The Complete Tommy and Tuppence

by Agatha Christie

  “Wake up, old thing. Inspector Marriot and another man are here and want to see you.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Just on eleven. I’ll get Alice to bring you your tea right away.”

  “Yes, do. Tell Inspector Marriot I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  A quarter of an hour later, Tuppence came hurrying into the sitting room. Inspector Marriot, who was sitting looking very straight and solemn, rose to greet her.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Beresford. This is Sir Arthur Merivale.”

  Tuppence shook hands with a tall thin man with haggard eyes and greying hair.

  “It’s about this sad business last night,” said Inspector Marriot. “I want Sir Arthur to hear from your own lips what you told me—the words the poor lady said before she died. Sir Arthur has been very hard to convince.”

  “I can’t believe,” said the other, “and I won’t believe, that Bingo Hale ever hurt a hair of Vere’s head.”

  Inspector Marriot went on.

  “We’ve made some progress since last night, Mrs. Beresford,” he said. “First of all we managed to identify the lady as Lady Merivale. We communicated with Sir Arthur here. He recognised the body at once, and was horrified beyond words, of course. Then I asked him if he knew anyone called Bingo.”

  “You must understand, Mrs. Beresford,” said Sir Arthur, “that Captain Hale, who is known to all his friends as Bingo, is the dearest pal I have. He practically lives with us. He was staying at my house when they arrested him this morning. I cannot but believe that you have made a mistake—it was not his name that my wife uttered.”

  “There is no possibility of mistake,” said Tuppence gently. “She said, ‘Bingo did it—’ ”

  “You see, Sir Arthur,” said Marriot.

  The unhappy man sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

  “It’s incredible. What earthly motive could there be? Oh, I know your idea, Inspector Marriot. You think Hale was my wife’s lover, but even if that were so—which I don’t admit for a moment—what motive was there for killing her?”

  Inspector Marriot coughed.

  “It’s not a very pleasant thing to say, sir. But Captain Hale has been paying a lot of attention to a certain young American lady of late—a young lady with a considerable amount of money. If Lady Merivale liked to turn nasty, she could probably stop his marriage.”

  “This is outrageous, Inspector.”

  Sir Arthur sprang angrily to his feet. The other calmed him with a soothing gesture.

  “I beg your pardon, I’m sure, Sir Arthur. You say that you and Captain Hale both decided to attend this show. Your wife was away on a visit at the time, and you had no idea that she was to be there?”

  “Not the least idea.”

  “Just show him that advertisement you told me about, Mrs. Beresford.”

  Tuppence complied.

  “That seems to me clear enough. It was inserted by Captain Hale to catch your wife’s eye. They had already arranged to meet there. But you only made up your mind to go the day before, hence it was necessary to warn her. That is the explanation of the phrase, ‘Necessary to finesse the King.’ You ordered your costume from a theatrical firm at the last minute, but Captain Hale’s was a home-made affair. He went as the Gentleman dressed in Newspaper. Do you know, Sir Arthur, what we found clasped in the dead lady’s hand? A fragment torn from a newspaper. My men have orders to take Captain Hale’s costume away with them from your house. I shall find it at the Yard when I get back. If there’s a tear in it corresponding to the missing piece—well, it’ll be the end of the case.”

  “You won’t find it,” said Sir Arthur. “I know Bingo Hale.”

  Apologising to Tuppence for disturbing her, they took their leave.

  Late that evening there was a ring at the bell, and somewhat to the astonishment of the young pair Inspector Marriot once more walked in.

  “I thought Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives would like to hear the latest developments,” he said, with a hint of a smile.

  “They would,” said Tommy. “Have a drink?”

  He placed materials hospitably at Inspector Marriot’s elbow.

  “It’s a clear case,” said the latter, after a minute or two. “Dagger was the lady’s own—the idea was to have made it look like suicide evidently, but thanks to you two being on the spot, that didn’t come off. We’ve found plenty of letters—they’d been carrying on together for some time, that’s clear—without Sir Arthur tumbling to it. Then we found the last link—”

  “The last what?” said Tuppence sharply.

  “The last link in the chain—that fragment of the Daily Leader. It was torn from the dress he wore—fits exactly. Oh, yes, it’s a perfectly clear case. By the way, I brought round a photograph of those two exhibits—I thought they might interest you. It’s very seldom that you get such a perfectly clear case.”

  “Tommy,” said Tuppence, when her husband returned from showing the Scotland Yard man out, “why do you think Inspector Marriot keeps repeating that it’s a perfectly clear case?”

  “I don’t know. Smug satisfaction, I suppose.”

  “Not a bit of it. He’s trying to get us irritated. You know, Tommy, butchers, for instance, know something about meat, don’t they?”

  “I should say so, but what on earth—”

  “And in the same way, greengrocers know all about vegetables, and fishermen about fish. Detectives, professional detectives, must know all about criminals. They know the real thing when they see it—and they know when it isn’t the real thing. Marriot’s expert knowledge tells him that Captain Hale isn’t a criminal—but all the facts are dead against him. As a last resource Marriot is egging us on, hoping against hope that some little detail or other will come back to us—something that happened last night—which will throw a different light on things. Tommy, why shouldn’t it be suicide, after all?”

  “Remember what she said to you.”

  “I know—but take that a different way. It was Bingo’s doing—his conduct that drove her to kill herself. It’s just possible.”

  “Just. But it doesn’t explain that fragment of newspaper.”

  “Let’s have a look at Marriot’s photographs. I forgot to ask him what Hale’s account of the matter was.”

  “I asked him that in the hall just now. Hale declared he had never spoken to Lady Merivale at the show. Says somebody shoved a note into his hand which said, “Don’t try and speak to me tonight. Arthur suspects.” He couldn’t produce the piece of paper, though, and it doesn’t sound a very likely story. Anyway, you and I know he was with her at the Ace of Spades, because we saw him.”

  Tuppence nodded and pored over the two photographs.

  One was a tiny fragment with the legend DAILY LE—and the rest torn off. The other was the front sheet of the Daily Leader with the small round tear at the top of it. There was no doubt about it. Those two fitted together perfectly.

  “What are all those marks down the side?” asked Tommy.

  “Stitches,” said Tuppence. “Where it was sewn to the others, you know.”

  “I thought it might be a new scheme of dots,” said Tommy. Then he gave a slight shiver. “My word, Tuppence, how creepy it makes one feel. To think that you and I were discussing dots and puzzling over that advertisement—all as lighthearted as anything.”

  Tuppence did not answer. Tommy looked at her and was startled to observe that she was staring ahead of her, her mouth slightly open, and a bewildered expression on her face.

  “Tuppence,” said Tommy gently, shaking her by the arm, “what’s the matter with you? Are you just going to have a stroke or something?”

  But Tuppence remained motionless. Presently she said in a faraway voice:

  “Denis Riordan.”

  “Eh?” said Tommy, staring.

  “It’s just as you said. One simple innocent remark! Find me all this week’s Daily Leaders.”

  “What are you up to?”

&n
bsp; “I’m being McCarty. I’ve been worrying round, and thanks to you, I’ve got a notion at last. This is the front sheet of Tuesday’s paper. I seem to remember that Tuesday’s paper was the one with two dots in the L of LEADER. This has a dot in the D of DAILY—and one in the L too. Get me the papers and let’s make sure.”

  They compared them anxiously. Tuppence had been quite right in her remembrance.

  “You see? This fragment wasn’t torn from Tuesday’s paper.”

  “But Tuppence, we can’t be sure. It may merely be different editions.”

  “It may—but at any rate it’s given me an idea. It can’t be coincidence—that’s certain. There’s only one thing it can be if I’m right in my idea. Ring up Sir Arthur, Tommy. Ask him to come round here at once. Say I’ve got important news for him. Then get hold of Marriot. Scotland Yard will know his address if he’s gone home.”

  Sir Arthur Merivale, very much intrigued by the summons, arrived at the flat in about half an hour’s time. Tuppence came forward to greet him.

  “I must apologise for sending for you in such a peremptory fashion,” she said. “But my husband and I have discovered something that we think you ought to know at once. Do sit down.”

  Sir Arthur sat down, and Tuppence went on.

  “You are, I know, very anxious to clear your friend.”

  Sir Arthur shook his head sadly.

  “I was, but even I have had to give in to the overwhelming evidence.”

  “What would you say if I told you that chance has placed in my hands a piece of evidence that will certainly clear him of all complicity?”

  “I should be overjoyed to hear it, Mrs. Beresford.”

  “Supposing,” continued Tuppence, “that I had come across a girl who was actually dancing with Captain Hale last night at twelve o’clock—the hour when he was supposed to be at the Ace of Spades.”

  “Marvellous!” cried Sir Arthur. “I knew there was some mistake. Poor Vere must have killed herself after all.”

  “Hardly that,” said Tuppence. “You forget the other man.”

  “What other man?”

  “The one my husband and I saw leave the booth. You see, Sir Arthur, there must have been a second man dressed in newspaper at the ball. By the way, what was your own costume?”

  “Mine? I went as a seventeenth century executioner.”

  “How very appropriate,” said Tuppence softly.

  “Appropriate, Mrs. Beresford. What do you mean by appropriate?”

  “For the part you played. Shall I tell you my ideas on the subject, Sir Arthur? The newspaper dress is easily put on over that of an executioner. Previously a little note has been slipped into Captain Hale’s hand, asking him not to speak to a certain lady. But the lady herself knows nothing of that note. She goes to the Ace of Spades at the appointed time and sees the figure she expects to see. They go into the booth. He takes her in his arms, I think, and kisses her—the kiss of a Judas, and as he kisses he strikes with the dagger. She only utters one faint cry and he covers that with a laugh. Presently he goes away—and to the last, horrified and bewildered, she believes her lover is the man who killed her.

  “But she has torn a small fragment from the costume. The murderer notices that—he is a man who pays great attention to detail. To make the case absolutely clear against his victim the fragment must seem to have been torn from Captain Hale’s costume. That would present great difficulties unless the two men happened to be living in the same house. Then, of course, the thing would be simplicity itself. He makes an exact duplicate of the tear in Captain Hale’s costume—then he burns his own and prepares to play the part of the loyal friend.”

  Tuppence paused.

  “Well, Sir Arthur?”

  Sir Arthur rose and made her a bow.

  “The rather vivid imagination of a charming lady who reads too much fiction.”

  “You think so?” said Tommy.

  “And a husband who is guided by his wife,” said Sir Arthur. “I do not fancy you will find anybody to take the matter seriously.”

  He laughed out loud, and Tuppence stiffened in her chair.

  “I would swear to that laugh anywhere,” she said. “I heard it last in the Ace of Spades. And you are under a little misapprehension about us both. Beresford is our real name, but we have another.”

  She picked up a card from the table and handed it to him. Sir Arthur read it aloud.

  “International Detective Agency . . .” He drew his breath sharply. “So that is what you really are! That was why Marriot brought me here this morning. It was a trap—”

  He strolled to the window.

  “A fine view you have from here,” he said. “Right over London.”

  “Inspector Marriot,” cried Tommy sharply.

  In a flash the Inspector appeared from the communicating door in the opposite wall.

  A little smile of amusement came to Sir Arthur’s lips.

  “I thought as much,” he said. “But you won’t get me this time, I’m afraid, Inspector. I prefer to take my own way out.”

  And putting his hands on the sill, he vaulted clean through the window.

  Tuppence shrieked and clapped her hands to her ears to shut out the sound she had already imagined—the sickening thud far beneath. Inspector Marriot uttered an oath.

  “We should have thought of the window,” he said. “Though, mind you, it would have been a difficult thing to prove. I’ll go down and—and—see to things.”

  “Poor devil,” said Tommy slowly. “If he was fond of his wife—”

  But the Inspector interrupted him with a snort.

  “Fond of her? That’s as may be. He was at his wits’ end where to turn for money. Lady Merivale had a large fortune of her own, and it all went to him. If she’d bolted with young Hale, he’d never have seen a penny of it.”

  “That was it, was it?”

  “Of course, from the very start, I sensed that Sir Arthur was a bad lot, and that Captain Hale was all right. We know pretty well what’s what at the Yard—but it’s awkward when you’re up against facts. I’ll be going down now—I should give your wife a glass of brandy if I were you, Mr. Beresford—it’s been upsetting like for her.”

  “Greengrocers,” said Tuppence in a low voice as the door closed behind the imperturbable Inspector, “butchers, fishermen, detectives. I was right, wasn’t I? He knew.”

  Tommy, who had been busy at the sideboard, approached her with a large glass.

  “Drink this.”

  “What is it? Brandy?”

  “No, it’s a large cocktail—suitable for a triumphant McCarty. Yes, Marriot’s right all round—that was the way of it. A bold finesse for game and rubber.”

  Tuppence nodded.

  “But he finessed the wrong way round.”

  “And so,” said Tommy, “exit the King.”

  Seven

  THE CASE OF THE MISSING LADY

  The buzzer on Mr. Blunt’s desk—International Detective Agency, Manager, Theodore Blunt—uttered its warning call. Tommy and Tuppence both flew to their respective peepholes which commanded a view of the outer office. There it was Albert’s business to delay the prospective client with various artistic devices.

  “I will see, sir,” he was saying. “But I’m afraid Mr. Blunt is very busy just at present. He is engaged with Scotland Yard on the phone just now.”

  “I’ll wait,” said the visitor. “I haven’t got a card with me, but my name is Gabriel Stavansson.”

  The client was a magnificent specimen of manhood, standing over six foot high. His face was bronzed and weather-beaten, and the extraordinary blue of his eyes made an almost startling contrast to the brown skin.

  Tommy swiftly made up his mind. He put on his hat, picked up some gloves and opened the door. He paused on the threshold.

  “This gentleman is waiting to see you, Mr. Blunt,” said Albert.

  A quick frown passed over Tommy’s face. He took out his watch.

  “I am due at
the Duke’s at a quarter to eleven,” he said. Then he looked keenly at the visitor. “I can give you a few minutes if you will come this way.”

  The latter followed him obediently into the inner office, where Tuppence was sitting demurely with pad and pencil.

  “My confidential secretary, Miss Robinson,” said Tommy. “Now, sir, perhaps you will state your business? Beyond the fact that it is urgent, that you came here in a taxi, and that you have lately been in the Arctic—or possibly the Antarctic, I know nothing.”

  The visitor stared at him in amazement.

  “But this is marvellous,” he cried. “I thought detectives only did such things in books! Your office boy did not even give you my name!”

  Tommy sighed deprecatingly.

  “Tut, tut, all that was very easy,” he said. “The rays of the midnight sun within the Arctic circle have a peculiar action upon the skin—the actinic rays have certain properties. I am writing a little monograph on the subject shortly. But all this is wide of the point. What is it that has brought you to me in such distress of mind?”

  “To begin with, Mr. Blunt, my name is Gabriel Stavansson—”

  “Ah! of course,” said Tommy. “The well-known explorer. You have recently returned from the region of the North Pole, I believe?”

  “I landed in England three days ago. A friend who was cruising in northern waters brought me back on his yacht. Otherwise I should not have got back for another fortnight. Now I must tell you, Mr. Blunt, that before I started on this last expedition two years ago, I had the great good fortune to become engaged to Mrs. Maurice Leigh Gordon—”

  Tommy interrupted.

  “Mrs. Leigh Gordon was, before her marriage—?”

  “The Honourable Hermione Crane, second daughter of Lord Lanchester,” reeled off Tuppence glibly.

  Tommy threw her a glance of admiration.

  “Her first husband was killed in the war,” added Tuppence.

  Gabriel Stavansson nodded.

  “That is quite correct. As I was saying, Hermione and I became engaged. I offered, of course, to give up this expedition, but she wouldn’t hear of such a thing—bless her! She’s the right kind of woman for an explorer’s wife. Well, my first thought on landing was to see Hermione. I sent a telegram from Southampton, and rushed up to town by the first train. I knew that she was living for the time being with an aunt of hers, Lady Susan Clonray, in Pont Street, and I went straight there. To my great disappointment, I found that Hermy was away visiting some friends in Northumberland. Lady Susan was quite nice about it, after getting over her first surprise at seeing me. As I told you, I wasn’t expected for another fortnight. She said Hermy would be returning in a few days’ time. Then I asked for her address, but the old woman hummed and hawed—said Hermy was staying at one or two different places and that she wasn’t quite sure what order she was taking them in. I may as well tell you, Mr. Blunt, that Lady Susan and I have never got on very well. She’s one of those fat women with double chins. I loathe fat women—always have—fat women and fat dogs are an abomination unto the Lord—and unfortunately they so often go together! It’s an idiosyncrasy of mine, I know—but there it is—I never can get on with a fat woman.”