The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection (60 page)

Tommy surrendered it willingly. Tuppence ensconced herself in an armchair, and began muttering to herself with bent brows.

“It's quite simple, really,” murmured Tommy when half an hour had elapsed.

“Don't crow! We're the wrong generation for this. I've a good mind to go back to town tomorrow and call on some old pussy who would probably read it as easy as winking. It's a knack, that's all.”

“Well, let's have one more try.”

“There aren't many things you can put on glowing coal,” said Tuppence thoughtfully. “There's water, to put it out, or wood, or a kettle.”

“It must be one syllable, I suppose? What about
wood,
then?”

“You couldn't put anything
into
wood, though.”

“There's no one syllable word instead of
water,
but there must be one syllable things you can put on a fire in the kettle line.”

“Saucepans,” mused Tuppence. “Frying pans. How about
pan?
or
pot?
What's a word beginning pan or pot that is something you cook?”

“Pottery,” suggested Tommy. “You bake that in the fire. Wouldn't that be near enough?”

“The rest of it doesn't fit. Pancakes? No. Oh! bother.”

They were interrupted by the little serving maid, who told them that dinner would be ready in a few minutes.

“Only Mrs. Lumley, she wanted to know if you like your potatoes fried, or boiled in their jackets? She's got some of each.”

“Boiled in their jackets,” said Tuppence promptly. “I love potatoes—” She stopped dead with her mouth open.

“What's the matter, Tuppence? Have you seen a ghost?”

“Tommy,” cried Tuppence. “Don't you see? That's it! The word, I mean.
Potatoes!
‘My first you put on glowing coal'—that's pot. ‘And into it you put my
whole.
' ‘My
second
really is the first.' That's A, the first letter of the alphabet. ‘My
third
mislikes the wintry blast'—cold
toes
of course!”

“You're right, Tuppence. Very clever of you. But I'm afraid we've wasted an awful lot of time over nothing. Potatoes don't fit in at all with missing treasure. Half a sec, though. What did you read out just now, when we were going through the box? Something about a recipe for New Potatoes. I wonder if there's anything in that.”

He rummaged hastily through the pile of recipes.

“Here it is. ‘To KEEP NEW POTATOES. Put the new potatoes into tins and bury them in the garden. Even in the middle of winter, they will taste as though freshly dug.'

“We've got it,” screamed Tuppence. “That's it. The treasure is in the garden, buried in a tin.”

“But I asked the gardener. He said he'd never buried anything.”

“Yes, I know, but that's because people never really answer what you say, they answer what they think you mean. He knew he'd never buried anything out of the common. We'll go tomorrow and ask him where he buried the potatoes.”

The following morning was Christmas Eve. By dint of inquiry they found the old gardener's cottage. Tuppence broached the subject after some minutes' conversation.

“I wish one could have new potatoes at Christmas time,” she remarked. “Wouldn't they be good with turkey? Do people round here ever bury them in tins? I've heard that keeps them fresh.”

“Ay, that they do,” declared the old man. “Old Miss Deane, up to the Red House, she allus had three tins buried every summer, and as often as not forgot to have 'em dug up again!”

“In the bed by the house, as a rule, didn't she?”

“No, over against the wall by the fir tree.”

Having got the information they wanted, they soon took their leave of the old man, presenting him with five shillings as a Christmas box.

“And now for Monica,” said Tommy.

“Tommy! You have no sense of the dramatic. Leave it to me. I've got a beautiful plan. Do you think you could manage to beg, borrow or steal a spade?”

Somehow or other, a spade was duly produced, and that night, late, two figures might have been seen stealing into the grounds of the Red House. The place indicated by the gardener was easily found, and Tommy set to work. Presently his spade rang on metal, and a few seconds later he had unearthed a big biscuit tin. It was sealed round with adhesive plaster and firmly fastened down, but Tuppence, by the aid of Tommy's knife, soon managed to open it. Then she gave a groan. The tin was full of potatoes. She poured them out, so that the tin was completely empty, but there were no other contents.

“Go on digging, Tommy.”

It was some time before a second tin rewarded their search. As before, Tuppence unsealed it.

“Well?” demanded Tommy anxiously.

“Potatoes again!”

“Damn!” said Tommy, and set to once more.

“The third time is lucky,” said Tuppence consolingly.

“I believe the whole thing's a mare's nest,” said Tommy gloomily, but he continued to dig.

At last a third tin was brought to light.

“Potatoes aga—” began Tuppence, then stopped. “Oh, Tommy, we've got it. It's only potatoes on top. Look!”

She held up a big old-fashioned velvet bag.

“Cut along home,” cried Tommy. “It's icy cold. Take the bag with you. I must shovel back the earth. And may a thousand curses light upon your head, Tuppence, if you open that bag before I come!”

“I'll play fair. Ouch! I'm frozen.” She beat a speedy retreat.

On arrival at the inn she had not long to wait. Tommy was hard upon her heels, perspiring freely after his digging and the final brisk run.

“Now then,” said Tommy, “the private inquiry agents make good! Open the loot, Mrs. Beresford.”

Inside the bag was a package done up in oil silk and a heavy chamois leather bag. They opened the latter first. It was full of gold sovereigns. Tommy counted them.

“Two hundred pounds. That was all they would let her have, I suppose. Cut open the package.”

Tuppence did so. It was full of closely folded banknotes. Tommy and Tuppence counted them carefully. They amounted to exactly twenty thousand pounds.

“Whew!” said Tommy. “Isn't it lucky for Monica that we're both rich and honest? What's that done up in tissue paper?”

Tuppence unrolled the little parcel and drew out a magnificent string of pearls, exquisitely matched.

“I don't know much about these things,” said Tommy slowly. “But I'm pretty sure that those pearls are worth another five thousand pounds at least. Look at the size of them. Now I see why the old lady kept that cutting about pearls being a good investment. She must have realised all her securities and turned them into notes and jewels.”

“Oh, Tommy, isn't it wonderful? Darling Monica. Now she can marry her nice young man and live happily ever afterwards, like me.”

“That's rather sweet of you, Tuppence. So you
are
happy with me?”

“As a matter of fact,” said Tuppence, “I am. But I didn't mean to say so. It slipped out. What with being excited, and Christmas Eve, and one thing and another—”

“If you really love me,” said Tommy, “will you answer me one question?”

“I hate these catches,” said Tuppence, “but—well—all right.”

“Then how did you know that Monica was a clergyman's daughter?”

“Oh, that was just cheating,” said Tuppence happily. “I opened her letter making an appointment, and a Mr. Deane was father's curate once, and he had a little girl called Monica, about four or five years younger than me. So I put two and two together.”

“You are a shameless creature,” said Tommy. “Hullo, there's twelve o'clock striking. Happy Christmas, Tuppence.”

“Happy Christmas, Tommy. It'll be a Happy Christmas for Monica too—and all owing to US. I am glad. Poor thing, she has been so miserable. Do you know, Tommy, I feel all queer and choky about the throat when I think of it.”

“Darling Tuppence,” said Tommy.

“Darling Tommy,” said Tuppence. “How awfully sentimental we are getting.”

“Christmas comes but once a year,” said Tommy sententiously. “That's what our great-grandmothers said, and I expect there's a lot of truth in it still.”

Sixteen

T
HE
A
MBASSADOR
'
S
B
OOTS

“M
y dear fellow, my dear fellow,” said Tuppence, and waved a heavily buttered muffin.

Tommy looked at her for a minute or two, then a broad grin spread over his face and he murmured.

“We do have to be so very careful.”

“That's right,” said Tuppence, delighted. “You guessed. I am the famous Dr. Fortune and you are Superintendent Bell.”

“Why are you being Reginald Fortune?”

“Well, really because I feel like a lot of hot butter.”

“That is the pleasant side of it,” said Tommy. “But there is another. You will have to examine horribly smashed faces and very extra dead bodies a good deal.”

In answer Tuppence threw across a letter. Tommy's eyebrows rose in astonishment.

“Randolph Wilmott, the American Ambassador. I wonder what he wants.”

“We shall know tomorrow at eleven o'clock.”

Punctually to the time named, Mr. Randolph Wilmott, United States Ambassador to the Court of St. James, was ushered into Mr. Blunt's office. He cleared his throat and commenced speaking in a deliberate and characteristic manner.

“I have come to you, Mr. Blunt—By the way, it is Mr. Blunt himself to whom I am speaking, is it not?”

“Certainly,” said Tommy. “I am Theodore Blunt, the head of the firm.”

“I always prefer to deal with heads of departments,” said Mr. Wilmott. “It is more satisfactory in every way. As I was about to say, Mr. Blunt, this business gets my goat. There's nothing in it to trouble Scotland Yard about—I'm not a penny the worse in any way, and it's probably all due to a simple mistake. But all the same, I don't see just how that mistake arose. There's nothing criminal in it, I dare say, but I'd like just to get the thing straightened out. It makes me mad not to see the why and wherefore of a thing.”

“Absolutely,” said Tommy.

Mr. Wilmott went on. He was slow and given to much detail. At last Tommy managed to get a word in.

“Quite so,” he said, “the position is this. You arrived by the liner
Nomadic
a week ago. In some way your kitbag and the kitbag of another gentleman, Mr. Ralph Westerham, whose initials are the same as yours, got mixed up. You took Mr. Westerham's kitbag, and he took yours. Mr. Westerham discovered the mistake immediately, sent round your kitbag to the Embassy, and took away his own. Am I right so far?”

“That is precisely what occurred. The two bags must have been practically identical, and with the initials R.W. being the same in both cases, it is not difficult to understand that an error might have been made. I myself was not aware of what had happened until my valet informed me of the mistake, and that Mr. Westerham—he is a Senator, and a man for whom I have a great admiration—had sent round for his bag and returned mine.”

“Then I don't see—”

“But you will see. That's only the beginning of the story. Yesterday, as it chanced, I ran up against Senator Westerham, and I happened to mention the matter to him jestingly. To my great surprise, he did not seem to know what I was talking about, and when I explained, he denied the story absolutely. He had not taken my bag off the ship in mistake for his own—in fact, he had not travelled with such an article amongst his luggage.”

“What an extraordinary thing!”

“Mr. Blunt, it
is
an extraordinary thing. There seems no rhyme or reason in it. Why, if any one wanted to steal my kitbag, he could do so easily enough without resorting to all this roundabout business. And anyway, it was
not
stolen, but returned to me. On the other hand, if it were taken by mistake, why use Senator Westerham's name? It's a crazy business—but just for curiosity I mean to get to the bottom of it. I hope the case is not too trivial for you to undertake?”

“Not at all. It is a very intriguing little problem, capable as you say, of many simple explanations, but nevertheless baffling on the face of it. The first thing, of course, is the
reason
of the substitution, if substitution it was. You say nothing was missing from your bag when it came back into your possession?”

“My man says not. He would know.”

“What was in it, if I may ask?”

“Mostly boots.”

“Boots,” said Tommy, discouraged.

“Yes,” said Mr. Wilmott. “Boots. Odd, isn't it?”

“You'll forgive my asking you,” said Tommy, “but you didn't carry any secret papers, or anything of that sort sewn in the lining of a boot or screwed into a false heel?”

The Ambassador seemed amused by the question.

“Secret diplomacy hasn't got to that pitch, I hope.”

“Only in fiction,” said Tommy with an answering smile, and a slightly apologetic manner. “But you see, we've got to account for the thing somehow. Who came for the bag—the other bag, I mean?”

“Supposed to be one of Westerham's servants. Quite a quiet, ordinary man, so I understand. My valet saw nothing wrong with him.”

“Had it been unpacked, do you know?”

“That I can't say. I presume not. But perhaps you'd like to ask the valet a few questions? He can tell you more than I can about the business.”

“I think that would be the best plan, Mr. Wilmott.”

The Ambassador scribbled a few words on a card and handed it to Tommy.

“I opine that you would prefer to go round to the Embassy and make your inquiries there? If not, I will have the man, his name is Richards, by the way—sent round here.”