The Complete Tommy and Tuppence

by Agatha Christie

  She put aside what she called to herself “peacetime thoughts” and concentrated on the present situation.

  After a moment or two she said slowly:

  “My husband isn’t in Scotland.”

  “Isn’t he?”

  “No, he’s down here with me. At least he was! Now—he’s disappeared.”

  “I say, that’s bad—or isn’t it? Was he on to something?”

  Tuppence nodded.

  “I think so. That’s why I don’t think that his disappearing like this is really a bad sign. I think, sooner or later, he’ll communicate with me—in his own way.” She smiled a little.

  Tony said, with some slight embarrassment:

  “Of course, you know the game well, I expect. But you ought to be careful.”

  Tuppence nodded.

  “I know what you mean. Beautiful heroines in books are always easily decoyed away. But Tommy and I have our methods. We’ve got a slogan,” she smiled. “Penny plain and tuppence coloured.”

  “What?” The young man stared at her as though she had gone mad.

  “I ought to explain that my family nickname is Tuppence.”

  “Oh, I see.” The young man’s brow cleared. “Ingenious—what?”

  “I hope so.”

  “I don’t want to butt in—but couldn’t I help in any way?”

  “Yes,” said Tuppence thoughtfully. “I think perhaps you might.”

  Twelve

  After long aeons of unconsciousness, Tommy began to be aware of a fiery ball swimming in space. In the centre of the fiery ball was a core of pain, the universe shrank, the fiery ball swung more slowly—he discovered suddenly that the nucleus of it was his own aching head.

  Slowly he became aware of other things—of cold cramped limbs, of hunger, of an inability to move his lips.

  Slower and slower swung the fiery ball . . . It was now Thomas Beresford’s head and it was resting on solid ground. Very solid ground. In fact something suspiciously like stone.

  Yes, he was lying on hard stones, and he was in pain, unable to move, extremely hungry, cold and uncomfortable.

  Surely, although Mrs. Perenna’s beds had never been unduly soft, this could not be—

  Of course—Haydock! The wireless! The German waiter! Turning in at the gates of Sans Souci. . . .

  Someone, creeping up behind him, had struck him down. That was the reason of his aching head.

  And he’d thought he’d got away with it all right! So Haydock, after all, hadn’t been quite such a fool?

  Haydock? Haydock had gone back into Smugglers’ Rest, and closed the door. How had he managed to get down the hill and be waiting for Tommy in the grounds of Sans Souci?

  It couldn’t be done. Not without Tommy seeing him.

  The manservant, then? Had he been sent ahead to lie in wait? But surely, as Tommy had crossed the hall, he had seen Appledore in the kitchen of which the door was slightly ajar? Or did he only fancy he had seen him? Perhaps that was the explanation.

  Anyway it didn’t matter. The thing to do was to find out where he was now.

  His eyes, accustomed to the darkness, picked out a small rectangle of dim light. A window or small grating. The air smelt chilly and musty. He was, he fancied, lying in a cellar. His hands and feet were tied and a gag in his mouth was secured by a bandage.

  “Seems rather as though I’m for it,” thought Tommy.

  He tried gingerly to move his limbs or body, but he could not succeed.

  At that moment, there was a faint creaking sound and a door somewhere behind him was pushed open. A man with a candle came in. He set down the candle on the ground. Tommy recognised Appledore. The latter disappeared again and then returned carrying a tray on which was a jug of water, a glass, and some bread and cheese.

  Stooping down he first tested the cords binding the other limbs. He then touched the gag.

  He said in a quiet level voice:

  “I am about to take this off. You will then be able to eat and drink. If, however, you make the slightest sound, I shall replace it immediately.”

  Tommy tried to nod his head which proved impossible, so he opened and shut his eyes several times instead.

  Appledore, taking this for consent, carefully unknotted the bandage.

  His mouth freed, Tommy spent some minutes easing his jaw. Appledore held the glass of water to his lips. He swallowed at first with difficulty, then more easily. The water did him the world of good.

  He murmured stiffly:

  “That’s better. I’m not quite so young as I was. Now for the eats, Fritz—or is it Franz?”

  The man said quietly:

  “My name here is Appledore.”

  He held the slice of bread and cheese up and Tommy bit at it hungrily.

  The meal washed down with water, he then asked:

  “And what’s the next part of the programme?”

  For answer, Appledore picked up the gag again.

  Tommy said quickly:

  “I want to see Commander Haydock.”

  Appledore shook his head. Deftly he replaced the gag and went out.

  Tommy was left to meditate in darkness. He was awakened from a confused sleep by the sound of the door reopening. This time Haydock and Appledore came in together. The gag was removed and the cords that held his arms were loosened so that he could sit up and stretch his arms.

  Haydock had an automatic pistol with him.

  Tommy, without much inward confidence, began to play his part.

  He said indignantly:

  “Look here, Haydock, what’s the meaning of all this? I’ve been set upon—kidnapped—”

  The Commander was gently shaking his head.

  He said:

  “Don’t waste your breath. It’s not worth it.”

  “Just because you’re a member of our Secret Service, you think you can—”

  Again the other shook his head.

  “No, no, Meadowes. You weren’t taken in by that story. No need to keep up the pretence.”

  But Tommy showed no signs of discomfiture. He argued to himself that the other could not really be sure. If he continued to play his part—

  “Who the devil do you think you are?” he demanded. “However great your powers you’ve no right to behave like this. I’m perfectly capable of holding my tongue about any of our vital secrets!”

  The other said coldly:

  “You do your stuff very well, but I may tell you that it’s immaterial to me whether you’re a member of the British Intelligence, or merely a muddling amateur—”

  “Of all the damned cheek—”

  “Cut it out, Meadowes.”

  “I tell you—”

  Haydock thrust a ferocious face forwards.

  “Be quiet, damn you. Earlier on it would have mattered to find out who you were and who sent you. Now it doesn’t matter. The time’s short, you see. And you didn’t have the chance to report to anyone what you’d found out.”

  “The police will be looking for me as soon as I’m reported missing.”

  Haydock showed his teeth in a sudden gleam.

  “I’ve had the police here this evening. Good fellows—both friends of mine. They asked me all about Mr. Meadowes. Very concerned about his disappearance. How he seemed that evening—what he said. They never dreamt, how should they, that the man they were talking about was practically underneath their feet where they were sitting. It’s quite clear, you see, that you left this house well and alive. They’d never dream of looking for you here.”

  “You can’t keep me here for ever,” Tommy said vehemently.

  Haydock said with a resumption of his most British manner:

  “It won’t be necessary, my dear fellow. Only until tomorrow night. There’s a boat due in at my little cove—and we’re thinking of sending you on a voyage for your health—though actually I don’t think you’ll be alive, or even on board, when they arrive at their destination.”

  “I wonder you didn’t knock me on the hea
d straight away.”

  “It’s such hot weather, my dear fellow. Just occasionally our sea communications are interrupted, and if that were to be so—well, a dead body on the premises has a way of announcing its presence.”

  “I see,” said Tommy.

  He did see. The issue was perfectly clear. He was to be kept alive until the boat arrived. Then he would be killed, or drugged, and his dead body taken out to sea. Nothing would ever connect this body, when found, with Smugglers’ Rest.

  “I just came along,” continued Haydock, speaking in the most natural manner, “to ask whether there is anything we could—er—do for you—afterwards?”

  Tommy reflected. Then he said:

  “Thanks—but I won’t ask you to take a lock of my hair to the little woman in St. John’s Wood, or anything of that kind. She’ll miss me when payday comes along—but I dare say she’ll soon find a friend elsewhere.”

  At all costs, he felt, he must create the impression that he was playing a lone hand. So long as no suspicion attached itself to Tuppence, then the game might still be won through, though he was not there to play it.

  “As you please,” said Haydock. “If you did care to send a message to—your friend—we would see that it was delivered.”

  So he was, after all, anxious to get a little information about this unknown Mr. Meadowes? Very well, then, Tommy would keep him guessing.

  He shook his head. “Nothing doing,” he said.

  “Very well.” With an appearance of the utmost indifference Haydock nodded to Appledore. The latter replaced the bonds and the gag. The two men went out, locking the door behind them.

  Left to his reflections, Tommy felt anything but cheerful. Not only was he faced with the prospect of rapidly approaching death, but he had no means of leaving any clue behind him as to the information he had discovered.

  His body was completely helpless. His brain felt singularly inactive. Could he, he wondered, have utilised Haydock’s suggestion of a message? Perhaps if his brain had been working better . . . But he could think of nothing helpful.

  There was, of course, still Tuppence. But what could Tuppence do? As Haydock had just pointed out, Tommy’s disappearance would not be connected with him. Tommy had left Smugglers’ Rest alive and well. The evidence of two independent witnesses would confirm that. Whoever Tuppence might suspect, it would not be Haydock. And she might not suspect at all. She might think that he was merely following up a trail.

  Damn it all, if only he had been more on his guard—

  There was a little light in the cellar. It came through the grating which was high up in one corner. If only he could get his mouth free, he could shout for help. Somebody might hear, though it was very unlikely.

  For the next half-hour he busied himself straining at the cords that bound him, and trying to bite through the gag. It was all in vain, however. The people who had adjusted those things knew their business.

  It was, he judged, late afternoon. Haydock, he fancied, had gone out; he had heard no sounds from overhead.

  Confound it all, he was probably playing golf, speculating at the clubhouse over what could have happened to Meadowes!

  “Dined with me night before last—seemed quite normal, then. Just vanished into the blue.”

  Tommy writhed with fury. That hearty English manner! Was everyone blind not to see that bullet-headed Prussian skull? He himself hadn’t seen it. Wonderful what a first-class actor could get away with.

  So here he was—a failure—an ignominious failure—trussed up like a chicken, with no one to guess where he was.

  If only Tuppence could have second sight! She might suspect. She had, sometimes, an uncanny insight. . . .

  What was that?

  He strained his ears listening to a far-off sound.

  Only some man humming a tune.

  And here he was, unable to make a sound to attract anyone’s attention.

  The humming came nearer. A most untuneful noise.

  But the tune, though mangled, was recognisable. It dated from the last war—had been revived for this one.

  “If you were the only girl in the world and I was the only boy.”

  How often he had hummed that in 1917.

  Dash this fellow. Why couldn’t he sing in tune?

  Suddenly Tommy’s body grew taut and rigid. Those particular lapses were strangely familiar. Surely there was only one person who always went wrong in that one particular place and in that one particular way!

  “Albert, by gosh!” thought Tommy.

  Albert prowling round Smugglers’ Rest. Albert quite close at hand, and here he was, trussed up, unable to move hand or foot, unable to make a sound. . . .

  Wait a minute. Was he?

  There was just one sound—not so easy with the mouth shut as with the mouth open, but it could be done.

  Desperately Tommy began to snore. He kept his eyes closed, ready to feign a deep sleep if Appledore should come down, and he snored, he snored. . . .

  Short snore, short snore, short snore—pause—long snore, long snore, long snore—pause—short snore, short snore, short snore. . . .

  II

  Albert, when Tuppence had left him, was deeply perturbed.

  With the advance of years he had become a person of slow mental processes, but those processes were tenacious.

  The state of affairs in general seemed to him quite wrong.

  The war was all wrong to begin with.

  “Those Germans,” thought Albert gloomily and almost without rancour. Heiling Hitler, and goose-stepping and overrunning the world and bombing and machine-gunning, and generally making pestilential nuisances of themselves. They’d got to be stopped, no two ways about it—and so far it seemed as though nobody had been able to stop them.

  And now here was Mrs. Beresford, a nice lady if there ever was one, getting herself mixed up in trouble and looking out for more trouble, and how was he going to stop her? Didn’t look as though he could. Up against this Fifth Column and a nasty lot they must be. Some of ’em English born, too! A disgrace, that was!

  And the master, who was always the one to hold the missus back from her impetuous ways—the master was missing.

  Albert didn’t like that at all. It looked to him as though “those Germans” might be at the bottom of that.

  Yes, it looked bad, it did. Looked as though he might have copped one.

  Albert was not given to the exercise of deep reasoning. Like most Englishmen, he felt something strongly, and proceeded to muddle around until he had, somehow or other, cleared up the mess. Deciding that the master had got to be found, Albert, rather after the manner of a faithful dog, set out to find him.

  He acted upon no settled plan, but proceeded in exactly the same way as he was wont to embark upon the search for his wife’s missing handbag or his own spectacles when either of those essential articles were mislaid. That is to say, he went to the place where he had last seen the missing objects and started from there.

  In this case, the last thing known about Tommy was that he had dined with Commander Haydock at Smugglers’ Rest, and had then returned to Sans Souci and been last seen turning in at the gate.

  Albert accordingly climbed the hill as far as the gate of Sans Souci, and spent some five minutes staring hopefully at the gate. Nothing of a scintillating character having occurred to him, he sighed and wandered slowly up the hill to Smugglers’ Rest.

  Albert, too, had visited the Ornate Cinema that week, and had been powerfully impressed by the theme of Wandering Minstrel. Romantic, it was! He could not but be struck by the similarity of his own predicament. He, like that hero of the screen, Larry Cooper, was a faithful Blondel seeking his imprisoned master. Like Blondel, he had fought at that master’s side in bygone days. Now his master was betrayed by treachery, and there was none but his faithful Blondel to seek for him and restore him to the loving arms of Queen Berengaria.

  Albert heaved a sigh as he remembered the melting strains of “Richard, O mon roi,
” which the faithful troubadour had crooned so feelingly beneath tower after tower.

  Pity he himself wasn’t better at picking up a tune.

  Took him a long time to get hold of a tune, it did.

  His lips shaped themselves into a tentative whistle.

  Begun playing the old tunes again lately, they had.

  “If you were the only girl in the world and I was the only boy—”

  Albert paused to survey the neat white-painted gate of Smugglers’ Rest. That was it, that was where the master had gone to dinner.

  He went up the hill a little farther and came out on the downs.

  Nothing here. Nothing but grass and a few sheep.

  The gate of Smugglers’ Rest swung open and a car passed out. A big man in plus fours with golf clubs drove out and down the hill.

  “That would be Commander Haydock, that would,” Albert deduced.

  He wandered down again and stared at Smugglers’ Rest. A tidy little place. Nice bit of garden. Nice view.

  He eyed it benignly. “I would say such wonderful things to you,” he hummed.

  Through a side door of the house a man came out with a hoe and passed out of sight through a little gate.

  Albert, who grew nasturtiums and a bit of lettuce in his back garden, was instantly interested.

  He edged nearer to Smugglers’ Rest and passed through the open gate. Yes, tidy little place.

  He circled slowly round it. Some way below him, reached by steps, was a flat plateau planted as a vegetable garden. The man who had come out of the house was busy down there.

  Albert watched him with interest for some minutes. Then he turned to contemplate the house.

  Tidy little place, he thought for the third time. Just the sort of place a retired Naval gentleman would like to have. This was where the master had dined that night.

  Slowly Albert circled round and round the house. He looked at it much as he had looked at the gate of Sans Souci—hopefully, as though asking it to tell him something.

  And as he went he hummed softly to himself, a twentieth-century Blondel in search of his master.

  “There would be such wonderful things to do,” hummed Albert. “I would say such wonderful things to you. There would be such wonderful things to do—” Gone wrong somewhere, hadn’t he? He’d hummed that bit before.