“No doubt whatever, you say?”
“No doubt at all. Among his chemical formulae was a list of people in the factory to be approached, as possible Fascist sympathisers. There was also a very clever scheme of sabotage and a chemical process that, applied to fertilisers, would have devastated large areas of food stocks. All well up Master Carl’s street.”
Rather unwillingly, Tommy said, secretly anathematising Tuppence, who had made him promise to say it:
“I suppose it’s not possible that these things could have been planted on him?”
Mr. Grant smiled, rather a diabolical smile.
“Oh,” he said. “Your wife’s idea, no doubt.”
“Well—er—yes, as a matter of fact it is.”
“He’s an attractive lad,” said Mr. Grant tolerantly.
Then he went on:
“No, seriously, I don’t think we can take that suggestion into account. He’d got a supply of secret ink, you know. That’s a pretty good clinching test. And it wasn’t obvious as it would have been if planted. It wasn’t ‘The mixture to be taken when required’ on the wash handstand, or anything like that. In fact, it was damned ingenious. Only came across the method once before, and then it was waistcoat buttons. Steeped in the stuff, you know. When the fellow wants to use it, he soaks a button in water. Carl von Deinim’s wasn’t buttons. It was a shoelace. Pretty neat.”
“Oh!” Something stirred in Tommy’s mind—vague—wholly nebulous. . . .
Tuppence was quicker. As soon as he retailed the conversation to her, she seized on the salient point.
“A shoelace? Tommy, that explains it!”
“What?”
“Betty, you idiot! Don’t you remember that funny thing she did in my room, taking out my laces and soaking them in water. I thought at the time it was a funny thing to think of doing. But, of course, she’d seen Carl do it and was imitating him. He couldn’t risk her talking about it, and arranged with that woman for her to be kidnapped.”
Tommy said, “Then that’s cleared up.”
“Yes. It’s nice when things begin to fall into shape. One can put them behind you and get on a bit.”
“We need to get on.”
Tuppence nodded.
The times were gloomy indeed. France had astonishingly and suddenly capitulated—to the bewilderment and dismay of her own people.
The destination of the French Navy was in doubt.
Now the coasts of France were entirely in the hands of Germany, and the talk of invasion was no longer a remote contingency.
Tommy said:
“Carl von Deinim was only a link in the chain. Mrs. Perenna’s the fountainhead.”
“Yes, we’ve got to get the goods on her. But it won’t be easy.”
“No. After all, if she’s the brains of the whole thing one can’t expect it to be.”
“So M is Mrs. Perenna?”
Tommy supposed she must be. He said slowly:
“You really think the girl isn’t in this at all?”
“I’m quite sure of it.”
Tommy sighed.
“Well, you should know. But if so, it’s tough luck on her. First the man she loves—and then her mother. She’s not going to have much left, is she?”
“We can’t help that.”
“Yes, but supposing we’re wrong—that M or N is someone else?”
Tuppence said rather coldly:
“So you’re still harping on that? Are you sure it isn’t a case of wishful thinking?”
“What do you mean?”
“Sheila Perenna—that’s what I mean.”
“Aren’t you being rather absurd, Tuppence?”
“No, I’m not. She’s got round you, Tommy, just like any other man—”
Tommy replied angrily:
“Not at all. It’s simply that I’ve got my own ideas.”
“Which are?”
“I think I’ll keep them to myself for a bit. We’ll see which of us is right.”
“Well, I think we’ve got to go all out after Mrs. Perenna. Find out where she goes, whom she meets—everything. There must be a link somewhere. You’d better put Albert on to her this afternoon.”
“You can do that. I’m busy.”
“Why, what are you doing?”
Tommy said:
“I’m playing golf.”
Nine
“Seems quite like old times, doesn’t it, madam?” said Albert. He beamed happily. Though now, in his middle years, running somewhat to fat, Albert had still the romantic boy’s heart which had first led him into associations with Tommy and Tuppence in their young and adventurous days.
“Remember how you first came across me?” demanded Albert. “Cleanin’ of the brasses, I was, in those topnotch flats. Coo, wasn’t that hall porter a nasty bit of goods? Always on to me, he was. And the day you come along and strung me a tale! Pack of lies it was too, all about a crook called Ready Rita. Not but what some of it didn’t turn out to be true. And since then, as you might say, I’ve never looked back. Many’s the adventures we had afore we all settled down, so to speak.”
Albert sighed, and, by a natural association of ideas, Tuppence inquired after the health of Mrs. Albert.
“Oh, the missus is all right—but she doesn’t take to the Welsh much, she says. Thinks they ought to learn proper English, and as for raids—why, they’ve had two there already, and holes in the field what you could put a motorcar in, so she says. So—how’s that for safety? Might as well be in Kennington, she says, where she wouldn’t have to see all the melancholy trees and could get good clean milk in a bottle.”
“I don’t know,” said Tuppence, suddenly stricken, “that we ought to get you into this, Albert.”
“Nonsense, madam,” said Albert. “Didn’t I try and join up and they were so haughty they wouldn’t look at me. Wait for my age group to be called up, they said. And me in the pink of health and only too eager to get at them perishing Germans—if you’ll excuse the language. You just tell me how I can put a spoke in their wheel and spoil their goings on—and I’m there. Fifth Column, that’s what we’re up against, so the papers say—though what’s happened to the other four they don’t mention. But the long and short of it is, I’m ready to assist you and Captain Beresford in any way you like to indicate.”
“Good. Now I’ll tell you what we want you to do.”
II
“How long have you known Bletchley?” asked Tommy as he stepped off the tee and watched with approval his ball leaping down the centre of the fairway.
Commander Haydock, who had also done a good drive, had a pleased expression on his face as he shouldered his clubs and replied:
“Bletchley? Let me see. Oh! About nine months or so. He came here last autumn.”
“Friend of friends of yours, I think you said?” Tommy suggested mendaciously.
“Did I?” The Commander looked a little surprised. “No, I don’t think so. Rather fancy I met him here at the club.”
“Bit of a mystery man, I gather?”
The Commander was clearly surprised this time.
“Mystery man? Old Bletchley?” He sounded frankly incredulous.
Tommy sighed inwardly. He supposed he was imagining things.
He played his next shot and topped it. Haydock had a good iron shot that stopped just short of the green. As he rejoined the other, he said:
“What on earth makes you call Bletchley a mystery man? I should have said he was a painfully prosaic chap—typical Army. Bit set in his ideas and all that—narrow life, an Army life—but mystery!”
Tommy said vaguely:
“Oh well, I just got the idea from something somebody said—”
They got down to the business of putting. The Commander won the hole.
“Three up and two to play,” he remarked with satisfaction.
Then, as Tommy had hoped, his mind, free of the preoccupation of the match, harked back to what Tommy had said.
“What sort of mys
tery do you mean?” he asked.
Tommy shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, it was just that nobody seemed to know much about him.”
“He was in the Rugbyshires.”
“Oh, you know that definitely?”
“Well, I—well, no, I don’t know myself. I say, Meadowes, what’s the idea? Nothing wrong about Bletchley, is there?”
“No, no, of course not.” Tommy’s disclaimer came hastily. He had started his hare. He could now sit back and watch the Commander’s mind chasing after it.
“Always struck me as an almost absurdly typical sort of chap,” said Haydock.
“Just so, just so.”
“Ah, yes—see what you mean. Bit too much of a type, perhaps?”
“I’m leading the witness,” thought Tommy. “Still perhaps something may crop up out of the old boy’s mind.”
“Yes, I do see what you mean,” the Commander went on thoughtfully. “And now I come to think of it I’ve never actually come across anyone who knew Bletchley before he came down here. He doesn’t have any old pals to stay—nothing of that kind.”
“Ah!” said Tommy, and added, “Shall we play the bye? Might as well get a bit more exercise. It’s a lovely evening.”
They drove off, then separated to play their next shots. When they met again on the green, Haydock said abruptly:
“Tell me what you heard about him.”
“Nothing—nothing at all.”
“No need to be so cautious with me, Meadowes. I hear all sorts of rumours. You understand? Everyone comes to me. I’m known to be pretty keen on the subject. What’s the idea—that Bletchley isn’t what he seems to be?”
“It was only the merest suggestion.”
“What do they think he is? A Hun? Nonsense, the man’s as English as you and I.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure he’s quite all right.”
“Why, he’s always yelling for more foreigners to be interned. Look how violent he was against that young German chap—and quite right, too, it seems. I heard unofficially from the Chief Constable that they found enough to hang von Deinim a dozen times over. He’d got a scheme to poison the water supply of the whole country and he was actually working out a new gas—working on it in one of our factories. My God, the shortsightedness of our people! Fancy letting the fellow inside the place to begin with. Believe anything, our Government would! A young fellow has only to come to this country just before war starts and whine a bit about persecution, and they shut both eyes and let him into all our secrets. They were just as dense about that fellow Hahn—”
Tommy had no intention of letting the Commander run ahead on the well-grooved track. He deliberately missed a putt.
“Hard lines,” cried Haydock. He played a careful shot. The ball rolled into the hole.
“My hole. A bit off your game today. What were we talking about?”
Tommy said firmly:
“About Bletchley being perfectly all right.”
“Of course. Of course. I wonder now—I did hear a rather funny story about him—didn’t think anything of it at the time—”
Here, to Tommy’s annoyance, they were hailed by two other men. The four returned to the clubhouse together and had drinks. After that, the Commander looked at his watch and remarked that he and Meadowes must be getting along. Tommy had accepted an invitation to supper with the Commander.
Smugglers’ Rest was in its usual condition of apple-pie order. A tall middle-aged manservant waited on them with the professional deftness of a waiter. Such perfect service was somewhat unusual to find outside of a London restaurant.
When the man had left the room, Tommy commented on the fact.
“Yes, I was lucky to get Appledore.”
“How did you get hold of him?”
“He answered an advertisement as a matter of fact. He had excellent references, was clearly far superior to any of the others who applied and asked remarkably low wages. I engaged him on the spot.”
Tommy said with a laugh:
“The war has certainly robbed us of most of our good restaurant service. Practically all good waiters were foreigners. It doesn’t seem to come naturally to the Englishman.”
“Bit too servile, that’s why. Bowing and scraping doesn’t come kindly to the English bulldog.”
Sitting outside, sipping coffee, Tommy gently asked:
“What was it you were going to say on the links? Something about a funny story—apropos of Bletchley.”
“What was it now? Hallo, did you see that? Light being shown out at sea. Where’s my telescope?”
Tommy sighed. The stars in their courses seemed to be fighting against him. The Commander fussed into the house and out again, swept the horizon with his glass, outlined a whole system of signalling by the enemy to likely spots on shore, most of the evidence for which seemed to be nonexistent, and proceeded to give a gloomy picture of a successful invasion in the near future.
“No organisation, no proper coordination. You’re an LDV yourself, Meadowes—you know what it’s like. With a man like old Andrews in charge—”
This was well-worn ground. It was Commander Haydock’s pet grievance. He ought to be the man in command and he was quite determined to oust Col Andrews if it could possibly be done.
The manservant brought out whisky and liqueurs while the Commander was still holding forth.
“—and we’re still honeycombed with spies—riddled with ’em. It was the same in the last war—hairdressers, waiters—”
Tommy, leaning back, catching the profile of Appledore as the latter hovered deft-footed, thought—“Waiters? You could call that fellow Fritz easier than Appledore. . . .”
Well, why not? The fellow spoke perfect English, true, but then many Germans did. They had perfected their English by years in English restaurants. And the racial type was not unlike. Fair-haired, blue-eyed—often betrayed by the shape of the head—yes, the head—where had he seen a head lately. . . .
He spoke on an impulse. The words fitted in appositely enough with what the Commander was just saying.
“All these damned forms to fill in. No good at all, Meadowes. Series of idiotic questions—”
Tommy said:
“I know. Such as ‘What is your name?’ Answer N or M.”
There was a swerve—a crash. Appledore, the perfect servant, had blundered. A stream of crême de menthe soaked over Tommy’s cuff and hand.
The man stammered, “Sorry, sir.”
Haydock blazed out in fury:
“You damned clumsy fool! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
His usually red face was quite purple with anger. Tommy thought, “Talk of an Army temper—Navy beats it hollow!” Haydock continued with a stream of abuse. Appledore was abject in apologies.
Tommy felt uncomfortable for the man, but suddenly, as though by magic, the Commander’s wrath passed and he was his hearty self again.
“Come along and have a wash. Beastly stuff. It would be the crême de menthe.”
Tommy followed him indoors and was soon in the sumptuous bathroom with the innumerable gadgets. He carefully washed off the sticky sweet stuff. The Commander talked from the bedroom next door. He sounded a little shamefaced.
“Afraid I let myself go a bit. Poor old Appledore—he knows I let go a bit more than I mean always.”
Tommy turned from the washbasin drying his hands. He did not notice that a cake of soap had slipped on to the floor. His foot stepped on it. The linoleum was highly polished.
A moment later Tommy was doing a wild ballet dancer step. He shot across the bathroom, arms outstretched. One came up against the right-hand tap of the bath, the other pushed heavily against the side of a small bathroom cabinet. It was an extravagant gesture never likely to be achieved except by some catastrophe such as had just occurred.
His foot skidded heavily against the end panel of the bath.
The thing happened like a conjuring trick. The bath slid out from the wall, turning on a con
cealed pivot. Tommy found himself looking into a dim recess. He had no doubt whatever as to what occupied that recess. It contained a transmitting wireless apparatus.
The Commander’s voice had ceased. He appeared suddenly in the doorway. And with a click, several things fell into place in Tommy’s brain.
Had he been blind up to now? That jovial florid face—the face of a “hearty Englishman”—was only a mask. Why had he not seen it all along for what it was—the face of a bad-tempered overbearing Prussian officer. Tommy was helped, no doubt, by the incident that had just happened. For it recalled to him another incident, a Prussian bully turning on a subordinate and rating him with the Junker’s true insolence. So had Commander Haydock turned on his subordinate that evening when the latter had been taken unawares.
And it all fitted in—it fitted in like magic. The double bluff. The enemy agent Hahn, sent first, preparing the place, employing foreign workmen, drawing attention to himself, and proceeding finally to the next stage in the plan, his own unmasking by the gallant British sailor Commander Haydock. And then how natural that the Englishman should buy the place and tell the story to everyone, boring them by constant repetition. And so N, securely settled in his appointed place, with sea communications and his secret wireless and his staff officers at Sans Souci close at hand, is ready to carry out Germany’s plan.
Tommy was unable to resist a flash of genuine admiration. The whole thing had been so perfectly planned. He himself had never suspected Haydock—he had accepted Haydock as the genuine article—only a completely unforeseen accident had given the show away.
All this passed through Tommy’s mind in a few seconds. He knew, only too well, that he was, that he must necessarily be, in deadly peril. If only he could act the part of the credulous thick-headed Englishman well enough.
He turned to Haydock with what he hoped was a natural-sounding laugh.
“By Jove, one never stops getting surprises at your place. Was this another of Hahn’s little gadgets? You didn’t show me this the other day.”
Haydock was standing still. There was a tensity about his big body as it stood there blocking the door.