N or M tat-3

by Agatha Christie

  "I'm with you, Meadowes. I'm with you. Women are all very well in their place, but not before breakfast." He chuckled a little. "Better be careful, old man. She's a widow, you know."

  "Is she?"

  The Major dug him cheerfully in the ribs.

  "We know what widows are. She's buried two husbands and if you ask me, she's on the look-out for number three. Keep a very wary eye open, Meadowes. A wary eye. That's my advice."

  And in high good humour Major Bletchley wheeled about at the end of the parade and set the pace for a smart walk back to breakfast at Sans Souci.

  In the meantime, Tuppence had gently continued her walk along the esplanade, passing quite close to the shelter and the young couple talking there. As she passed she caught a few words. It was the girl speaking.

  "But you must be careful, Carl. The very least suspicion -"

  Tuppence was out of earshot. Suggestive words? Yes, but capable of any number of harmless interpretations. Unobtrusively she turned and again passed the two. Again words floated to her.

  "Smug, detestable English..."

  The eyebrows of Mrs Blenkensop rose ever so slightly. Hardly, she thought, a very wise conversation. Carl von Deinim was a refugee from Nazi persecution, given asylum and shelter by England. Neither wise nor grateful to listen assentingly to such words.

  Again Tuppence turned. But this time, before she reached the shelter, the couple had parted abruptly, the girl to cross the road leaving the sea front, Carl von Deinim to come along in Tuppence's direction.

  He would not, perhaps, have recognized her but for her own pause and hesitation. Then quickly, he brought his heels together and bowed.

  Tuppence twittered at him:

  "Good morning, Mr von Deinim, isn't it? Such a lovely morning."

  "Ah, yes. The weather is fine."

  Tuppence ran on.

  "It quite tempted me. I don't often come out before breakfast. But this morning, what with not sleeping very well - one often doesn't sleep well in a strange place, I find. It takes a day or two to accustom oneself, I always say."

  "Oh yes, no doubt that is so."

  "And really this little walk has quite given me an appetite for breakfast."

  "You go back to Sans Souci now? If you permit I will walk with you." He walked gravely by her side.

  Tuppence said:

  "You also are out to get an appetite?"

  Gravely, he shook his head.

  "Oh, no. My breakfast I have already had it. I am on my way to work."

  "Work?"

  "I am a research chemist."

  So that's what you are, thought Tuppence, stealing a quick glance at him.

  Carl von Deinim went on, his voice stiff.

  "I came to this country to escape Nazi persecution. I have very little money - no friends. I do now what useful work I can."

  He stared straight ahead of him. Tuppence was conscious of some undercurrent of strong feeling moving him powerfully.

  She murmured vaguely:

  "Oh, yes, I see. I see. Very creditable, I am sure."

  Carl von Deinim said:

  "My two brothers are in concentration camps. My father died in one. My mother died of sorrow and fear."

  Tuppence thought:

  "The way he says that - as though he had learned it by heart."

  Again she stole a quick glance at him. He was still staring ahead of him, his face impassive.

  They walked in silence for some moments. Two men passed them. One of them shot a quick glance at Carl. She heard him mutter to his companion:

  "Bet you that fellow is a German."

  Tuppence saw the colour rise in Carl von Deinim's cheeks.

  Suddenly he lost command of himself. That tide of hidden emotion came to the surface. He stammered:

  "You heard - you heard - that is what they say - I -"

  "My dear boy!" Tuppence reverted suddenly to her real self. Her voice was crisp and compelling. "Don't be an idiot. You can't have it both ways."

  He turned his head and stared at her.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You're a refugee. You have to take the rough with the smooth. You're alive, that's the main thing. Alive and free. For the other - realize that it's inevitable. This country's at war. You're a German." She smiled suddenly. "You can't expect the mere man in the street - literally the man in the street - to distinguish between bad Germans and good Germans, if I may put it so crudely."

  He still stared at her. His eyes, so very blue, were poignant with suppressed feeling. Then, suddenly, he too smiled. He said:

  "They said of Red Indians, did they not, that a good Indian was a dead Indian?" He laughed. "To be a good German I must be on time at my work. Please. Good morning."

  Again that stiff bow. Tuppence stared after his retreating figure. She said to herself:

  "Mrs Blenkensop, you had a lapse there. Strict attention to business in future. Now for breakfast at Sans Souci."

  The hall door of Sans Souci was open. Inside, Mrs Perenna was conducting a vigorous conversation with someone.

  "And you'll tell him what I think of that last lot of margarine. Get the cooked ham at Quiller's - it was twopence cheaper last time there, and be careful about the cabbages -" She broke off as Tuppence entered.

  "Oh, good morning, Mrs Blenkensop, you are an early bird. You haven't had breakfast yet. It's all ready in the dining room." She added, indicating her companion: "My daughter Sheila. You haven't met her. She's been away and only came home last night."

  Tuppence looked with interest at the vivid, handsome face. No longer full of tragic energy, bored now and resentful. "My daughter Sheila." Sheila Perenna.

  Tuppence murmured a few pleasant words and went into the dining room. There were three people breakfasting - Mrs Sprot and her baby girl, and big Mrs O'Rourke. Tuppence said, "Good morning" and Mrs O'Rourke replied with a hearty, "The top of the morning to you" that quite drowned Mrs Sprot's more anaemic salutation.

  The old woman stared at Tuppence with a kind of devouring interest.

  "'Tis a fine thing to be out walking before breakfast," she observed. "A grand appetite it gives you."

  Mrs Sprot said to her offspring:

  "Nice bread and milk, darling," and endeavoured to insinuate a spoonful into Miss Betty Sprot's mouth.

  The latter cleverly circumvented this endeavour by an adroit movement of her head, and continued to stare at Tuppence with large round eyes.

  She pointed a milky finger at the newcomer, gave her a dazzling smile and observed in gurgling tones: "Ga - Ga Bouch."

  "She likes you," cried Mrs Sprot, beaming on Tuppence as on one marked out for favour. "Sometimes she's so shy with strangers."

  "Bouch," said Betty Sprot. "Ah pooth ah bag," she added with emphasis.

  "And what would she be meaning by that?" demanded Mrs O'Rourke, with interest.

  "She doesn't speak awfully clearly yet," confessed Mrs Sprot. "She's only just over two, you know. I'm afraid most of what she says is just bosh. She can say Mama, though, can't you, darling?"

  Betty looked thoughtfully at her mother and remarked with an air of finality:

  "Cuggle bick."

  "'Tis a language of their own they have, the little angels," boomed out Mrs O'Rourke. "Betty darling, say Mama now."

  Betty looked hard at Mrs O'Rourke, frowned and observed with terrific emphasis: "Nazer -"

  "There now, if she isn't doing her best! And a lovely sweet girl she is."

  Mrs O'Rourke rose, beamed in a ferocious manner at Betty, and waddled heavily out of the room.

  "Ga, ga ga," said Betty with enormous satisfaction, and beat with a spoon on the table.

  Tuppence said with a twinkle:

  "What does Na-zer really mean?"

  Mrs Sprot said with a flush: "I'm afraid, you know, it's what Betty says when she doesn't like anyone or anything."

  "I rather thought so," said Tuppence.

  Both women laughed.

  "After all," said
Mrs Sprot, "Mrs O'Rourke means to be kind but she is rather alarming - with that deep voice and the beard and - and everything."

  With her head on one side Betty made a cooing noise at Tuppence.

  "She has taken to you, Mrs Blenkensop," said Mrs Sprot.

  There was a slight jealous chill, Tuppence fancied, in her voice. Tuppence hastened to adjust matters.

  "They always like a new face, don't they?" she said easily.

  The door opened and Major Bletchley and Tommy appeared. Tuppence became arch.

  "Ah, Mr Meadowes," she called out. "I've beaten you, you see. First past the post. But I've left you just a little breakfast!"

  She indicated with the faintest of gestures the seat beside her.

  Tommy, muttering vaguely: "Oh, er - rather - thanks," sat down at the other end of the table.

  Betty Sprot said "Putch!" with a fine splutter of milk at Major Bletchley, whose face instantly assumed a sheepish but delighted expression.

  "And how's little Miss Bo Peep this morning?" he asked fatuously. "Bo Peep!" He enacted the play with a newspaper.

  Betty crowed with delight.

  Serious misgivings shook Tuppence. She thought:

  "There must be some mistake. There can't be anything going on here. There simply can't!"

  To believe in Sans Souci as a headquarters of the Fifth Column needed the mental equipment of the White Queen in "Alice."

  Chapter 3

  On the sheltered terrace outside, Miss Minton was knitting.

  Miss Minton was thin and angular, her neck was stringy. She wore pale sky-blue jumpers, and chains or bead necklaces. Her skirts were tweedy and had a depressed droop at the back. She greeted Tuppence with alacrity.

  "Good morning, Mrs Blenkensop. I do hope you slept well."

  Mrs Blenkensop confessed that she never slept very well the first night or two in a strange bed. Miss Minton said, Now, wasn't that curious? It was exactly the same with her.

  Mrs Blenkensop said, "What a coincidence, and what a very pretty stitch that was." Miss Minton, flushing with pleasure, displayed it. Yes, it was rather uncommon, and really quite simple. She could easily show it to Mrs Blenkensop if Mrs Blenkensop liked. Oh, that was very kind of Miss Minton, but Mrs Blenkensop was so stupid, she wasn't really very good at knitting, not at following patterns, that was to say. She could only do simple things like Balaclava helmets, and even now she was afraid she had gone wrong somewhere. It didn't look right, somehow, did it?"

  Miss Minton cast an expert eye over the khaki mass. Gently she pointed out just what had gone wrong. Thankfully, Tuppence handed the faulty helmet over. Miss Minton exuded kindness and patronage. "Oh, no, it wasn't a trouble at all. She had knitted for so many years."

  "I'm afraid I've never done any before this dreadful war," confessed Tuppence. "But one feels so terribly, doesn't one, that one must do something."

  "Oh, yes, indeed. And you actually have a boy in the Navy, I think I heard you say last night?"

  "Yes, my eldest boy. Such a splendid boy he is - though I suppose a mother shouldn't say so. Then I have a boy in the Air Force and Cyril, my baby, is out in France."

  "Oh, dear, dear, how terribly anxious you must be."

  Tuppence thought:

  "Oh, Derek, my darling Derek... Out in the hell and mess - and here I am playing the fool - acting the thing I'm really feeling..."

  She said in her most righteous voice:

  "We must all be brave, mustn't we? Let's hope it will all be over soon. I was told the other day on very high authority indeed that the Germans can't possibly last out more than another two months."

  Miss Minton nodded with so much vigour that all her bead chains rattled and shook.

  "Yes, indeed, and I believe" - her voice lowered mysteriously - "that Hitler is suffering from a disease - absolutely fatal - he'll be raving mad by August."

  Tuppence replied briskly:

  "All this Blitzkrieg is just the Germans' last effort. I believe the shortage is something frightful in Germany. The men in the factories are very dissatisfied. The whole thing will crack up."

  "What's this? What's all this?"

  Mr and Mrs Cayley came out on the terrace, Mr Cayley putting his questions fretfully. He settled himself in a chair and his wife put a rug over his knees. He repeated fretfully:

  "What's that you are saying?"

  "We're saying," said Miss Minton, "That it will all be over by the Autumn."

  "Nonsense," said Mr Cayley. "It's going to last at least six years."

  "Oh, Mr Cayley," protested Tuppence. "You don't really think so?"

  Mr Cayley was peering about him suspiciously.

  "Now I wonder," he murmured. "Is there a draught? Perhaps it would be better if I moved my chair back into the corner."

  The resettlement of Mr Cayley took place. His wife, an anxious-faced woman who seemed to have no other aim in life than to minister to Mr Cayley's wants, manipulating cushions and rugs, asking from time to time: "Now how is that, Alfred? Do you think that will be all right? Ought you, perhaps, to have your sun-glasses? There is rather a glare this morning."

  Cayley said irritably:

  "No, no. Don't fuss, Elizabeth. Have you got my muffler? No, no, my silk muffler. Oh well, it doesn't matter. I dare say this will do - for once. But I don't want to get my throat overheated, and wool - in this sunlight - well, perhaps you had better fetch the other." He turned his attention back to matters of public interest. "Yes," he said. "I give it six years."

  He listened with pleasure to the protests of the two women.

  "You dear ladies are just indulging in what we call wishful thinking. Now I know Germany. I may say I know Germany extremely well. In the course of my business before I retired I used to be constantly to and fro. Berlin, Hamburg, Munich, I know them all. I can assure you that Germany can hold out practically indefinitely. With Russia behind her -"

  Mr Cayley plunged triumphantly on, his voice rising and falling in pleasurably melancholy cadences, only interrupted when he paused to receive the silk muffler his wife brought him and wind it round his throat.

  Mrs Sprot brought out Betty and plumped her down with a small woolen dog that lacked an ear and a woolly doll's jacket.

  "There, Betty," she said. "You dress up Bonzo ready for his walk while Mummy gets ready to go out."

  Mr Cayley's voice droned on, reciting statistics and figures, all of a depressing character. The monologue was punctuated by a cheerful twittering from Betty talking busily to Bonzo in her own language.

  "Truckle - truckly - pah bat," said Betty. Then, as a bird alighted near her, she stretched out loving hands to it and gurgled. The bird flew away and Betty glanced round the assembled company and remarked clearly:

  "Dicky," and nodded her head with great satisfaction.

  "That child is learning to talk in the most wonderful way," said Miss Minton. "Say 'Ta ta', Betty. 'Ta ta'."

  Betty looked at her coldly and remarked:

  "Gluck!"

  Then she forced Bonzo's one arm into his woolly coat and, toddling over to a chair, picked up the cushion and pushed Bonzo behind it. Chuckling gleefully, she said:

  "Hide! Bow wow. Hide!"

  Miss Minton, acting as a kind of interpreter, said with vicarious pride:

  "She loves hide and seek. She's always hiding things." She cried out with exaggerated surprise:

  "Where is Bonzo? Where is Bonzo? Where can Bonzo have gone?"

  Betty flung herself down and went into ecstasies of mirth.

  Mr Cayley, finding attention diverted from his explanation of Germany's methods of substitution of raw materials, looked put out and coughed aggressively.

  Mrs Sprot came out with her hat on and picked up Betty.

  Attention returned to Mr Cayley.

  "You were saying, Mr Cayley?" said Tuppence.

  But Mr Cayley was affronted. He said coldly:

  "That woman is always plumping that child down and expecting people to look after it. I th
ink I'll have the woollen muffler after all, dear. The sun is going in."

  "Oh, but, Mr Cayley, do go on with what you were telling us. It was so interesting," Miss Minton begged.

  Mollified, Mr Cayley weightily resumed his discourse, drawing the folds of the woolly muffler closer round his stringy neck.

  "As I was saying, Germany has so perfected her system of -"

  Tuppence turned to Mrs Cayley, and asked:

  "What do you think about the war, Mrs Cayley?"

  Mrs Cayley jumped.

  "Oh, what do I think? What - what do you mean?"

  "Do you think it will last as long as six years?"

  Mrs Cayley said doubtfully:

  "Oh, I hope not. It's a very long time, isn't it?"

  "Yes, a long time. What do you really think?"

  Mrs Cayley seemed quite alarmed by the question. She said:

  "Oh, I - I don't know. I don't know at all. Alfred says it will."

  "But you don't think so?"

  "Oh, I don't know. It's difficult to say, isn't it?"

  Tuppence felt a wave of exasperation. The chirruping Miss Minton, the dictatorial Mr Cayley, the nit-witted Mrs Cayley - were these people really typical of her fellow countrymen? Was Mrs Sprot any better with her slightly vacant face and boiled gooseberry eyes? What could she, Tuppence, ever find out here? Not one of these people, surely -

  Her thought was checked. She was aware of a shadow. Someone behind her who stood between her and the sun. She turned her head.

  Mrs Perenna, standing on the terrace, her eyes on the group. And something in those eyes - scorn, was it? A kind of withering contempt. Tuppence thought:

  I must find out more about Mrs Perenna.

  II

  Tommy was establishing the happiest of relationships with Major Bletchley.

  "Brought down some golf clubs with you, didn't you, Meadowes?"

  Tommy pleaded guilty.

  "Ha! I can tell you, my eyes don't miss much. Splendid! We must have a game together. Ever played on the links here?"

  Tommy replied in the negative.

  "They're not bad - not bad at all. Bit on the short side, perhaps, but lovely view over the sea and all that. And never very crowded. Look here, what about coming along with me this morning? We might have a game."

  "Thanks very much. I'd like it."