The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection (62 page)

Tommy nodded.

“Well?”

“I rather hate to tell you the next part. I was—curious. And also, I'd been reading silly books, and I wondered if she'd put a bomb or a poisoned needle or something like that in Mr. Wilmott's boot. I know it's absurd—but I did think so. Anyway, next time I passed the empty cabin, I slipped in and examined the boot. I drew out from the lining a slip of paper. Just as I had it in my hand, I heard the steward coming, and I hurried out so as not to be caught. The folded paper was still in my hand. When I got into my own cabin I examined it. Mr. Blunt, it was nothing but some verses from the Bible.”

“Verses from the Bible?” said Tommy, very much intrigued.

“At least I thought so at the time. I couldn't understand it, but I thought perhaps it was the work of a religious maniac. Anyway, I didn't feel it was worthwhile replacing it. I kept it without thinking much about it until yesterday when I used it to make into a boat for my little nephew to sail in his bath. As the paper got wet, I saw a queer kind of design coming out all over it. I hastily took it out of the bath, and smoothed it out flat again. The water had brought out the hidden message. It was a kind of tracing—and looked like the mouth of a harbour. Immediately after that I read your advertisement.”

Tommy sprang from his chair.

“But this is most important. I see it all now. That tracing is probably the plan of some important harbour defences. It had been stolen by this woman. She feared someone was on her track, and not daring to conceal it amongst her own belongings, she contrived this hiding place. Later, she obtained possession of the bag in which the boot was packed—only to discover that the paper had vanished. Tell me, Miss March, you have brought this paper with you?”

The girl shook her head.

“It's at my place of business. I run a beauty parlour in Bond Street. I am really an agent for the ‘Cyclamen' preparations in New York. That is why I had been over there. I thought the paper might be important, so I locked it up in the safe before coming out. Ought not Scotland Yard to know about it?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Then shall we go there now, get it out, and take it straight to Scotland Yard?”

“I am very busy this afternoon,” said Tommy, adopting his professional manner and consulting his watch. “The Bishop of London wants me to take up a case for him. A very curious problem, concerning some vestments and two curates.”

“Then in that case,” said Miss March, rising, “I will go alone.”

Tommy raised a hand in protest.

“As I was about to say,” he said, “the Bishop must wait. I will leave a few words with Albert. I am convinced, Miss March, that until that paper has been safely deposited with Scotland Yard you are in active danger.”

“Do you think so?” said the girl doubtfully.

“I don't think so, I'm sure. Excuse me.” He scribbled some words on the pad in front of him, then tore off the leaf and folded it.

Taking his hat and stick, he intimated to the girl that he was ready to accompany her. In the outer office he handed the folded paper to Albert with an air of importance.

“I am called out on an urgent case. Explain that to his lordship if he comes. Here are my notes on the case for Miss Robinson.”

“Very good, sir,” said Albert, playing up. “And what about the Duchess's pearls?”

Tommy waved his hand irritably.

“That must wait also.”

He and Miss March hurried out. Halfway down the stairs they encountered Tuppence coming up. Tommy passed her with a brusque: “Late again, Miss Robinson. I am called out on an important case.”

Tuppence stood still on the stairs and stared after them. Then, with raised eyebrows, she went on up to the office.

As they reached the street, a taxi came sailing up to them. Tommy, on the point of hailing it, changed his mind.

“Are you a good walker, Miss March?” he asked seriously.

“Yes, why? Hadn't we better take that taxi? It will be quicker.”

“Perhaps you did not notice. That taxi driver has just refused a fare a little lower down the street. He was waiting for us. Your enemies are on the lookout. If you feel equal to it, it would be better for us to walk to Bond Street. In the crowded streets they will not be able to attempt much against us.”

“Very well,” said the girl, rather doubtfully.

They walked westwards. The streets, as Tommy had said, were crowded, and progress was slow. Tommy kept a sharp lookout. Occasionally he drew the girl to one side with a quick gesture, though she herself had seen nothing suspicious.

Suddenly glancing at her, he was seized with compunction.

“I say, you look awfully done up. The shock of that man. Come into this place and have a good cup of strong coffee. I suppose you wouldn't hear of a nip of brandy.”

The girl shook her head, with a faint smile.

“Coffee be it then,” said Tommy. “I think we can safely risk its being poisoned.”

They lingered some time over their coffee, and finally set off at a brisker pace.

“We've thrown them off, I think,” said Tommy, looking over his shoulder.

Cyclamen Ltd was a small establishment in Bond Street, with pale pink taffeta curtains, and one or two jars of face cream and a cake of soap decorating the window.

Cicely March entered, and Tommy followed. The place inside was tiny. On the left was a glass counter with toilet preparations. Behind this counter was a middle-aged woman with grey hair and an exquisite complexion, who acknowledged Cicely March's entrance with a faint inclination of the head before continuing to talk to the customer she was serving.

This customer was a small dark woman. Her back was to them and they could not see her face. She was speaking in slow difficult English. On the right was a sofa and a couple of chairs with some magazines on a table. Here sat two men—apparently bored husbands waiting for their wives.

Cicely March passed straight on through a door at the end which she held ajar for Tommy to follow her. As he did so, the woman customer exclaimed, “Ah, but I think that is an
amico
of mine,” and rushed after them, inserting her foot in the door just in time to prevent its closing. At the same time the two men rose to their feet. One followed her through the door, the other advanced to the shop attendant and clapped his hand over her mouth to drown the scream rising to her lips.

In the meantime, things were happening rather quickly beyond the swing door. As Tommy passed through a cloth was flung over his head, and a sickly odour assailed his nostrils. Almost as soon however, it was jerked off again, and a woman's scream rang out.

Tommy blinked a little and coughed as he took in the scene in front of him. On his right was the mysterious stranger of a few hours ago, and busily fitting handcuffs upon him was one of the bored men from the shop parlour. Just in front of him was Cicely March wrestling vainly to free herself, whilst the woman customer from the shop held her firmly pinioned. As the latter turned her head, and the veil she wore unfastened itself and fell off, the well-known features of Tuppence were revealed.

“Well done, Tuppence,” said Tommy, moving forward. “Let me give you a hand. I shouldn't struggle if I were you, Miss O'Hara—or do you prefer to be called Miss March?”

“This is Inspector Grace, Tommy,” said Tuppence. “As soon as I read the note you left I rang up Scotland Yard, and Inspector Grace and another man met me outside here.”

“Very glad to get hold of this gentleman,” said the Inspector, indicating his prisoner. “He's wanted badly. But we've never had cause to suspect this place—thought it was a genuine beauty shop.”

“You see,” explained Tommy gently, “we do have to be so very careful! Why should anyone want the Ambassador's bag for an hour or so? I put the question the other way round. Supposing it was the other bag that was the important one. Someone wanted that bag to be in the Ambassador's possession for an hour or so. Much more illuminating! Diplomatic luggage is not subjected to the indignities of a Customs examination. Clearly smuggling. But smuggling of what? Nothing too bulky. At once I thought of drugs. Then that picturesque comedy was enacted in my office. They'd seen my advertisement and wanted to put me off the scent—or failing that, out of the way altogether. But I happened to notice an expression of blank dismay in the charming lady's eyes when Albert did his lasso act. That didn't fit in very well with her supposed part. The stranger's attack was meant to assure my confidence in her. I played the part of the credulous sleuth with all my might—swallowed her rather impossible story and permitted her to lure me here, carefully leaving behind full instructions for dealing with the situation. Under various pretexts I delayed our arrival, so as to give you all plenty of time.”

Cicely March was looking at him with a stony expression.

“You are mad. What do you expect to find here?”

“Remembering that Richards saw a tin of bath salts, what do you say about beginning with the bath salts, eh, Inspector?”

“A very sound idea, sir.”

He picked up one of the dainty pink tins, and emptied it on the table. The girl laughed.

“Genuine crystals, eh?” said Tommy. “Nothing more deadly than carbonate of soda?”

“Try the safe,” suggested Tuppence.

There was a small wall safe in the corner. The key was in the lock. Tommy swung it open and gave a shout of satisfaction. The back of the safe opened out into a big recess in the wall, and that recess was stacked with the same elegant tins of bath salts. Rows and rows of them. He took one out and prised up the lid. The top showed the same pink crystals, but underneath was a fine white powder.

The Inspector uttered an ejaculation.

“You've got it, sir. Ten to one, that tin's full of pure cocaine. We knew there was a distributing area somewhere round here, handy to the West End, but we haven't been able to get a clue to it. This is a fine coup of yours, sir.”

“Rather a triumph for Blunt's Brilliant Detectives,” said Tommy to Tuppence, as they emerged into the street together. “It's a great thing to be a married man. Your persistent schooling has at last taught me to recognise peroxide when I see it. Golden hair has got to be the genuine article to take me in. We will concoct a businesslike letter to the Ambassador, informing him that the matter has been dealt with satisfactorily. And now, my dear fellow, what about tea, and lots of hot buttered muffins?”

Seventeen

T
HE
M
AN
W
HO
W
AS
N
O
. 16

T
ommy and Tuppence were closeted with the Chief in his private room. His commendation had been warm and sincere.

“You have succeeded admirably. Thanks to you we have laid our hands on no less than five very interesting personages, and from them we have received much valuable information. Meanwhile I learn from a creditable source that headquarters in Moscow have taken alarm at the failure of their agents to report. I think that in spite of all our precautions they have begun to suspect that all is not well at what I may call the distributing centre—the office of Mr. Theodore Blunt—the International Detective Bureau.”

“Well,” said Tommy, “I suppose they were bound to tumble to it some time or other, sir.”

“As you say, it was only to be expected. But I am a little worried—about Mrs. Tommy.”

“I can look after her all right, sir,” said Tommy, at exactly the same minute as Tuppence said, “I can take care of myself.”

“H'm,” said Mr. Carter. “Excessive self-confidence was always a characteristic of you two. Whether your immunity is entirely due to your own superhuman cleverness, or whether a small percentage of luck creeps in, I'm not prepared to say. But luck changes, you know. However, I won't argue the point. From my extensive knowledge of Mrs. Tommy, I suppose it's quite useless to ask her to keep out of the limelight for the next week or two?”

Tuppence shook her head very energetically.

“Then all I can do is to give you all the information that I can. We have reason to believe that a special agent has been despatched from Moscow to this country. We don't know what name he is travelling under, we don't know when he will arrive. But we do know something about him. He is a man who gave us great trouble in the war, an ubiquitous kind of fellow who turned up all over the place where we least wanted him. He is a Russian by birth, and an accomplished linguist—so much so that he can pass as half a dozen other nationalities, including our own. He is also a past master in the art of disguise. And he has brains. It was he who devised the No. 16 code.

“When and how he will turn up, I do not know. But I am fairly certain that he
will
turn up. We do know this—he was not personally acquainted with the real Mr. Theodore Blunt. I think that he will turn up at your office, on the pretext of a case which he will wish you to take up, and will try you with the pass words. The first, as you know, is the mention of the number sixteen—which is replied to by a sentence containing the same number. The second, which we have only just learnt, is an inquiry as to whether you have ever crossed the Channel. The answer to that is: ‘I was in Berlin on the 13th of last month.' As far as we know that is all. I would suggest that you reply correctly, and so endeavour to gain his confidence. Sustain the fiction if you possibly can. But even if he appears to be completely deceived, remain on your guard. Our friend is particularly astute, and can play a double game as well, or better, than you can. But in either case I hope to get him through you. From this day forward I am adopting special precautions. A dictaphone was installed last night in your office, so that one of my men in the room below will be able to hear everything that passes in your office. In this way I shall be immediately informed if anything arises, and can take the necessary steps to safeguard you and your wife whilst securing the man I am after.”