore he was left with a choice as to which he would follow. Obviously, he could not follow both of them unless—Like Boris, he glanced up at the clock, and then to the announcement board of the trains. The Bournemouth train left at 3:30. It was now ten past. Whittington and Boris were walking up and down by the bookstall. He gave one doubtful look at them, then hurried into an adjacent telephone box. He dared not waste time in trying to get hold of Tuppence. In all probability she was still in the neighbourhood of South Audley Mansions. But there remained another ally. He rang up the Ritz and asked for Julius Hersheimmer. There was a click and a buzz. Oh, if only the young American was in his room! There was another click, and then “Hello” in unmistakable accents came over the wire.

  “That you, Hersheimmer? Beresford speaking. I’m at Waterloo. I’ve followed Whittington and another man here. No time to explain. Whittington’s off to Bournemouth by the 3:30. Can you get here by then?”

  The reply was reassuring.

  “Sure. I’ll hustle.”

  The telephone rang off. Tommy put back the receiver with a sigh of relief. His opinion of Julius’s power of hustling was high. He felt instinctively that the American would arrive in time.

  Whittington and Boris were still where he had left them. If Boris remained to see his friend off, all was well. Then Tommy fingered his pocket thoughtfully. In
spite of the carte blanche assured to him, he had not yet acquired the habit of going about with any considerable sum of money on him. The taking of the first-class ticket to Bournemouth had left him with only a few shillings in his pocket. It was to be hoped that Julius would arrive better provided.

  In the meantime, the minutes were creeping by: 3:15, 3:20, 3:25, 3:27. Supposing Julius did not get there in time. 3:29. . . . Doors were banging. Tommy felt cold waves of despair pass over him. Then a hand fell on his shoulder.

  “Here I am, son. Your British traffic beats description! Put me wise to the crooks right away.”

  “That’s Whittington—there, getting in now, that big dark man. The other is the foreign chap he’s talking to.”

  “I’m on to them. Which of the two is my bird?”

  Tommy had thought out this question.

  “Got any money with you?”

  Julius shook his head, and Tommy’s face fell.

  “I guess I haven’t more than three or four hundred dollars with me at the moment,” explained the American.

  Tommy gave a faint whoop of relief.

  “Oh, Lord, you millionaires! You don’t talk the same language! Climb aboard the lugger. Here’s your ticket. Whittington’s your man.”

  “Me for Whittington!” said Julius darkly. The train was just starting as he swung himself aboard. “So long, Tommy.” The train slid out of the station.

  Tommy drew a deep breath. The man Boris was coming along the platform towards him. Tommy allowed him to pass and then took up the chase once more.

  From Waterloo Boris took the Tube as far as Piccadilly Circus. Then he walked up Shaftesbury Avenue, finally turning off into the maze of mean streets round Soho. Tommy followed him at a judicious distance.

  They reached at length a small dilapidated square. The houses there had a sinister air in the midst of their dirt and decay. Boris looked round, and Tommy drew back into the shelter of a friendly porch. The place was almost deserted. It was a cul-de-sac, and consequently no traffic passed that way. The stealthy way the other had looked round stimulated Tommy’s imagination. From the shelter of the doorway he watched him go up the steps of a particularly evil-looking house and rap sharply, with a peculiar rhythm, on the door. It was opened promptly, he said a word or two to the doorkeeper, then passed inside. The door was shut to again.