As she spoke she thought, as Tommy had done not long before, of Nurse Cavell’s words: “Patriotism is not enough. I must have no hatred in my heart.”
That saying of a most truly patriotic woman had always seemed to them both the high-water mark of sacrifice.
Carl von Deinim took her hand and kissed it. He said:
“I thank you. What you say is good and true. I will have more fortitude.”
“Oh, dear,” thought Tuppence as she walked down the road into the town. “How very unfortunate that the person I like best in this place should be a German. It makes everything cockeyed!”
III
Tuppence was nothing if not thorough. Although she had no wish to go to London, she judged it wise to do exactly as she had said she was going to do. If she merely made an excursion somewhere for the day, somebody might see her and the fact would get round to Sans Souci.
No, Mrs. Blenkensop had said she was going to London, and to London she must go.
She purchased a third return, and was just leaving the booking-office window when she ran into Sheila Perenna.
“Hallo,” said Sheila. “Where are you off to? I just came to see about a parcel which seems to have gone astray.”
Tuppence explained her plans.
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Sheila carelessly. “I do remember you saying something about it, but I hadn’t realised it was today you were going. I’ll come and see you into the train.”
Sheila was more animated than usual. She looked neither bad-tempered nor sulky. She chatted quite amiably about small details of daily life at Sans Souci. She remained talking to Tuppence until the train left the station.
After waving from the window and watching the girl’s figure recede, Tuppence sat down in her corner seat again and gave herself up to serious meditation.
Was it, she wondered, an accident that Sheila had happened to be at the station just at that time? Or was it a proof of enemy thoroughness? Did Mrs. Perenna want to make quite sure that the garrulous Mrs. Blenkensop really had gone to London?
It looked very much like it.
IV
It was not until the next day that Tuppence was able to have a conference with Tommy. They had agreed never to attempt to communicate with each other under the roof of Sans Souci.
Mrs. Blenkensop met Mr. Meadowes as the latter, his hay fever somewhat abated, was taking a gentle stroll on the front. They sat down on one of the promenade seats.
“Well?” said Tuppence.
Slowly, Tommy nodded his head. He looked rather unhappy.
“Yes,” he said. “I got something. But Lord, what a day. Perpetually with an eye to the crack of the door. I’ve got quite a stiff neck.”
“Never mind your neck,” said Tuppence unfeelingly. “Tell me.”
“Well, the maids went in to do the bed and the room, of course. And Mrs. Perenna went in—but that was when the maids were there and she was just blowing them up about something. And the kid ran in once and came out with a woolly dog.”
“Yes, yes. Anyone else?”
“One person,” said Tommy slowly.
“Who?”
“Carl von Deinim.”
“Oh!” Tuppence felt a swift pang. So, after all—
“When?” she asked.
“Lunch time. He came out from the dining room early, came up to his room, then sneaked across the passage and into yours. He was there about a quarter of an hour.”
He paused.
“That settles it, I think?”
Tuppence nodded.
Yes, it settled it all right. Carl von Deinim could have had no reason for going into Mrs. Blenkensop’s bedroom and remaining there for a quarter of an hour save one. His complicity was proved. He must be, Tuppence thought, a marvellous actor. . . .
His words to her that morning had rung so very true. Well, perhaps they had been true in a way. To know when to use the truth was the essence of successful deception. Carl von Deinim was a patriot all right; he was an enemy agent working for his country. One could respect him for that. Yes—but destroy him too.
“I’m sorry,” she said slowly.
“So am I,” said Tommy. “He’s a good chap.”
Tuppence said:
“You and I might be doing the same thing in Germany.”
Tommy nodded. Tuppence went on.
“Well, we know more or less where we are. Carl von Deinim working in with Sheila and her mother. Probably Mrs. Perenna is the big noise. Then there is that foreign woman who was talking to Carl yesterday. She’s in it somehow.”
“What do we do now?”
“We must go through Mrs. Perenna’s room sometime. There might be something there that would give us a hint. And we must tail her—see where she goes and whom she meets. Tommy, let’s get Albert down here.”
Tommy considered the point.
Many years ago Albert, a pageboy in a hotel, had joined forces with the young Beresfords and shared their adventures. Afterwards he had entered their service and been the sole domestic prop of the establishment. Some six years ago he had married and was now the proud proprietor of The Duck and Dog pub in South London.
Tuppence continued rapidly:
“Albert will be thrilled. We’ll get him down here. He can stay at the pub near the station and he can shadow the Perennas for us—or anyone else.”
“What about Mrs. Albert?”
“She was going to her mother in Wales with the children last Monday. Because of air raids. It all fits in perfectly.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea, Tuppence. Either of us following the woman about would be rather conspicuous. Albert will be perfect. Now another thing—I think we ought to watch out for that so-called Polish woman who was talking to Carl and hanging about here. It seems to me that she probably represents the other end of the business—and that’s what we’re anxious to find.”
“Oh yes, I do agree. She comes here for orders, or to take messages. Next time we see her, one of us must follow her and find out more about her.”
“What about looking through Mrs. Perenna’s room—and Carl’s too, I suppose?”
“I don’t suppose you’ll find anything in his. After all, as a German, the police are liable to search it and so he’d be careful not to have anything suspicious. The Perenna is going to be difficult. When she’s out of the house, Sheila is often there, and there’s Betty and Mrs. Sprot running about all over the landings, and Mrs. O’Rourke spends a lot of time in her bedroom.”
She paused. “Lunchtime is the best.”
“Master Carl’s time?”
“Exactly. I could have a headache and go to my room—no, someone might come up and want to minister to me. I know, I’ll just come in quietly before lunch and go up to my room without telling anyone. Then, after lunch, I can say I had a headache.”
“Hadn’t I better do it? My hay fever could recrudesce tomorrow.”
“I think it had better be me. If I’m caught I could always say I was looking for aspirin or something. One of the gentlemen boarders in Mrs. Perenna’s room would cause far more speculation.”
Tommy grinned.
“Of a scandalous character.”
Then the smile died. He looked grave and anxious.
“As soon as we can, old thing. The news is bad today. We must get on to something soon.”
V
Tommy continued his walk and presently entered the post office, where he put through a call to Mr. Grant, and reported “the recent operation was successful and our friend C is definitely involved.”
Then he wrote a letter and posted it. It was addressed to Mr. Albert Batt, The Duck and Dog, Glamorgan St., Kennington.
Then he bought himself a weekly paper which professed to inform the English world of what was really going to happen and strolled innocently back in the direction of Sans Souci.
Presently he was hailed by the hearty voice of Commander Haydock leaning from his two-seater car and shouting, “Hallo, Meadowes, want a lift?�
��
Tommy accepted a lift gratefully and got in.
“So you read that rag, do you?” demanded Haydock, glancing at the scarlet cover of the Inside Weekly News.
Mr. Meadowes displayed the slight confusion of all readers of the periodical in question when challenged.
“Awful rag,” he agreed. “But sometimes, you know, they really do seem to know what’s going on behind the scenes.”
“And sometimes they’re wrong.”
“Oh, quite so.”
“Truth of it is,” said Commander Haydock, steering rather erratically round a one-way island and narrowly missing collision with a large van, “when the beggars are right, one remembers it, and when they’re wrong you forget it.”
“Do you think there’s any truth in this rumour about Stalin having approached us?”
“Wishful thinking, my boy, wishful thinking,” said Commander Haydock. “The Russkys are as crooked as hell and always have been. Don’t trust ’em, that’s what I say. Hear you’ve been under the weather?”
“Just a touch of hay fever. I get it about this time of year.”
“Yes, of course. Never suffered from it myself, but I had a pal who did. Used to lay him out regularly every June. Feeling fit enough for a game of golf?”
Tommy said he’d like it very much.
“Right. What about tomorrow? Tell you what, I’ve got to go to a meeting about this Parashot business, raising a corps of local volunteers—jolly good idea if you ask me. Time we were all made to pull our weight. So shall we have a round about six?”
“Thanks very much. I’d like to.”
“Good. Then that’s settled.”
The Commander drew up abruptly at the gate of Sans Souci.
“How’s the fair Sheila?” he asked.
“Quite well, I think. I haven’t seen much of her.”
Haydock gave his loud barking laugh.
“Not as much as you’d like to, I bet! Good-looking girl that, but damned rude. She sees too much of that German fellow. Damned unpatriotic, I call it. Dare say she’s got no use for old fogies like you and me, but there are plenty of nice lads going about in our own Services. Why take up with a bloody German? That sort of thing riles me.”
Mr. Meadowes said:
“Be careful, he’s just coming up the hill behind us.”
“Don’t care if he does hear! Rather hope he does. I’d like to kick Master Carl’s behind for him. Any decent German’s fighting for his country—not slinking over here to get out of it!”
“Well,” said Tommy, “it’s one less German to invade England at all events.”
“You mean he’s here already? Ha ha! Rather good, Meadowes! Not that I believe this tommyrot about invasion. We never have been invaded and never will be. We’ve got a Navy, thank God!”
With which patriotic announcement the Commander let in his clutch with a jerk and the car leaped forward up the hill to Smugglers’ Rest.
VI
Tuppence arrived at the gates of Sans Souci at twenty minutes to two. She turned off from the drive and went through the garden and into the house through the open drawing-room window. A smell of Irish stew and the clatter of plates and murmur of voices came from afar. Sans Souci was hard at work on its midday meal.
Tuppence waited by the drawing-room door until Martha, the maid, had passed across the hall and into the dining room, then she ran quickly up the stairs, shoeless.
She went into her room, put on her soft felt bedroom slippers, and then went along the landing and into Mrs. Perenna’s room.
Once inside she looked round her and felt a certain distaste sweep over her. Not a nice job, this. Quite unpardonable if Mrs. Perenna was simply Mrs. Perenna. Prying into people’s private affairs—
Tuppence shook herself, an impatient terrier shake that was a reminiscence of her girlhood. There was a war on!
She went over to the dressing table.
Quick and deft in her movements, she had soon gone through the contents of the drawers there. In the tall bureau, one of the drawers was locked. That seemed more promising.
Tommy had been entrusted with certain tools and had received some brief instruction on the manipulation of them. These indications he had passed on to Tuppence.
A deft twist or two of the wrist and the drawer yielded.
There was a cash box containing twenty pounds in notes and some piles of silver—also a jewel case. And there were a heap of papers. These last were what interested Tuppence most. Rapidly she went through them; necessarily it was a cursory glance. She could not afford time for more.
Papers relating to a mortgage on Sans Souci, a bank account, letters. Time flew past; Tuppence skimmed through the documents, concentrating furiously on anything that might bear a double meaning. Two letters from a friend in Italy, rambling, discursive letters, seemingly quite harmless. But possibly not so harmless as they sounded. A letter from one Simon Mortimer, of London—a dry businesslike letter containing so little of moment that Tuppence wondered why it had been kept. Was Mr. Mortimer not so harmless as he seemed? At the bottom of the pile a letter in faded ink signed Pat and beginning “This will be the last letter I’ll be writing you, Eileen my darling—”
No, not that! Tuppence could not bring herself to read that! She refolded it, tidied the letters on top of it and then, suddenly alert, pushed the drawer to—no time to relock it—and when the door opened and Mrs. Perenna came in, she was searching vaguely amongst the bottles on the washstand.
Mrs. Blenkensop turned a flustered, but foolish face towards her hostess.
“Oh, Mrs. Perenna, do forgive me. I came in with such a blinding headache, and I thought I would lie down on my bed with a little aspirin, and I couldn’t find mine, so I thought you wouldn’t mind—I know you must have some because you offered it to Miss Minton the other day.”
Mrs. Perenna swept into the room. There was a sharpness in her voice as she said:
“Why, of course, Mrs. Blenkensop, why ever didn’t you come and ask me?”
“Well, of course, yes, I should have done really. But I knew you were all at lunch, and I do so hate, you know, making a fuss—”
Passing Tuppence, Mrs. Perenna caught up the bottle of aspirin from the washstand.
“How many would you like?” she demanded crisply.
Mrs. Blenkensop accepted three. Escorted by Mrs. Perenna she crossed to her own room and hastily demurred to the suggestion of a hot-water bottle.
Mrs. Perenna used her parting shot as she left the room.
“But you have some aspirin of your own, Mrs. Blenkensop. I’ve seen it.”
Tuppence cried quickly:
“Oh, I know. I know I’ve got some somewhere, but, so stupid of me, I simply couldn’t lay my hands on it.”
Mrs. Perenna said with a flash of her big white teeth:
“Well, have a good rest until teatime.”
She went out, closing the door behind her. Tuppence drew a deep breath, lying on her bed rigidly lest Mrs. Perenna should return.
Had the other suspected anything? Those teeth, so big and so white—the better to eat you with, my dear. Tuppence always thought of that when she noticed those teeth. Mrs. Perenna’s hands too, big cruel-looking hands.
She had appeared to accept Tuppence’s presence in her bedroom quite naturally. But later she would find the bureau drawer unlocked. Would she suspect then? Or would she think she had left it unlocked herself by accident? One did do such things. Had Tuppence been able to replace the papers in such a way that they looked much the same as before?
Surely, even if Mrs. Perenna did notice anything amiss she would be more likely to suspect one of the servants than she would “Mrs. Blenkensop.” And if she did suspect the latter, wouldn’t it be a mere case of suspecting her of undue curiosity? There were people, Tuppence knew, who did poke and pry.
But then, if Mrs. Perenna were the renowned German agent M., she would be suspicious of counterespionage.
Had anything in her bear
ing revealed undue alertness?
She had seemed natural enough—only that one sharply pointed remark about the aspirin.
Suddenly, Tuppence sat up on her bed. She remembered that her aspirin, together with some iodine and a bottle of soda mints, were at the back of the writing-table drawer where she had shoved them when unpacking.
It would seem, therefore, that she was not the only person to snoop in other people’s rooms. Mrs. Perenna had got there first.
Seven
On the following day Mrs. Sprot went up to London.
A few tentative remarks on her part had led immediately to various offers on the part of the inhabitants of Sans Souci to look after Betty.
When Mrs. Sprot, with many final adjurations to Betty to be a very good girl, had departed, Betty attached herself to Tuppence, who had elected to take morning duty.
“Play,” said Betty. “Play hide seek.”
She was talking more easily every day and had adopted a most fetching habit of laying her head on one side, fixing her interlocutor with a bewitching smile and murmuring “Peese.”
Tuppence had intended taking her for a walk, but it was raining hard, so the two of them adjourned to the bedroom where Betty led the way to the bottom drawer of the bureau where her playthings were kept.
“Hide Bonzo, shall we?” asked Tuppence.
But Betty had changed her mind and demanded instead:
“Wead me story.”
Tuppence pulled out a rather tattered book from one end of the cupboard—to be interrupted by a squeal from Betty.
“No, no. Nasty . . . Bad. . . .”
Tuppence stared at her in surprise and then down at the book, which was a coloured version of Little Jack Horner.
“Was Jack a bad boy?” she asked. “Because he pulled out a plum?”
The Complete Tommy and Tuppence Page 57
