They both agreed that this was reasonable—particularly as Tuppence’s own shoes were dark blue brogues that went well with the uniform.
She looked with interest into the dark blue handbag—powder; no lipstick; two pounds fourteen and sixpence in English money; a handkerchief and an identity card in the name of Freda Elton, 4 Manchester Road, Sheffield.
Tuppence transferred her own powder and lipstick and stood up, prepared to set out.
Tony Marsdon turned his head away. He said gruffly:
“I feel a swine letting you do this.”
“I know just how you feel.”
“But, you see, it’s absolutely vital—that we should get some idea of just where and how the attack will come.”
Tuppence patted him on the arm. “Don’t you worry, my child. Believe it or not, I’m enjoying myself.”
Tony Marsdon said again:
“I think you’re simply wonderful!”
III
Somewhat weary, Tuppence stood outside 14 St. Asalph’s Road and noted that Dr. Binion was a dental surgeon and not a doctor.
From the corner of her eye she noted Tony Marsdon. He was sitting in a racy-looking car outside a house farther down the street.
It had been judged necessary for Tuppence to walk to Leatherbarrow exactly as instructed, since if she had been driven there in a car the fact might have been noted.
It was certainly true that two enemy aircraft had passed over the downs, circling low before making off, and they could have noted the nurse’s lonely figure walking across country.
Tony, with the expert policewoman, had driven off in the opposite direction and had made a big detour before approaching Leatherbarrow and taking up his position in St. Asalph’s Road. Everything was now set.
“The arena doors open,” murmured Tuppence. “Enter one Christian en route for the lions. Oh, well, nobody can say I’m not seeing life.”
She crossed the road and rang the bell, wondering as she did so exactly how much Deborah liked that young man. The door was opened by an elderly woman with a stolid peasant face—not an English face.
“Dr. Binion?” said Tuppence.
The woman looked her slowly up and down.
“You will be Nurse Elton, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
“Then you will come up to the doctor’s surgery.”
She stood back, the door closed behind Tuppence, who found herself standing in a narrow linoleum-lined hall.
The maid preceded her upstairs and opened a door on the first floor.
“Please to wait. The doctor will come to you.”
She went out, shutting the door behind her.
A very ordinary dentist’s surgery—the appointments somewhat old and shabby.
Tuppence looked at the dentist’s chair and smiled to think that for once it held none of the usual terrors. She had the “dentist feeling” all right—but from quite different causes.
Presently the door would open and “Dr. Binion” would come in. Who would Dr. Binion be? A stranger? Or someone she had seen before? If it was the person she was half expecting to see—
The door opened.
The man who entered was not at all the person Tuppence had half fancied she might see! It was someone she had never considered as a likely starter.
It was Commander Haydock.
Fourteen
A flood of wild surmises as to the part Commander Haydock had played in Tommy’s disappearance surged through Tuppence’s brain, but she thrust them resolutely aside. This was a moment for keeping all her wits about her.
Would or would not the Commander recognise her? It was an interesting question.
She had so steeled herself beforehand to display no recognition or surprise herself, no matter whom she might see, that she felt reasonably sure that she herself had displayed no signs untoward to the situation.
She rose now to her feet and stood there, standing in a respectable attitude, as befitted a mere German woman in the presence of a Lord of creation.
“So you have arrived,” said the Commander.
He spoke in English and his manner was precisely the same as usual.
“Yes,” said Tuppence, and added, as though presenting her credentials: “Nurse Elton.”
Haydock smiled as though at a joke.
“Nurse Elton! Excellent.”
He looked at her approvingly.
“You look absolutely right,” he said kindly.
Tuppence inclined her head, but said nothing. She was leaving the initiative to him.
“You know, I suppose, what you have to do?” went on Haydock. “Sit down, please.”
Tuppence sat down obediently. She replied:
“I was to take detailed instructions from you.”
“Very proper,” said Haydock. There was a faint suggestion of mockery in his voice.
He said:
“You know the day?”
“The fourth.”
Haydock looked startled. A heavy frown creased his forehead.
“So you know that, do you?” he muttered.
There was a pause, then Tuppence said:
“You will tell me, please, what I have to do?”
Haydock said:
“All in good time, my dear.”
He paused a minute, and then asked:
“You have heard, no doubt, of Sans Souci?”
“No,” said Tuppence.
“You haven’t?”
“No,” said Tuppence firmly.
“Let’s see how you deal with this one!” she thought.
There was a queer smile on the Commander’s face. He said:
“So you haven’t heard of Sans Souci? That surprises me very much—since I was under the impression, you know, that you’d been living there for the last month . . .”
There was a dead silence. The Commander said:
“What about that, Mrs. Blenkensop?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Dr. Binion. I landed by parachute this morning.”
Again Haydock smiled—definitely an unpleasant smile.
He said:
“A few yards of canvas thrust into a bush create a wonderful illusion. And I am not Dr. Binion, dear lady. Dr. Binion is, officially, my dentist—he is good enough to lend me his surgery now and again.”
“Indeed?” said Tuppence.
“Indeed, Mrs. Blenkensop! Or perhaps you would prefer me to address you by your real name of Beresford?”
Again there was a poignant silence. Tuppence drew a deep breath.
Haydock nodded.
“The game’s up, you see. ‘You’ve walked into my parlour,’ said the spider to the fly.”
There was a faint click and a gleam of blue steel showed in his hand. His voice took on a grim note as he said:
“And I shouldn’t advise you to make any noise or try to arouse the neighbourhood! You’d be dead before you got so much as a yelp out, and even if you did manage to scream it wouldn’t arouse attention. Patients under gas, you know, often cry out.”
Tuppence said composedly:
“You seem to have thought of everything. Has it occurred to you that I have friends who know where I am?”
“Ah! Still harping on the blue-eyed boy—actually brown-eyed! Young Anthony Marsdon. I’m sorry, Mrs. Beresford, but young Anthony happens to be one of our most stalwart supporters in this country. As I said just now, a few yards of canvas creates a wonderful effect. You swallowed the parachute idea quite easily.”
“I don’t see the point of all this rigmarole!”
“Don’t you? We don’t want your friends to trace you too easily, you see. If they pick up your trail it will lead to Yarrow and to a man in a car. The fact that a hospital nurse, of quite different facial appearance, walked into Leatherbarrow between one and two will hardly be connected with your disappearance.”
“Very elaborate,” said Tuppence.
Haydock said:
“I admire your nerve, you know. I admire it very m
uch. I’m sorry to have to coerce you—but it’s vital that we should know just exactly how much you did discover at Sans Souci.”
Tuppence did not answer.
Haydock said quietly:
“I’d advise you, you know, to come clean. There are certain—possibilities—in a dentist’s chair and instruments.”
Tuppence merely threw him a scornful look.
Haydock leant back in his chair. He said slowly:
“Yes—I dare say you’ve got a lot of fortitude—your type often has. But what about the other half of the picture?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m talking about Thomas Beresford, your husband, who has lately been living at Sans Souci under the name of Mr. Meadowes, and who is now very conveniently trussed up in the cellar of my house.”
Tuppence said sharply:
“I don’t believe it.”
“Because of the Penny Plain letter? Don’t you realise that that was just a smart bit of work on the part of young Anthony. You played into his hands nicely when you gave him the code.”
Tuppence’s voice trembled.
“Then Tommy—then Tommy—”
“Tommy,” said Commander Haydock, “is where he has been all along—completely in my power! It’s up to you now. If you answer my questions satisfactorily, there’s a chance for him. If you don’t—well, the original plan holds. He’ll be knocked on the head, taken out to sea and put overboard.”
Tuppence was silent for a minute or two—then she said:
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know who employed you, what your means of communication with that person or persons are, what you have reported so far, and exactly what you know?”
Tuppence shrugged her shoulders.
“I could tell you what lies I choose,” she pointed out.
“No, because I shall proceed to test what you say.” He drew his chair a little nearer. His manner was now definitely appealing. “My dear woman—I know just what you feel about it all, but believe me when I say I really do admire both you and your husband immensely. You’ve got grit and pluck. It’s people like you that will be needed in the new State—the State that will arise in this country when your present imbecile Government is vanquished. We want to turn some of our enemies into friends—those that are worthwhile. If I have to give the order that ends your husband’s life, I shall do it—it’s my duty—but I shall feel really badly about having to do it! He’s a fine fellow—quiet, unassuming and clever. Let me impress upon you what so few people in this country seem to understand. Our Leader does not intend to conquer this country in the sense that you all think. He aims at creating a new Britain—a Britain strong in its own power—ruled over, not by Germans, but by Englishmen. And the best type of Englishmen—Englishmen with brains and breeding and courage. A brave new world, as Shakespeare puts it.”
He leaned forward.
“We want to do away with muddle and inefficiency. With bribery and corruption. With self-seeking and money-grabbing—and in this new state we want people like you and your husband—brave and resourceful—enemies that have been, friends to be. You would be surprised if you knew how many there are in this country, as in others, who have sympathy with and belief in our aims. Between us all we will create a new Europe—a Europe of peace and progress. Try and see it that way—because, I assure you—it is that way . . .”
His voice was compelling, magnetic. Leaning forward, he looked the embodiment of a straightforward British sailor.
Tuppence looked at him and searched her mind for a telling phrase. She was only able to find one that was both childish and rude.
“Goosey, goosey, gander!” said Tuppence. . . .
II
The effect was so magical that she was quite taken aback.
Haydock jumped to his feet, his face went dark purple with rage, and in a second all likeness to a hearty British sailor had vanished. She saw what Tommy had once seen—an infuriated Prussian.
He swore at her fluently in German. Then, changing to English, he shouted:
“You infernal little fool! Don’t you realise you give yourself away completely answering like that? You’ve done for yourself now—you and your precious husband.”
Raising his voice he called:
“Anna!”
The woman who had admitted Tuppence came into the room. Haydock thrust the pistol into her hand.
“Watch her. Shoot if necessary.”
He stormed out of the room.
Tuppence looked appealingly at Anna, who stood in front of her with an impassive face.
“Would you really shoot me?” said Tuppence.
Anna answered quietly:
“You need not try to get round me. In the last war my son was killed, my Otto. I was thirty-eight, then—I am sixty-two now—but I have not forgotten.”
Tuppence looked at the broad, impassive face. It reminded her of the Polish woman, Vanda Polonska. That same frightening ferocity and singleness of purpose. Motherhood—unrelenting! So, no doubt, felt many quiet Mrs. Joneses and Mrs. Smiths all over England. There was no arguing with the female of the species—the mother deprived of her young.
Something stirred in the recesses of Tuppence’s brain—some nagging recollection—something that she had always known but had never succeeded in getting into the forefront of her mind. Solomon—Solomon came into it somewhere. . . .
The door opened. Commander Haydock came back into the room.
He howled out, beside himself with rage:
“Where is it? Where have you hidden it?”
Tuppence stared at him. She was completely taken aback. What he was saying did not make sense to her.
She had taken nothing and hidden nothing.
Haydock said to Anna:
“Get out.”
The woman handed the pistol to him and left the room promptly.
Haydock dropped into a chair and seemed to be striving to pull himself together. He said:
“You can’t get away with it, you know. I’ve got you—and I’ve got ways of making people speak—not pretty ways. You’ll have to tell the truth in the end. Now then, what have you done with it?”
Tuppence was quick to see that here, at least, was something that gave her the possibility of bargaining. If only she could find out what it was she was supposed to have in her possession.
She said cautiously:
“How do you know I’ve got it?”
“From what you said, you damned little fool. You haven’t got it on you—that we know, since you changed completely into this kit.”
“Suppose I posted it to someone?” said Tuppence.
“Don’t be a fool. Everything you posted since yesterday has been examined. You didn’t post it. No, there’s only one thing you could have done. Hidden it in Sans Souci before you left this morning. I give you just three minutes to tell me where that hiding-place is.”
He put his watch down on the table.
“Three minutes, Mrs. Thomas Beresford.”
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked.
Tuppence sat quite still with a blank impassive face.
It revealed nothing of the racing thoughts behind it.
In a flash of bewildering light she saw everything—saw the whole business revealed in terms of blinding clarity and realised at last who was the centre and pivot of the whole organisation.
It came quite as a shock to her when Haydock said:
“Ten seconds more . . .”
Like one in a dream she watched him, saw the pistol arm rise, heard him count:
“One, two, three, four, five—”
He had reached eight when the shot rang out and he collapsed forward on his chair, an expression of bewilderment on his broad red face. So intent had he been on watching his victim that he had been unaware of the door behind him slowly opening.
In a flash Tuppence was on her feet. She pushed her way past the uniformed men in the doorway, and seized on a tweed-clad ar
m.
“Mr. Grant.”
“Yes, yes, my dear, it’s all right now—you’ve been wonderful—”
Tuppence brushed aside these reassurances.
“Quick! There’s no time to lose. You’ve got a car here?”
“Yes.” He stared.
“A fast one? We must get to Sans Souci at once. If only we’re in time. Before they telephone here, and get no answer.”
Two minutes later they were in the car, and it was threading its way through the streets of Leatherbarrow. Then they were out in the open country and the needle of the speedometer was rising.
Mr. Grant asked no questions. He was content to sit quietly whilst Tuppence watched the speedometer in an agony of apprehension. The chauffeur had been given his orders and he drove with all the speed of which the car was capable.
Tuppence only spoke once.
“Tommy?”
“Quite all right. Released half an hour ago.”
She nodded.
Now, at last, they were nearing Leahampton. They darted and twisted through the town, up the hill.
Tuppence jumped out and she and Mr. Grant ran up the drive. The hall door, as usual, was open. There was no one in sight. Tuppence ran lightly up the stairs.
She just glanced inside her own room in passing, and noted the confusion of open drawers and disordered bed. She nodded and passed on, along the corridor and into the room occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Cayley.
The room was empty. It looked peaceful and smelt slightly of medicines.
Tuppence ran across to the bed and pulled at the coverings.
They fell to the ground and Tuppence ran her hand under the mattress. She turned triumphantly to Mr. Grant with a tattered child’s picture book in her hand.
“Here you are. It’s all in here—”
“What on—?”
They turned. Mrs. Sprot was standing in the doorway staring.
“And now,” said Tuppence, “let me introduce you to M! Yes. Mrs. Sprot! I ought to have known it all along.”
It was left to Mrs. Cayley arriving in the doorway a moment later to introduce the appropriate anticlimax.
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Cayley, looking with dismay at her spouse’s dismantled bed. “Whatever will Mr. Cayley say?”
Fifteen