Partners in Crime

by Agatha Christie

  ‘The gentlemanly nephew, of course! That’s it. But whereabouts did she hide it. You know more about old ladies than I do, Tuppence. Where do they hide things?’

  ‘Wrapped up in stockings and petticoats, under mattresses.’

  Tommy nodded.

  ‘I expect you’re right. All the same, she can’t have done that because it would have been found when her things were turned over. It worries me–you see, an old lady like that can’t have taken up floors or dug holes in the garden. All the same it’s there in the Red House somewhere. Crockett hasn’t found it, but she knows it’s there, and once they get the house to themselves, she and her precious nephew, they can turn it upside down until they find what they’re after. We’ve got to get ahead of them. Come on, Tuppence. We’ll go to the Red House.’

  Monica Deane received them. To her mother and Crockett they were represented as would-be purchasers of the Red House, which would account for their being taken all over the house and grounds. Tommy did not tell Monica of the conclusions he had come to, but he asked her various searching questions. Of the garments and personal belongings of the dead woman, some had been given to Crockett and the others sent to various poor families. Everything had been gone through and turned out.

  ‘Did your aunt leave any papers?’

  ‘The desk was full, and there were some in a drawer in her bedroom, but there was nothing of importance amongst them.’

  ‘Have they been thrown away?’

  ‘No, my mother is always very loath to throw away old papers. There were some old-fashioned recipes among them which she intends to go through one day.’

  ‘Good,’ said Tommy approvingly. Then, indicating an old man who was at work upon one of the flower beds in the garden, he asked: ‘Was that old man the gardener here in your aunt’s time?’

  ‘Yes, he used to come three days a week. He lives in the village. Poor old fellow, he is past doing any really useful work. We have him just once a week to keep things tidied up. We can’t afford more.’

  Tommy winked at Tuppence to indicate that she was to keep Monica with her, and he himself stepped across to where the gardener was working. He spoke a few pleasant words to the old man, asked him if he had been there in the old lady’s time, and then said casually.

  ‘You buried a box for her once, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, sir, I never buried naught for her. What should she want to bury a box for?’

  Tommy shook his head. He strolled back to the house frowning. It was to be hoped that a study of the old lady’s papers would yield some clue–otherwise the problem was a hard one to solve. The house itself was old fashioned, but not old enough to contain a secret room or passage.

  Before leaving, Monica brought them down a big cardboard box tied with string.

  ‘I’ve collected all the papers,’ she whispered. ‘And they’re in here. I thought you could take it away with you, and then you’ll have plenty of time to go over them–but I’m sure you won’t find anything to throw light on the mysterious happenings in this house –’

  Her words were interrupted by a terrific crash overhead. Tommy ran quickly up the stairs. A jug and a basin in one of the front rooms was lying on the ground broken to pieces. There was no one in the room.

  ‘The ghost up to its tricks again,’ he murmured with a grin.

  He went downstairs again thoughtfully.

  ‘I wonder, Miss Deane, if I might speak to the maid, Crockett, for a minute.’

  ‘Certainly. I will ask her to come to you.’

  Monica went off to the kitchen. She returned with the elderly maid who had opened the door to them earlier.

  ‘We are thinking of buying this house,’ said Tommy pleasantly, ‘and my wife was wondering whether, in that case, you would care to remain on with us?’

  Crockett’s respectable face displayed no emotion of any kind.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘I should like to think it over if I may.’

  Tommy turned to Monica.

  ‘I am delighted with the house, Miss Deane. I understand that there is another buyer in the market. I know what he has offered for the house, and I will willingly give a hundred more. And mind you, that is a good price I am offering.’

  Monica murmured something noncommittal, and the Beresfords took their leave.

  ‘I was right,’ said Tommy, as they went down the drive, ‘Crockett’s in it. Did you notice that she was out of breath? That was from running down the backstairs after smashing the jug and basin. Sometimes, very likely, she has admitted her nephew secretly, and he has done a little poltergeisting, or whatever you call it, whilst she has been innocently with the family. You’ll see Dr O’Neill will make a further offer before the day is out.’

  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 £150.’

  ‘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, a 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 these 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 suitcase, 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.’r />
  Tommy surrendered it willingly. Tuppence ensconced herself in an armchair, 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 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 if 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 tomorrow 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 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 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 clergy-man’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 aHappy 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.
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  ‘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.’

  Chapter 16

  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.