The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection (79 page)

Mrs. Sprot began to cry again.

Mrs. Blenkensop's evidence was short—a mere confirming of the Commander's evidence.

Mr. Meadowes followed.

“You agree with Commander Haydock and Mrs. Blenkensop as to what occurred?”

“I do. The woman was definitely so distraught that it was impossible to get near her. She was about to throw herself and the child over the cliff.”

There was little more evidence. The coroner directed the jury that Vanda Polonska came to her death by the hand of Mrs. Sprot and formally exonerated the latter from blame. There was no evidence to show what was the state of the dead woman's mind. She might have been actuated by hate of England. Some of the Polish “comforts” distributed to refugees bore the names of the ladies sending them, and it was possible that the woman got Mrs. Sprot's name and address this way, but it was not easy to get at her reason for kidnapping the child—possibly some crazy motive quite incomprehensible to the normal mind. Polonska, according to her own story, had suffered great bereavement in her own country, and that might have turned her brain. On the other hand, she might be an enemy agent.

The verdict was in accordance with the coroner's summing up.

II

On the day following the inquest Mrs. Blenkensop and Mr. Meadowes met to compare notes.

“Exit Vanda Polonska and a blank wall as usual,” said Tommy gloomily.

Tuppence nodded.

“Yes, they seal up both ends, don't they? No papers, no hints of any kind as to where the money came from that she and her cousins had, no record of whom they had dealings with.”

“Too damned efficient,” said Tommy.

He added: “You know, Tuppence, I don't like the look of things.”

Tuppence assented. The news was indeed far from reassuring.

The French Army was in retreat and it seemed doubtful if the tide could be turned. Evacuation from Dunkirk was in progress. It was clearly a matter of a few days only before Paris fell. There was a general dismay at the revelation of lack of equipment and of material for resisting the Germans' great mechanised units.

Tommy said:

“Is it only our usual muddling and slowness? Or has there been deliberate engineering behind this?”

“The latter, I think, but they'll never be able to prove it.”

“No. Our adversaries are too damned clever for that.”

“We are combing out a lot of the rot now.”

“Oh, yes, we're rounding up the obvious people, but I don't believe we've got at the brains that are behind it all. Brains, organisation, a whole carefully thought-out plan—a plan which uses our habits of dilatoriness, and our petty feuds, and our slowness for its own ends.”

Tuppence said:

“That's what we're here for—and we haven't got results.”

“We've done something,” Tommy reminded her.

“Carl von Deinim and Vanda Polonska, yes. The small fry.”

“You think they were working together?”

“I think they must have been,” said Tuppence thoughtfully. “Remember I saw them talking.”

“Then Carl von Deinim must have engineered the kidnapping?”

“I suppose so.”

“But why?”

“I know,” said Tuppence. “That's what I keep thinking and thinking about. It doesn't make
sense.
”

“Why kidnap that particular child? Who are the Sprots? They've no money—so it isn't ransom. They're neither of them employed by Government in any capacity.”

“I know, Tommy. It just doesn't make any sense at all.”

“Hasn't Mrs. Sprot any idea herself?”

“That woman,” said Tuppence scornfully, “hasn't got the brains of a hen. She doesn't think at all. Just says it's the sort of thing the wicked Germans would do.”

“Silly ass,” said Tommy. “The Germans are efficient. If they send one of their agents to kidnap a brat, it's for some reason.”

“I've a feeling, you know,” said Tuppence, “that Mrs. Sprot
could
get at the reason if only she'd
think
about it. There must be
something
—some piece of information that she herself has inadvertently got hold of, perhaps without knowing what it is exactly.”

“Say nothing. Wait for instructions,”
Tommy quoted from the note found on Mrs. Sprot's bedroom floor. “Damn it all, that means
something.
”

“Of course it does—it must. The only thing I can think of is that Mrs. Sprot, or her husband, has been given something to keep by someone else—given it, perhaps, just because they are such humdrum ordinary people that no one would ever suspect they had it—whatever ‘it' may be.”

“It's an idea, that.”

“I know—but it's awfully like a spy story. It doesn't seem real somehow.”

“Have you asked Mrs. Sprot to rack her brains a bit?”

“Yes, but the trouble is that she isn't really interested. All she cares about is getting Betty back—that, and having hysterics because she's shot someone.”

“Funny creatures, women,” mused Tommy. “There was that woman, went out that day like an avenging fury, she'd have shot down a regiment in cold blood without turning a hair just to get her child back, and then, having shot the kidnapper by a perfectly incredible fluke, she breaks down and comes all over squeamish about it.”

“The coroner exonerated her all right,” said Tuppence.

“Naturally. By Jove, I wouldn't have risked firing when she did.”

Tuppence said:

“No more would she, probably, if she'd known more about it. It was sheer ignorance of the difficulty of the shot that made her bring it off.”

Tommy nodded.

“Quite Biblical,” he said. “David and Goliath.”

“Oh!” said Tuppence.

“What is it, old thing?”

“I don't quite know. When you said that something twanged somewhere in my brain, and now it's gone again!”

“Very useful,” said Tommy.

“Don't be scathing. That sort of thing does happen sometimes.”

“Gentlemen who draw a bow at a venture, was that it?”

“No, it was—wait a minute—I think it was something to do with Solomon.”

“Cedars, temples, a lot of wives and concubines?”

“Stop,” said Tuppence, putting her hands to her ears. “You're making it worse.”

“Jews?” said Tommy hopefully. “Tribes of Israel?”

But Tuppence shook her head. After a minute or two she said:

“I wish I could remember who it was that woman reminded me of.”

“The late Vanda Polonska?”

“Yes. The first time I saw her, her face seemed vaguely familiar.”

“Do you think you had come across her somewhere else?”

“No, I'm sure I hadn't.”

“Mrs. Perenna and Sheila are a totally different type.”

“Oh, yes, it wasn't them. You know, Tommy, about those two. I've been thinking.”

“To any good purpose?”

“I'm not sure. It's about that note—the one Mrs. Sprot found on the floor in her room when Betty was kidnapped.”

“Well?”

“All that about its being wrapped round a stone and thrown through the window is rubbish. It was put there by someone—ready for Mrs. Sprot to find—and I think it was Mrs. Perenna who put it there.”

“Mrs. Perenna, Carl, Vanda Polonska—all working together.”

“Yes. Did you notice how Mrs. Perenna came in just at the critical moment and clinched things—not to ring up the police? She took command of the whole situation.”

“So she's still your selection for M.”

“Yes, isn't she yours?”

“I suppose so,” said Tommy slowly.

“Why, Tommy, have you got another idea?”

“It's probably an awfully dud one.”

“Tell me.”

“No, I'd rather not. I've nothing to go on. Nothing whatever. But if I'm right, it's not M we're up against, but N.”

He thought to himself.

“Bletchley. I suppose he's all right. Why shouldn't he be? He's a true enough type—almost too true, and after all, it was he who wanted to ring up the police. Yes, but he could have been pretty sure that the child's mother couldn't stand for the idea. The threatening note made sure of that. He could afford to urge the opposite point of view—”

And that brought him back again to the vexing, teasing problem to which as yet he could find no answer.

Why kidnap Betty Sprot?

III

There was a car standing outside Sans Souci bearing the word Police on it.

Absorbed in her own thoughts Tuppence took little notice of that. She turned in at the drive, and entering the front door went straight upstairs to her own room.

She stopped, taken aback, on the threshold, as a tall figure turned away from the window.

“Dear me,” said Tuppence. “Sheila?”

The girl came straight towards her. Now Tuppence saw her more clearly, saw the blazing eyes deep set in the white tragic face.

Sheila said:

“I'm glad you've come. I've been waiting for you.”

“What's the matter?”

The girl's voice was quiet and devoid of emotion. She said:

“They have arrested Carl!”

“The police?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, dear,” said Tuppence. She felt inadequate to the situation. Quiet as Sheila's voice had been, Tuppence was under no apprehension as to what lay behind it.

Whether they were fellow conspirators or not, this girl loved Carl von Deinim, and Tuppence felt her heart aching in sympathy with this tragic young creature.

Sheila asked:

“What shall I do?”

The simple forlorn question made Tuppence wince. She said helplessly:

“Oh, my dear.”

Sheila said, and her voice was like a mourning harp:

“They've taken him away. I shall never see him again.”

She cried out:

“What shall I do? What shall I do?” And flinging herself down on her knees by the bed she wept her heart out.

Tuppence stroked the dark head. She said presently, in a weak voice:

“It—it may not be true. Perhaps they are only going to intern him. After all, he is an enemy alien, you know.”

“That's not what they said. They're searching his room now.”

Tuppence said slowly, “Well, if they find nothing—”

“They will find nothing, of course! What should they find?”

“I don't know. I thought perhaps you might?”

“I?”

Her scorn, her amazement were too real to be feigned. Any suspicions Tuppence had had that Sheila Perenna was involved died at this moment. The girl knew nothing, had never known anything.

Tuppence said:

“If he is innocent—”

Sheila interrupted her.

“What does it matter? The police will make a case against him.”

Tuppence said sharply:

“Nonsense, my dear child, that really isn't true.”

“The English police will do anything. My mother says so.”

“Your mother may say so, but she's wrong. I assure you that it isn't so.”

Sheila looked at her doubtfully for a minute or two. Then she said:

“Very well. If you say so. I trust you.”

Tuppence felt very uncomfortable. She said sharply:

“You trust too much, Sheila. You may have been unwise to trust Carl.”

“Are you against him too? I thought you liked him. He thinks so too.”

Touching young things—with their faith in one's liking for them. And it was true—she had liked Carl—she did like him.

Rather wearily she said:

“Listen, Sheila, liking or not liking has nothing to do with facts. This country and Germany are at war. There are many ways of serving one's country. One of them is to get information—and to work behind the lines. It is a brave thing to do, for when you are caught, it is”—her voice broke a little—“the end.”

Sheila said:

“You think Carl—”

“Might be working for his country that way? It is a possibility, isn't it?”

“No,” said Sheila.

“It would be his job, you see, to come over here as a refugee, to appear to be violently anti-Nazi and then to gather information.”

Sheila said quietly:

“It's not true. I know Carl. I know his heart and his mind. He cares most for science—for his work—for the truth and the knowledge in it. He is grateful to England for letting him work here. Sometimes, when people say cruel things, he feels German and bitter. But he hates the Nazis always, and what they stand for—their denial of freedom.”

Tuppence said: “He would say so, of course.”

Sheila turned reproachful eyes upon her.

“So you believe he is a spy?”

“I think it is”—Tuppence hesitated—“a possibility.”

Sheila walked to the door.

“I see. I'm sorry I came to ask you to help us.”

“But what did you think I could do, dear child?”

“You know people. Your sons are in the Army and Navy, and I've heard you say more than once that they knew influential people. I thought perhaps you could get them to—to do—something?”

Tuppence thought of those mythical creatures, Douglas and Raymond and Cyril.

“I'm afraid,” she said, “that they couldn't do anything.”

Sheila flung her head up. She said passionately:

“Then there's no hope for us. They'll take him away and shut him up, and one day, early in the morning, they'll stand him against a wall and shoot him—and that will be the end.”

She went out, shutting the door behind her.

“Oh, damn, damn, damn the Irish!” thought Tuppence in a fury of mixed feelings. “Why have they got that terrible power of twisting things until you don't know where you are? If Carl von Deinim's a spy, he deserves to be shot. I must hang on to that, not let this girl with her Irish voice bewitch me into thinking it's the tragedy of a hero and a martyr!”