The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection

by Agatha Christie

  “Two hundred pounds. That was all they would let her have, I suppose. Cut open the package.”

  Tuppence did so. It was full of closely folded banknotes. Tommy and Tuppence counted them carefully. They amounted to exactly twenty thousand pounds.

  “Whew!” said Tommy. “Isn’t it lucky for Monica that we’re both rich and honest? What’s that done up in tissue paper?”

  Tuppence unrolled the little parcel and drew out a magnificent string of pearls, exquisitely matched.

  “I don’t know much about these things,” said Tommy slowly. “But I’m pretty sure that those pearls are worth another five thousand pounds at least. Look at the size of them. Now I see why the old lady kept that cutting about pearls being a good investment. She must have realised all her securities and turned them into notes and jewels.”

  “Oh, Tommy, isn’t it wonderful? Darling Monica. Now she can marry her nice young man and live happily ever afterwards, like me.”

  “That’s rather sweet of you, Tuppence. So you are happy with me?”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Tuppence, “I am. But I didn’t mean to say so. It slipped out. What with being excited, and Christmas Eve, and one thing and another—”

  “If you really love me,” said Tommy, “will you answer me one question?”

  “I hate these catches,” said Tuppence, “but—well—all right.”

  “Then how did you know that Monica was a clergyman’s daughter?”

  “Oh, that was just cheating,” said Tuppence happily. “I opened her letter making an appointment, and a Mr. Deane was father’s curate once, and he had a little girl called Monica, about four or five years younger than me. So I put two and two together.”

  “You are a shameless creature,” said Tommy. “Hullo, there’s twelve o’clock striking. Happy Christmas, Tuppence.”

  “Happy Christmas, Tommy. It’ll be a Happy Christmas for Monica too—and all owing to US. I am glad. Poor thing, she has been so miserable. Do you know, Tommy, I feel all queer and choky about the throat when I think of it.”

  “Darling Tuppence,” said Tommy.

  “Darling Tommy,” said Tuppence. “How awfully sentimental we are getting.”

  “Christmas comes but once a year,” said Tommy sententiously. “That’s what our great-grandmothers said, and I expect there’s a lot of truth in it still.”

  Sixteen

  THE AMBASSADOR’S BOOTS

  “My dear fellow, my dear fellow,” said Tuppence, and waved a heavily buttered muffin.

  Tommy looked at her for a minute or two, then a broad grin spread over his face and he murmured.

  “We do have to be so very careful.”

  “That’s right,” said Tuppence, delighted. “You guessed. I am the famous Dr. Fortune and you are Superintendent Bell.”

  “Why are you being Reginald Fortune?”

  “Well, really because I feel like a lot of hot butter.”

  “That is the pleasant side of it,” said Tommy. “But there is another. You will have to examine horribly smashed faces and very extra dead bodies a good deal.”

  In answer Tuppence threw across a letter. Tommy’s eyebrows rose in astonishment.

  “Randolph Wilmott, the American Ambassador. I wonder what he wants.”

  “We shall know tomorrow at eleven o’clock.”

  Punctually to the time named, Mr. Randolph Wilmott, United States Ambassador to the Court of St. James, was ushered into Mr. Blunt’s office. He cleared his throat and commenced speaking in a deliberate and characteristic manner.

  “I have come to you, Mr. Blunt—By the way, it is Mr. Blunt himself to whom I am speaking, is it not?”

  “Certainly,” said Tommy. “I am Theodore Blunt, the head of the firm.”

  “I always prefer to deal with heads of departments,” said Mr. Wilmott. “It is more satisfactory in every way. As I was about to say, Mr. Blunt, this business gets my goat. There’s nothing in it to trouble Scotland Yard about—I’m not a penny the worse in any way, and it’s probably all due to a simple mistake. But all the same, I don’t see just how that mistake arose. There’s nothing criminal in it, I dare say, but I’d like just to get the thing straightened out. It makes me mad not to see the why and wherefore of a thing.”

  “Absolutely,” said Tommy.

  Mr. Wilmott went on. He was slow and given to much detail. At last Tommy managed to get a word in.

  “Quite so,” he said, “the position is this. You arrived by the liner Nomadic a week ago. In some way your kitbag and the kitbag of another gentleman, Mr. Ralph Westerham, whose initials are the same as yours, got mixed up. You took Mr. Westerham’s kitbag, and he took yours. Mr. Westerham discovered the mistake immediately, sent round your kitbag to the Embassy, and took away his own. Am I right so far?”

  “That is precisely what occurred. The two bags must have been practically identical, and with the initials R.W. being the same in both cases, it is not difficult to understand that an error might have been made. I myself was not aware of what had happened until my valet informed me of the mistake, and that Mr. Westerham—he is a Senator, and a man for whom I have a great admiration—had sent round for his bag and returned mine.”

  “Then I don’t see—”

  “But you will see. That’s only the beginning of the story. Yesterday, as it chanced, I ran up against Senator Westerham, and I happened to mention the matter to him jestingly. To my great surprise, he did not seem to know what I was talking about, and when I explained, he denied the story absolutely. He had not taken my bag off the ship in mistake for his own—in fact, he had not travelled with such an article amongst his luggage.”

  “What an extraordinary thing!”

  “Mr. Blunt, it is an extraordinary thing. There seems no rhyme or reason in it. Why, if any one wanted to steal my kitbag, he could do so easily enough without resorting to all this roundabout business. And anyway, it was not stolen, but returned to me. On the other hand, if it were taken by mistake, why use Senator Westerham’s name? It’s a crazy business—but just for curiosity I mean to get to the bottom of it. I hope the case is not too trivial for you to undertake?”

  “Not at all. It is a very intriguing little problem, capable as you say, of many simple explanations, but nevertheless baffling on the face of it. The first thing, of course, is the reason of the substitution, if substitution it was. You say nothing was missing from your bag when it came back into your possession?”

  “My man says not. He would know.”

  “What was in it, if I may ask?”

  “Mostly boots.”

  “Boots,” said Tommy, discouraged.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Wilmott. “Boots. Odd, isn’t it?”

  “You’ll forgive my asking you,” said Tommy, “but you didn’t carry any secret papers, or anything of that sort sewn in the lining of a boot or screwed into a false heel?”

  The Ambassador seemed amused by the question.

  “Secret diplomacy hasn’t got to that pitch, I hope.”

  “Only in fiction,” said Tommy with an answering smile, and a slightly apologetic manner. “But you see, we’ve got to account for the thing somehow. Who came for the bag—the other bag, I mean?”

  “Supposed to be one of Westerham’s servants. Quite a quiet, ordinary man, so I understand. My valet saw nothing wrong with him.”

  “Had it been unpacked, do you know?”

  “That I can’t say. I presume not. But perhaps you’d like to ask the valet a few questions? He can tell you more than I can about the business.”

  “I think that would be the best plan, Mr. Wilmott.”

  The Ambassador scribbled a few words on a card and handed it to Tommy.

  “I opine that you would prefer to go round to the Embassy and make your inquiries there? If not, I will have the man, his name is Richards, by the way—sent round here.”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Wilmott. I should prefer to go to the Embassy.”

  The Ambassador rose, glancing a
t his watch.

  “Dear me, I shall be late for an appointment. Well, goodbye, Mr. Blunt. I leave the matter in your hands.”

  He hurried away. Tommy looked at Tuppence, who had been scribbling demurely on her pad in the character of the efficient Miss Robinson.

  “What about it, old thing?” he asked. “Do you see, as the old bird put it, any rhyme or reason in the proceedings?”

  “None whatever,” replied Tuppence cheerily.

  “Well, that’s a start, anyway! It shows that there is really something very deep at the back of it.”

  “You think so?”

  “It’s a generally accepted hypothesis. Remember Sherlock Holmes and the depth the butter had sunk into the parsley—I mean the other way round. I’ve always had a devouring wish to know all about that case. Perhaps Watson will disinter it from his notebook one of these days. Then I shall die happy. But we must get busy.”

  “Quite so,” said Tuppence. “Not a quick man, the esteemed Wilmott, but sure.”

  “She knows men,” said Tommy. “Or do I say he knows men. It is so confusing when you assume the character of a male detective.”

  “Oh, my dear fellow, my dear fellow!”

  “A little more action, Tuppence, and a little less repetition.”

  “A classic phrase cannot be repeated too often,” said Tuppence with dignity.

  “Have a muffin,” said Tommy kindly.

  “Not at eleven o’clock in the morning, thank you. Silly case, this. Boots—you know. Why boots?”

  “Well,” said Tommy. “Why not?”

  “It doesn’t fit. Boots.” She shook her head. “All wrong. Who wants other people’s boots? The whole thing’s mad.”

  “Possibly they got hold of the wrong bag,” suggested Tommy.

  “That’s possible. But if they were after papers, a despatch case would be more likely. Papers are the only things one thinks of in connection with ambassadors.”

  “Boots suggest footprints,” said Tommy thoughtfully. “Do you think they wanted to lay a trail of Wilmott’s footsteps somewhere?”

  Tuppence considered the suggestion, abandoning her role, then shook her head.

  “It seems wildly impossible,” she said. “No, I believe we shall have to resign ourselves to the fact that the boots have nothing to do with it.”

  “Well,” said Tommy with a sigh, “the next step is to interview friend Richards. He may be able to throw some light on the mystery.”

  On production of the Ambassador’s card, Tommy was admitted to the Embassy, and presently a pale young man, with a respectful manner and a subdued voice, presented himself to undergo examination.

  “I am Richards, sir. Mr. Wilmott’s valet. I understood you wished to see me?”

  “Yes, Richards. Mr. Wilmott called on me this morning, and suggested that I should come round and ask you a few questions. It is this matter of the kitbag.”

  “Mr. Wilmott was rather upset over the affair, I know, sir. I can hardly see why, since no harm was done. I certainly understood from the man who called for the other bag that it belonged to Senator Westerham, but of course, I may have been mistaken.”

  “What kind of man was he?”

  “Middle-aged. Grey hair. Very good class, I should say—most respectable. I understood he was Senator Westerham’s valet. He left Mr. Wilmott’s bag and took away the other.”

  “Had it been unpacked at all?”

  “Which one, sir?”

  “Well, I meant the one you brought from the boat. But I should like to know about the other as well—Mr. Wilmott’s own. Had that been unpacked, do you fancy?”

  “I should say not, sir. It was just as I strapped it up on the boat. I should say the gentleman—whoever he was—just opened it—realised it wasn’t his, and shut it up again.”

  “Nothing missing? No small article?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. In fact, I’m quite sure.”

  “And now the other one. Had you started to unpack that?”

  “As a matter of fact, sir, I was just opening it at the very moment Senator Westerham’s man arrived. I’d just undone the straps.”

  “Did you open it at all?”

  “We just unfastened it together, sir, to be sure no mistake had been made this time. The man said it was all right, and he strapped it up again and took it away.”

  “What was inside? Boots also?”

  “No, sir, mostly toilet things, I fancy. I know I saw a tin of bath salts.”

  Tommy abandoned that line of research.

  “You never saw anyone tampering with anything in your master’s cabin on board ship, I suppose?”

  “Oh, no, sir.”

  “Never anything suspicious of any kind?”

  “And what do I mean by that, I wonder,” he thought to himself with a trace of amusement. “Anything suspicious—just words!”

  But the man in front of him hesitated.

  “Now that I remember it—”

  “Yes,” said Tommy eagerly. “What?”

  “I don’t think it could have anything to do with it. But there was a young lady.”

  “Yes? A young lady, you say, what was she doing?”

  “She was taken faint, sir. A very pleasant young lady. Miss Eileen O’Hara, her name was. A dainty-looking lady, not tall, with black hair. Just a little foreign-looking.”

  “Yes?” said Tommy, with even greater eagerness.

  “As I was saying, she was taken queer. Just outside Mr. Wilmott’s cabin. She asked me to fetch the doctor. I helped her to the sofa, and then went off for the doctor. I was some time finding him, and when I found him and brought him back, the young lady was nearly all right again.”

  “Oh!” said Tommy.

  “You don’t think, sir—”

  “It’s difficult to know what to think,” said Tommy noncommittally. “Was this Miss O’Hara travelling alone?”

  “Yes, I think so, sir.”

  “You haven’t seen her since you landed?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well,” said Tommy, after a minute or two spent in reflection. “I think that’s all. Thank you, Richards.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Back at the office of the Detective Agency, Tommy retailed his conversation with Richards to Tuppence, who listened attentively.

  “What do you think of it, Tuppence?”

  “Oh, my dear fellow, we doctors are always sceptical of a sudden faintness! So very convenient. And Eileen as well as O’Hara. Almost too impossibly Irish, don’t you think?”

  “It’s something to go upon at last. Do you know what I am going to do, Tuppence? Advertise for the lady.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, any information respecting Miss Eileen O’Hara known to have travelled such and such a ship and such and such a date. Either she’ll answer it herself if she’s genuine, or someone may come forward to give us information about her. So far, it’s the only hope of a clue.”

  “You’ll also put her on her guard, remember.”

  “Well,” said Tommy, “one’s got to risk something.”

  “I still can’t see any sense in the thing,” said Tuppence, frowning. “If a gang of crooks get hold of the Ambassador’s bag for an hour or two, and then send it back, what possible good can it do them. Unless there are papers in it they want to copy, and Mr. Wilmott swears there was nothing of the kind.”

  Tommy stared at her thoughtfully.

  “You put these things rather well, Tuppence,” he said at last. “You’ve given me an idea.”

  II

  It was two days later. Tuppence was out to lunch. Tommy, alone in the austere office of Mr. Theodore Blunt, was improving his mind by reading the latest sensational thriller.

  The door of the office opened and Albert appeared.

  “A young lady to see you, sir. Miss Cicely March. She says she has called in answer to an advertisement.”

  “Show her in at once,” cried Tommy, thrusting his novel into a convenient
drawer.

  In another minute, Albert had ushered in the young lady. Tommy had just time to see that she was fair-haired and extremely pretty, when the amazing occurrence happened.

  The door through which Albert had just passed out was rudely burst open. In the doorway stood a picturesque figure—a big dark man, Spanish in appearance, with a flaming red tie. His features were distorted with rage, and in his hand was a gleaming pistol.

  “So this is the office of Mr. Busybody Blunt,” he said in perfect English. His voice was low and venomous. “Hands up at once—or I shoot.”

  It sounded no idle threat. Tommy’s hands went up obediently. The girl, crouched against the wall, gave a gasp of terror.

  “This young lady will come with me,” said the man. “Yes, you will, my dear. You have never seen me before, but that doesn’t matter. I can’t have my plans ruined by a silly little chit like you. I seem to remember that you were one of the passengers on the Nomadic. You must have been peering into things that didn’t concern you—but I’ve no intention of letting you blab any secrets to Mr. Blunt here. A very clever gentleman, Mr. Blunt, with his fancy advertisements. But as it happens, I keep an eye on the advertisement columns. That’s how I got wise to his little game.”

  “You interest me exceedingly,” said Tommy. “Won’t you go on?”

  “Cheek won’t help you, Mr. Blunt. From now on, you’re a marked man. Give up this investigation, and we’ll leave you alone. Otherwise—God help you! Death comes swiftly to those who thwart our plans.”

  Tommy did not reply. He was staring over the intruder’s shoulder as though he saw a ghost.

  As a matter of fact he was seeing something that caused him far more apprehension than any ghost could have done. Up to now, he had not given a thought to Albert as a factor in the game. He had taken for granted that Albert had already been dealt with by the mysterious stranger. If he had thought of him at all, it was as one lying stunned on the carpet in the outer office.

  He now saw that Albert had miraculously escaped the stranger’s attention. But instead of rushing out to fetch a policeman in good sound British fashion, Albert had elected to play a lone hand. The door behind the stranger had opened noiselessly, and Albert stood in the aperture enveloped in a coil of rope.