The Complete Tommy and Tuppence

by Agatha Christie

  “I think Gilda Glen met her husband suddenly just outside that gate, and took him in with her to thrash the matter out. He hadn’t Reilly’s relief of violent words, remember. He just saw red—and he had his truncheon handy. . . .”

  Ten

  THE CRACKLER

  “Tuppence,” said Tommy. “We shall have to move into a much larger office.”

  “Nonsense,” said Tuppence. “You mustn’t get swollen-headed and think you are a millionaire just because you solved two or three twopenny halfpenny cases with the aid of the most amazing luck.”

  “What some call luck, others call skill.”

  “Of course, if you really think you are Sherlock Holmes, Thorndyke, McCarty and the Brothers Okewood all rolled into one, there is no more to be said. Personally I would much rather have luck on my side than all the skill in the world.”

  “Perhaps there is something in that,” conceded Tommy. “All the same, Tuppence, we do need a larger office.”

  “Why?”

  “The classics,” said Tommy. “We need several hundreds of yards of extra bookshelf if Edgar Wallace is to be properly represented.”

  “We haven’t had an Edgar Wallace case yet.”

  “I’m afraid we never shall,” said Tommy. “If you notice he never does give the amateur sleuth much of a chance. It is all stern Scotland Yard kind of stuff—the real thing and no base counterfeit.”

  Albert, the office boy, appeared at the door.

  “Inspector Marriot to see you,” he announced.

  “The mystery man of Scotland Yard,” murmured Tommy.

  “The busiest of the Busies,” said Tuppence. “Or is it ‘Noses?’ I always get mixed between Busies and Noses.”

  The Inspector advanced upon them with a beaming smile of welcome.

  “Well, and how are things?” he asked breezily. “None the worse for our little adventure the other day?”

  “Oh, rather not,” said Tuppence. “Too, too marvellous, wasn’t it?”

  “Well, I don’t know that I would describe it exactly that way myself,” said Marriot cautiously.

  “What has brought you here today, Marriot?” asked Tommy. “Not just solicitude for our nervous systems, is it?”

  “No,” said the Inspector. “It is work for the brilliant Mr. Blunt.”

  “Ha!” said Tommy. “Let me put my brilliant expression on.”

  “I have come to make you a proposition, Mr. Beresford. What would you say to rounding up a really big gang?”

  “Is there such a thing?” asked Tommy.

  “What do you mean, is there such a thing?”

  “I always thought that gangs were confined to fiction—like master crooks and super criminals.”

  “The master crook isn’t very common,” agreed the Inspector. “But Lord bless you, sir, there’s any amount of gangs knocking about.”

  “I don’t know that I should be at my best dealing with a gang,” said Tommy. “The amateur crime, the crime of quiet family life—that is where I flatter myself that I shine. Drama of strong domestic interest. That’s the thing—with Tuppence at hand to supply all those little feminine details which are so important, and so apt to be ignored by the denser male.”

  His eloquence was arrested abruptly as Tuppence threw a cushion at him and requested him not to talk nonsense.

  “Will have your little bit of fun, won’t you, sir?” said Inspector Marriot, smiling paternally at them both. “If you’ll not take offence at my saying so, it’s a pleasure to see two young people enjoying life as much as you two do.”

  “Do we enjoy life?” said Tuppence, opening her eyes very wide. “I suppose we do. I’ve never thought about it before.”

  “To return to that gang you were talking about,” said Tommy. “In spite of my extensive private practice—duchesses, millionaires, and all the best charwomen—I might, perhaps, condescend to look into the matter for you. I don’t like to see Scotland Yard at fault. You’ll have the Daily Mail after you before you know where you are.”

  “As I said before, you must have your bit of fun. Well, it’s like this.” Again he hitched his chair forward. “There’s any amount of forged notes going about just now—hundreds of ’em! The amount of counterfeit Treasury notes in circulation would surprise you. Most artistic bit of work it is. Here’s one of ’em.”

  He took a one pound note from his pocket and handed it to Tommy.

  “Looks all right, doesn’t it?”

  Tommy examined the note with great interest.

  “By Jove, I’d never spot there was anything wrong with that.”

  “No more would most people. Now here’s a genuine one. I’ll show you the differences—very slight they are, but you’ll soon learn to tell them apart. Take this magnifying glass.”

  At the end of five minutes’ coaching both Tommy and Tuppence were fairly expert.

  “What do you want us to do, Inspector Marriot?” asked Tuppence. “Just keep our eyes open for these things?”

  “A great deal more than that, Mrs. Beresford. I’m pinning my faith on you to get to the bottom of the matter. You see, we’ve discovered that the notes are being circulated from the West End. Somebody pretty high up in the social scale is doing the distributing. They’re passing them the other side of the Channel as well. Now there’s a certain person who is interesting us very much. A Major Laidlaw—perhaps you’ve heard the name?”

  “I think I have,” said Tommy. “Connected with racing, isn’t that it?”

  “Yes. Major Laidlaw is pretty well-known in connection with the Turf. There’s nothing actually against him, but there’s a general impression that he’s been a bit too smart over one or two rather shady transactions. Men in the know look queer when he’s mentioned. Nobody knows much of his past or where he came from. He’s got a very attractive French wife who’s seen about everywhere with a train of admirers. They must spend a lot of money, the Laidlaws, and I’d like to know where it comes from.”

  “Possibly from the train of admirers,” suggested Tommy.

  “That’s the general idea. But I’m not so sure. It may be coincidence, but a lot of notes have been forthcoming from a certain very smart little gambling club which is much frequented by the Laidlaws and their set. This racing, gambling set get rid of a lot of loose money in notes. There couldn’t be a better way of getting it into circulation.”

  “And where do we come in?”

  “This way. Young St. Vincent and his wife are friends of yours, I understand? They’re pretty thick with the Laidlaw set—though not as thick as they were. Through them it will be easy for you to get a footing in the same set in a way that none of our people could attempt. There’s no likelihood of their spotting you. You’ll have an ideal opportunity.”

  “What have we got to find out exactly?”

  “Where they get the stuff from, if they are passing it.”

  “Quite so,” said Tommy. “Major Laidlaw goes out with an empty suitcase. When he returns it is crammed to the bursting point with Treasury notes. How is it done? I sleuth him and find out. Is that the idea?”

  “More or less. But don’t neglect the lady, and her father, M. Heroulade. Remember the notes are being passed on both sides of the Channel.”

  “My dear Marriot,” exclaimed Tommy reproachfully, “Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives do not know the meaning of the word neglect.”

  The Inspector rose.

  “Well, good luck to you,” he said, and departed.

  “Slush,” said Tuppence enthusiastically.

  “Eh?” said Tommy, perplexed.

  “Counterfeit money,” explained Tuppence. “It is always called slush. I know I’m right. Oh, Tommy, we have got an Edgar Wallace case. At last we are Busies.”

  “We are,” said Tommy. “And we are out to get the Crackler, and we will get him good.”

  “Did you say the Cackler or the Crackler?”

  “The Crackler.”

  “Oh, what is a Crackler?”

  �
��A new word that I have coined,” said Tommy. “Descriptive of one who passes false notes into circulation. Banknotes crackle, therefore he is called a crackler. Nothing could be more simple.”

  “That is rather a good idea,” said Tuppence. “It makes it seem more real. I like the Rustler myself. Much more descriptive and sinister.”

  “No,” said Tommy, “I said the Crackler first, and I stick to it.”

  “I shall enjoy this case,” said Tuppence. “Lots of night clubs and cocktails in it. I shall buy some eyelash-black tomorrow.”

  “Your eyelashes are black already,” objected her husband.

  “I could make them blacker,” said Tuppence. “And cherry lipstick would be useful too. That ultrabright kind.”

  “Tuppence,” said Tommy, “you’re a real rake at heart. What a good thing it is that you are married to a sober steady middle-aged man like myself.”

  “You wait,” said Tuppence. “When you have been to the Python Club a bit, you won’t be so sober yourself.”

  Tommy produced from a cupboard various bottles, two glasses, and a cocktail shaker.

  “Let’s start now,” he said. “We are after you, Crackler, and we mean to get you.”

  II

  Making the acquaintance of the Laidlaws proved an easy affair. Tommy and Tuppence, young, well-dressed, eager for life, and with apparently money to burn, were soon made free of that particular coterie in which the Laidlaws had their being.

  Major Laidlaw was a tall, fair man, typically English in appearance, with a hearty sportsmanlike manner, slightly belied by the hard lines round his eyes and the occasional quick sideways glance that assorted oddly with his supposed character.

  He was a very dexterous card player, and Tommy noticed that when the stakes were high he seldom rose from the table a loser.

  Marguerite Laidlaw was quite a different proposition. She was a charming creature, with the slenderness of a wood nymph and the face of a Greuze picture. Her dainty broken English was fascinating, and Tommy felt that it was no wonder most men were her slaves. She seemed to take a great fancy to Tommy from the first, and playing his part, he allowed himself to be swept into her train.

  “My Tommee,” she would say; “but positively I cannot go without my Tommee. His ’air, eet ees the colour of the sunset, ees eet not?”

  Her father was a more sinister figure. Very correct, very upright, with his little black beard and his watchful eyes.

  Tuppence was the first to report progress. She came to Tommy with ten one pound notes.

  “Have a look at these. They’re wrong ’uns, aren’t they?”

  Tommy examined them and confirmed Tuppence’s diagnosis.

  “Where did you get them from?”

  “That boy, Jimmy Faulkener. Marguerite Laidlaw gave them to him to put on a horse for her. I said I wanted small notes and gave him a tenner in exchange.”

  “All new and crisp,” said Tommy thoughtfully. “They can’t have passed through many hands. I suppose young Faulkener is all right?”

  “Jimmy? Oh, he’s a dear. He and I are becoming great friends.”

  “So I have noticed,” said Tommy coldly. “Do you really think it is necessary?”

  “Oh, it isn’t business,” said Tuppence cheerfully. “It’s pleasure. He’s such a nice boy. I’m glad to get him out of that woman’s clutches. You’ve no idea of the amount of money she’s cost him.”

  “It looks to me as though he were getting rather a pash for you, Tuppence.”

  “I’ve thought the same myself sometimes. It’s nice to know one’s still young and attractive, isn’t it?”

  “Your moral tone, Tuppence, is deplorably low. You look at these things from the wrong point of view.”

  “I haven’t enjoyed myself so much for years,” declared Tuppence shamelessly. “And anyway, what about you? Do I ever see you nowadays? Aren’t you always living in Marguerite Laidlaw’s pocket?”

  “Business,” said Tommy crisply.

  “But she is attractive, isn’t she?”

  “Not my type,” said Tommy. “I don’t admire her.”

  “Liar,” laughed Tuppence. “But I always did think I’d rather marry a liar than a fool.”

  “I suppose,” said Tommy, “that there’s no absolute necessity for a husband to be either?”

  But Tuppence merely threw him a pitying glance and withdrew.

  Amongst Mrs. Laidlaw’s train of admirers was a simple but extremely wealthy gentleman of the name of Hank Ryder.

  Mr. Ryder came from Alabama, and from the first he was disposed to make a friend and confidant of Tommy.

  “That’s a wonderful woman, sir,” said Mr. Ryder following the lovely Marguerite with reverential eyes. “Plumb full of civilisation. Can’t beat la gaie France, can you? When I’m near her, I feel as though I was one of the Almighty’s earliest experiments. I guess he’d got to get his hand in before he attempted anything so lovely as that perfectly lovely woman.”

  Tommy agreeing politely with these sentiments, Mr. Ryder unburdened himself still further.

  “Seems kind of a shame a lovely creature like that should have money worries.”

  “Has she?” asked Tommy.

  “You betcha life she has. Queer fish, Laidlaw. She’s skeered of him. Told me so. Daren’t tell him about her little bills.”

  “Are they little bills?” asked Tommy.

  “Well—when I say little! After all, a woman’s got to wear clothes, and the less there are of them the more they cost, the way I figure it out. And a pretty woman like that doesn’t want to go about in last season’s goods. Cards too, the poor little thing’s been mighty unlucky at cards. Why, she lost fifty to me last night.”

  “She won two hundred from Jimmy Faulkener the night before,” said Tommy drily.

  “Did she indeed? That relieves my mind some. By the way, there seems to be a lot of dud notes floating around in your country just now. I paid in a bunch at my bank this morning, and twenty-five of them were down-and-outers, so the polite gentleman behind the counter informed me.”

  “That’s rather a large proportion. Were they new looking?”

  “New and crisp as they make ’em. Why, they were the ones Mrs. Laidlaw paid over to me, I reckon. Wonder where she got ’em from. One of these toughs on the racecourse as likely as not.”

  “Yes,” said Tommy. “Very likely.”

  “You know, Mr. Beresford, I’m new to this sort of high life. All these swell dames and the rest of the outfit. Only made my pile a short while back. Came right over to Yurrop to see life.”

  Tommy nodded. He made a mental note to the effect that with the aid of Marguerite Laidlaw Mr. Ryder would probably see a good deal of life and that the price charged would be heavy.

  Meantime, for the second time, he had evidence that the forged notes were being distributed pretty near at hand, and that in all probability Marguerite Laidlaw had a hand in their distribution.

  On the following night he himself was given a proof.

  It was at that small select meeting place mentioned by Inspector Marriot. There was dancing there, but the real attraction of the place lay behind a pair of imposing folding doors. There were two rooms there with green baize-covered tables, where vast sums changed hands nightly.

  Marguerite Laidlaw, rising at last to go, thrust a quantity of small notes into Tommy’s hands.

  “They are so bulkee, Tommee—you will change them, yes? A beeg note. See my so sweet leetle bag, it bulges him to distraction.”

  Tommy brought her the hundred pound note she asked for. Then in a quiet corner he examined the notes she had given him. At least a quarter of them were counterfeit.

  But where did she get her supplies from? To that he had as yet no answer. By means of Albert’s cooperation, he was almost sure that Laidlaw was not the man. His movements had been watched closely and had yielded no result.

  Tommy suspected her father, the saturnine M. Heroulade. He went to and fro to France fairly often. What co
uld be simpler than to bring the notes across with him? A false bottom to the trunk—something of that kind.

  Tommy strolled slowly out of the Club, absorbed in these thoughts, but was suddenly recalled to immediate necessities. Outside in the street was Mr. Hank P. Ryder, and it was clear at once that Mr. Ryder was not strictly sober. At the moment he was trying to hang his hat on the radiator of a car, and missing it by some inches every time.

  “This goddarned hatshtand, this goddarned hatshtand,” said Mr. Ryder tearfully. “Not like that in the Shtates. Man can hang up his hat every night—every night, sir. You’re wearing two hatshs. Never sheen a man wearing two hatshs before. Must be effect—climate.”

  “Perhaps I’ve got two heads,” said Tommy gravely.

  “Sho you have,” said Mr. Ryder. “Thatsh odd. Thatsh remarkable fac.” Letsh have a cocktail. Prohibition—probishun thatsh whatsh done me in. I guess I’m drunk—constootionally drunk. Cocktailsh—mixed ’em—Angel’s Kiss—that’s Marguerite—lovely creature, fon o’ me too. Horshes Neck, two Martinis—three Road to Ruinsh—no, roadsh to roon—mixed ’em all—in a beer tankard. Bet me I wouldn’t—I shaid—to hell, I shaid—”

  Tommy interrupted.

  “That’s all right,” he said soothingly. “Now what about getting home?”

  “No home to go to,” said Mr. Ryder sadly, and wept.

  “What hotel are you staying at?” asked Tommy.

  “Can’t go home,” said Mr. Ryder. “Treasure hunt. Swell thing to do. She did it. Whitechapel—white heartsh, white headsn shorrow to the grave—”

  But Mr. Ryder became suddenly dignified. He drew himself erect and attained a sudden miraculous command over his speech.

  “Young man, I’m telling you. Margee took me. In her car. Treasure hunting. English aristocrashy all do it. Under the cobblestones. Five hundred poundsh. Solemn thought, ’tis solemn thought. I’m telling you, young man. You’ve been kind to me. I’ve got your welfare at heart, sir, at heart. We Americans—”

  Tommy interrupted him this time with even less ceremony.