Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  True enough, after dinner a note was brought. It was from Monica.

  "I have just heard from Dr. O'Neill. He raises his previous offer by ВЈ150."

  "The nephew must be a man of means," said Tommy thoughtfully. "And I tell you what, Tuppence, the prize he's after must be well worth while."

  "Oh! Oh! Oh! if only we could find it!"

  "Well, let's get on with the spade work."

  They were sorting through the big box of papers, a wearisome affair, as they were all jumbled up pell mell without any kind of order or method. Every few minutes they compared notes.

  "What's the latest, Tuppence?"

  "Two old receipted bills, three unimportant letters, a recipe for preserving new potatoes and one for making lemon cheesecake.

  What's yours?"

  "One bill, poem on Spring, two newspaper cuttings: 'Why Women buy Pearls-a sound investment' and 'Man with Four Wives'-Extraordinary Story,' and a recipe for Jugged Hare."

  "It's heart breaking," said Tuppence, and they fell to once more. At last the box was empty. They looked at each other.

  "I put this aside," said Tommy, picking up a half sheet of notepaper, "because it struck me as peculiar. But I don't suppose it's got anything to do with what we're looking for."

  "Let's see it. Oh! it's one of those funny things, what do they call them?

  Anagrams, charades or something." She read it: "My first you put on glowing coal And into it you put my whole My second really is the first My third mislikes the winter blast."

  "H'm," said Tommy critically. "I don't think much of the poet's rhymes."

  "I don't see what you find peculiar about it, though," said Tuppence.

  "Everybody used to have a collection of these sort of things about fifty years ago. You saved them up for winter evenings round the fire."

  "I wasn't referring to the verse. It's the words written below it that strike me as peculiar.

  "St. Luke XI. 9," she read. "It's a text."

  "Yes. Doesn't that strike you as odd? Would an old lady of a religious persuasion write a text just under a charade?"

  "It is rather odd," agreed Tuppence thoughtfully.

  "I presume that you, being a clergyman's daughter, have got your Bible with you?"

  "As a matter of fact I have. Aha, you didn't expect that. Wait a sec."

  Tuppence ran to her suit case, extracted a small red volume and returned to the table. She turned the leaves rapidly. "Here we are.

  Luke, Chapter XI, Verse 9. Oh! Tommy, look."

  Tommy bent over and looked where Tuppence's small finger pointed to a portion of the verse in question.

  "Seek, and ye shall find."

  "That's it," cried Tuppence. "We've got it! Solve the cryptogram and the treasure is ours-or rather Monica's."

  "Well, let's get to work on the cryptogram, as you call it. 'My first you put on glowing coal.' What does that mean, I wonder? Then-'My second really is the first.' That's pure gibberish."

  "It's quite simple really," said Tuppence kindly. "It's just a sort of knack. Let me have it."

  Tommy surrendered it willingly. Tuppence ensconed herself in an arm chair, and began muttering to herself with bent brows.

  "It's quite simple really," murmured Tommy when half an hour had elapsed.

  "Don't crow! We're the wrong generation for this. I've a good mind to go back to town tomorrow and call on some old pussy who would probably read it as easy as winking. It's a knack, that's all."

  "Well, let's have one more try."

  "There aren't many things you can put on glowing coal," said Tuppence thoughtfully. "There's water, to put it out, or wood, or a kettle."

  "It must be one syllable, I suppose? What about wood, then?"

  "You couldn't put anything into wood, though."

  "There's no one syllable word instead of water, but there must be one syllable things you can put on a fire in the kettle line."

  "Saucepans," mused Tuppence. "Frying pans. How about pan? Or pot? What's a word beginning pan or pot that is something you cook?"

  "Pottery," suggested Tommy. "You bake that in the fire. Wouldn't that be near enough?"

  "The rest of it doesn't fit. Pancakes? No. Oh! bother."

  They were interrupted by the little serving maid, who told them that dinner would be ready in a few minutes.

  "Only Mrs. Lumley, she wanted to know if you'd like your potatoes fried, or boiled in their jackets? She's got some of each."

  "Boiled in their jackets," said Tuppence promptly. "I love potatoes-"

  She stopped dead with her mouth open.

  "What's the matter, Tuppence? Have you seen a ghost?"

  'Tommy," cried Tuppence. "Don't you see? That's it! The word, I mean.

  Potatoes! 'My first you put on glowing coal'-that's pot. 'And into it you put my whole.'

  'My second really is the first.' that's A, the first letter of the alphabet. 'My third mislikes the wintry blast'-cold toes of course!"

  "You're right, Tuppence. Very clever of you. But I'm afraid we've wasted an awful lot of time over nothing. Potatoes don't fit in at all with missing treasure. Half a sec., though. What did you read out just now, when we were going through the box? Something about a recipe for New Potatoes. I wonder whether there's anything in that."

  He rummaged hastily through the pile of recipes.

  "Here it is. 'TO KEEP NEW POTATOES. Put the new potatoes into tins and bury them in the garden. Even in the middle of winter, they will taste as though freshly dug.' "

  "We've got it," screamed Tuppence. "That's it. The treasure is in the garden, buried in a tin."

  "But I asked the gardener. He said he'd never buried anything."

  "Yes, I know, but that's because people never really answer what you say, they answer what they think you mean. He knew he'd never buried anything out of the common. We'll go to-morrow and ask him where he buried the potatoes."

  The following morning was Christmas Eve. By dint of inquiry they found the old gardener's cottage. Tuppence broached the subject after some minutes' conversation.

  "I wish one could have new potatoes at Christmas time," she remarked. "Wouldn't they be good with turkey? Do people round here ever bury them in tins? I've heard that keeps them fresh."

  "Ay, that they do," declared the old man. "Old Miss Deane, up to the Red House, she allus had three tins buried every summer, and as often as not forgot to have 'em dug up again!"

  "In the bed by the house, as a rule, didn't she?"

  "No, over against the wall by the fir tree."

  Having got the information they wanted, they soon took their leave of the old man, presenting him with five shillings as a Christmas box.

  "And now for Monica," said Tommy.

  "Tommy! You have no sense of the dramatic. Leave it to me. I've got a beautiful plan. Do you think you could manage to beg, borrow, or steal a spade?"

  Somehow or other, a spade was duly produced, and that night, late, two figures might have been seen stealing into the grounds of the Red House. The place indicated by the gardener was easily found, and Tommy set to work. Presently his spade rang on metal, and a few seconds later he had unearthed a big biscuit tin. It was sealed round with adhesive plaster and firmly fastened down, but Tuppence, by the aid of Tommy's knife, soon managed to open it. Then she gave a groan.

  The tin was full of potatoes. She poured them out so that the tin was completely empty, but there were no other contents.

  "Go on digging, Tommy."

  It was some time before a second tin rewarded their search As before Tuppence unsealed it.

  "Well?" demanded Tommy anxiously.

  "Potatoes again!"

  "Damn!" said Tommy and set to once more "The third time is lucky," said Tuppence consolingly.

  "I believe the whole thing's a mare's nest," said Tommy gloomily, but he continued to dig.

  At last a third tin was brought to light.

  "Potatoes aga-" began Tuppence, then stopped. "Oh! Tommy, we've got it. It's
only potatoes on top. Look!"

  She held up a big old fashioned velvet bag.

  "Cut along home," cried Tommy. "It's icy cold. Take the bag with you. I must just shovel back the earth. And may a thousand curses light upon your head, Tuppence, if you open that bag before I come!"

  "I'll play fair. Ouch! I'm frozen." She beat a speedy retreat.

  On arrival at the Inn she had not long to wait. Tommy was hard upon her heels, perspiring freely after his digging and the final brisk run.

  "Now then," said Tommy. 'The private inquiry agents make good! Open the loot, Mrs. Beresford."

  Inside the bag was a package done up in oil silk and a heavy chamois leather bag. They opened the latter first. It was full of gold sovereigns.

  Tommy counted them.

  "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 realized 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 tooand 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."

  22. 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 to-morrow 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 a ways prefer to deal with heads of de-partments," 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 daresay, 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 anyone wanted to steal my kitbag, he could do so easily enough without resorting to all this round about 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 tel
l 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 at his watch.

  "Dear me, I shall be late for an appointment. Well, good bye, 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 proceeding?"

  "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. Bootsyou 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."

  "Perhaps 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."