The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection (71 page)

Only Tommy unobtrusively betook himself to the garden. He found Sheila Perenna leaning over the terrace wall staring out at the sea. He came and stood beside her.

By her hurried, quick breathing he knew that something had upset her badly. He offered her a cigarette, which she accepted.

He said: “Lovely night.”

In a low intense voice the girl answered:

“It could be. . . .”

Tommy looked at her doubtfully. He felt, suddenly, the attraction and the vitality of this girl. There was a tumultuous life in her, a kind of compelling power. She was the kind of girl, he thought, that a man might easily lose his head over.

“If it weren't for the war, you mean?” he said.

“I don't mean that at all. I hate the war.”

“So do we all.”

“Not in the way I mean. I hate the cant about it, the smugness—the horrible, horrible patriotism.”

“Patriotism?” Tommy was startled.

“Yes, I hate patriotism, do you understand? All this
country, country, country!
Betraying your country—dying for your country—serving your country. Why should one's country mean anything at all?”

Tommy said simply: “I don't know. It just does.”

“Not to me! Oh, it would to you—you go abroad and buy and sell in the British Empire and come back bronzed and full of clichés, talking about the natives and calling for Chota Pegs and all that sort of thing.”

Tommy said gently:

“I'm not quite as bad as that, I hope, my dear.”

“I'm exaggerating a little—but you know what I mean. You believe in the British Empire—and—and—the stupidity of dying for one's country.”

“My country,” said Tommy dryly, “doesn't seem particularly anxious to allow me to die for it.”

“Yes, but you
want
to. And it's so
stupid!
Nothing's
worth dying for. It's all an
idea
—talk, talk—froth—high-flown idiocy. My country doesn't mean anything to me at all.”

“Some day,” said Tommy, “you'll be surprised to find that it does.”

“No. Never. I've suffered—I've seen—”

She broke off—then turned suddenly and impetuously upon him.

“Do you know who my father was?”

“No!” Tommy's interest quickened.

“His name was Patrick Maguire. He—he was a follower of Casement in the last war. He was shot as a traitor! All for nothing! For an idea—he worked himself up with those other Irishmen. Why couldn't he just stay at home quietly and mind his own business? He's a martyr to some people and a traitor to others. I think he was just—
stupid!
”

Tommy could hear the note of pent-up rebellion, coming out into the open. He said:

“So that's the shadow you've grown up with?”

“Shadow's right. Mother changed her name. We lived in Spain for some years. She always says that my father was half a Spaniard. We always tell lies wherever we go. We've been all over the Continent. Finally we came here and started this place. I think this is quite the most hateful thing we've done yet.”

Tommy asked:

“How does your mother feel about—things?”

“You mean—about my father's death?” Sheila was silent a moment, frowning, puzzled. She said slowly: “I've never really known . . . she never talks about it. It's not easy to know what Mother feels or thinks.”

Tommy nodded his head thoughtfully.

Sheila said abruptly:

“I—I don't know why I've been telling you this. I got worked up. Where did it all start?”

“A discussion on Edith Cavell.”

“Oh yes—patriotism. I said I hated it.”

“Aren't you forgetting Nurse Cavell's own words?”

“What words?”

“Before she died. Don't you know what she said?”

He repeated the words:

“Patriotism is not enough . . . I must have no hatred in my heart.”

“Oh.” She stood there stricken for a moment.

Then, turning quickly, she wheeled away into the shadow of the garden.

II

“So you see, Tuppence, it would all fit in.”

Tuppence nodded thoughtfully. The beach around them was empty. She herself leaned against a breakwater, Tommy sat above her and the breakwater itself, from which post he could see anyone who approached along the esplanade. Not that he expected to see anyone, having ascertained with a fair amount of accuracy where people would be this morning. In any case his rendezvous with Tuppence had borne all the signs of a casual meeting, pleasurable to the lady and slightly alarming to himself.

Tuppence said:

“Mrs. Perenna?”

“Yes. M not N. She satisfies the requirements.”

Tuppence nodded thoughtfully again.

“Yes. She's Irish—as spotted by Mrs. O'Rourke—won't admit the fact. Has done a good deal of coming and going on the Continent. Changed her name to Perenna, came here and started this boardinghouse. A splendid bit of camouflage, full of innocuous bores. Her husband was shot as a traitor—she's got every incentive for running a Fifth Column show in this country. Yes, it fits. Is the girl in it too, do you think?”

Tommy said finally:

“Definitely not. She'd never have told me all this otherwise. I—I feel a bit of a cad, you know.”

Tuppence nodded with complete understanding.

“Yes, one does. In a way it's a foul job, this.”

“But very necessary.”

“Oh, of course.”

Tommy said, flushing slightly:

“I don't like lying any better than you do—”

Tuppence interrupted him.

“I don't mind lying in the least. To be quite honest I get a lot of artistic pleasure out of my lies. What gets me down is those moments when one forgets to lie—the times when one is just oneself—and gets results that way that you couldn't have got any other.” She paused and went on: “That's what happened to you last night—with the girl. She responded to the
real
you—that's why you feel badly about it.”

“I believe you're right, Tuppence.”

“I know. Because I did the same thing myself—with the German boy.”

Tommy said:

“What do you think about him?”

Tuppence said quickly:

“If you ask me, I don't think he's got anything to do with it.”

“Grant thinks he has.”

“Your Mr. Grant!” Tuppence's mood changed. She chuckled. “How I'd like to have seen his face when you told him about me.”

“At any rate, he's made the
amende honorable.
You're definitely on the job.”

Tuppence nodded, but she looked a trifle abstracted.

She said:

“Do you remember after the last war—when we were hunting down Mr. Brown? Do you remember what fun it was? How excited we were?”

Tommy agreed, his face lighting up.

“Rather!”

“Tommy—why isn't it the same now?”

He considered the question, his quiet ugly face grave. Then he said:

“I suppose it's really—a question of age.”

Tuppence said sharply:

“You don't think—we're too old?”

“No, I'm sure we're not. It's only that—this time—it won't be
fun.
It's the same in other ways. This is the second war we've been in—and we feel quite different about this one.”

“I know—we see the pity of it and the waste—and the horror. All the things we were too young to think about before.”

“That's it. In the last war I was scared every now and then—and had some pretty close shaves, and went through hell once or twice, but there were good times too.”

Tuppence said:

“I suppose Derek feels like that?”

“Better not think about him, old thing,” Tommy advised.

“You're right.” Tuppence set her teeth. “We've got a job. We're going to
do
that job. Let's get on with it. Have we found what we're looking for in Mrs. Perenna?”

“We can at least say that she's strongly indicated. There's no one else, is there, Tuppence, that you've got your eye on?”

Tuppence considered.

“No, there isn't. The first thing I did when I arrived, of course, was to size them all up and assess, as it were, possibilities. Some of them seem quite impossible.”

“Such as?”

“Well, Miss Minton for instance, the ‘compleat' British spinster, and Mrs. Sprot and her Betty, and the vacuous Mrs. Cayley.”

“Yes, but nitwittishness can be assumed.”

“Oh, quite, but the fussy spinster and the absorbed young mother are parts that would be fatally easy to overdo—and these people are quite natural. Then, where Mrs. Sprot is concerned, there's the child.”

“I suppose,” said Tommy, “that even a secret agent might have a child.”

“Not with her on the job,” said Tuppence. “It's not the kind of thing you'd bring a child into. I'm quite sure about that, Tommy. I
know.
You'd keep a child out of it.”

“I withdraw,” said Tommy. “I'll give you Mrs. Sprot and Miss Minton, but I'm not so sure about Mrs. Cayley.”

“No, she might be a possibility. Because she really does overdo it. I mean there can't be many women
quite
as idiotic as she seems.”

“I have often noticed that being a devoted wife saps the intellect,” murmured Tommy.

“And where have you noticed that?” demanded Tuppence.

“Not from you, Tuppence. Your devotion has never reached those lengths.”

“For a man,” said Tuppence kindly, “you don't really make an undue fuss when you are ill.”

Tommy reverted to a survey of possibilities.

“Cayley,” said Tommy thoughtfully. “There might be something fishy about Cayley.”

“Yes, there might. Then there's Mrs. O'Rourke?”

“What do you feel about her?”

“I don't quite know. She's disturbing. Rather
fee fo fum
if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I think I know. But I rather fancy that's just the predatory note. She's that kind of woman.”

Tuppence said slowly:

“She—notices things.”

She was remembering the remark about knitting.

“Then there's Bletchley,” said Tommy.

“I've hardly spoken to him. He's definitely your chicken.”

“I
think
he's just the ordinary pukka old school tie. I
think
so.”

“That's just it,” said Tuppence, answering a stress rather than actual words. “The worst of this sort of show is that you look at quite ordinary everyday people and twist them to suit your morbid requirements.”

“I've tried a few experiments on Bletchley,” said Tommy.

“What sort of thing? I've got some experiments in mind myself.”

“Well—just gentle ordinary little traps—about dates and places—all that sort of thing.”

“Could you condescend from the general to the particular?”

“Well, say we're talking of duck shooting. He mentions the Fayum—good sport there such and such a year, such and such a month. Some other time I mention Egypt in quite a different connection. Mummies, Tutankhamen, something like that—has he seen that stuff? When was he there? Check up on the answers. Or P & O boats—I mention the names of one or two, say so and so was a comfortable boat. He mentions some trip or other, later I check that. Nothing important, or anything that puts him on his guard—just a check up on accuracy.”

“And so far he hasn't slipped up in any way?”

“Not once. And that's a pretty good test, let me tell you, Tuppence.”

“Yes, but I suppose
if
he was N he would have his story quite pat.”

“Oh yes—the main outlines of it. But it's not so easy not to trip up on unimportant details. And then occasionally you remember too much—more, that is, than a bona fide person would do. An ordinary person doesn't usually remember offhand whether they took a certain shooting trip in 1926 or 1927. They have to think a bit and search their memory.”

“But so far you haven't caught Bletchley out?”

“So far he's responded in a perfectly normal manner.”

“Result—negative.”

“Exactly.”

“Now,” said Tuppence. “I'll tell you some of my ideas.”

And she proceeded to do so.

III

On her way home, Mrs. Blenkensop stopped at the post office. She bought stamps and on her way out went into one of the public call boxes. There she rang up a certain number, and asked for “Mr. Faraday.” This was the accepted method of communication with Mr. Grant. She came out smiling and walked slowly homewards, stopping on the way to purchase some knitting wool.

It was a pleasant afternoon with a light breeze. Tuppence curbed the natural energy of her own brisk trot to that leisurely pace that accorded with her conception of the part of Mrs. Blenkensop. Mrs. Blenkensop had nothing on earth to do with herself except knit (not too well) and write letters to her boys. She was always writing letters to her boys—sometimes she left them about half finished.

Tuppence came slowly up the hill towards Sans Souci. Since it was not a through road (it ended at Smugglers' Rest, Commander Haydock's house) there was never much traffic—a few tradesmen's vans in the morning. Tuppence passed house after house, amusing herself by noting their names. Bella Vista (inaccurately named, since the merest glimpse of the sea was to be obtained, and the main view was the vast Victorian bulk of Edenholme on the other side of the road). Karachi was the next house. After that came Shirley Tower. Then Sea View (appropriate this time), Castle Clare (somewhat grandiloquent, since it was a small house), Trelawny, a rival establishment to that of Mrs. Perenna, and finally the vast maroon bulk of Sans Souci.