N or M_ - Agatha Christie [13]
‘No?’ said Tommy.
‘No. You take my word for it, this refugee business is dangerous. If I had my way I’d intern the lot of them. Safety first.’
‘A bit drastic, perhaps.’
‘Not at all. War’s war. And I’ve got my suspicions of Master Carl. For one thing he’s clearly not a Jew. Then he came over here just a month–only a month, mind you–before war broke out. That’s a bit suspicious.’
Tommy said invitingly:
‘Then you think–?’
‘Spying–that’s his little game!’
‘But surely there’s nothing of great military or naval importance hereabouts?’
‘Ah, old man, that’s where the artfulness comes in! If he were anywhere near Plymouth or Portsmouth he’d be under supervision. In a sleepy place like this, nobody bothers. But it’s on the coast, isn’t it? The truth of it is the Government is a great deal too easy with these enemy aliens. Anyone who cared could come over here and pull a long face and talk about their brothers in concentration camps. Look at that young man–arrogance in every line of him. He’s a Nazi–that’s what he is–a Nazi.’
‘What we really need in this country is a witch doctor or two,’ said Tommy pleasantly.
‘Eh, what’s that?’
‘To smell out the spies,’ Tommy explained gravely.
‘Ha, very good that–very good. Smell ’em out–yes, of course.’
Further conversation was brought to an end, for they had arrived at the clubhouse.
Tommy’s name was put down as a temporary member, he was introduced to the secretary, a vacant-looking elderly man, and the subscription duly paid. Tommy and the Major started on their round.
Tommy was a mediocre golfer. He was glad to find that his standard of play was just about right for his new friend. The Major won by two up and one to play, a very happy state of events.
‘Good match, Meadowes, very good match–you had bad luck with that mashie shot, just turned off at the last minute. We must have a game fairly often. Come along and I’ll introduce you to some of the fellows. Nice lot on the whole, some of them inclined to be rather old women, if you know what I mean? Ah, here’s Haydock–you’ll like Haydock. Retired naval wallah. Has that house on the cliff next door to us. He’s our local ARP warden.’
Commander Haydock was a big hearty man with a weather-beaten face, intensely blue eyes, and a habit of shouting most of his remarks.
He greeted Tommy with friendliness.
‘So you’re going to keep Bletchley countenance at Sans Souci? He’ll be glad of another man. Rather swamped by female society, eh, Bletchley?’
‘I’m not much of a ladies’ man,’ said Major Bletchley.
‘Nonsense,’ said Haydock. ‘Not your type of lady, my boy, that’s it. Old boarding-house pussies. Nothing to do but gossip and knit.’
‘You’re forgetting Miss Perenna,’ said Bletchley.
‘Ah, Sheila–she’s an attractive girl all right. Regular beauty if you ask me.’
‘I’m a bit worried about her,’ said Bletchley.
‘What do you mean? Have a drink, Meadowes? What’s yours, Major?’
The drinks ordered and the men settled on the veranda of the clubhouse, Haydock repeated his question.
Major Bletchley said with some violence:
‘That German chap. She’s seeing too much of him.’
‘Getting sweet on him, you mean? H’m, that’s bad. Of course he’s a good-looking young chap in his way. But it won’t do. It won’t do, Bletchley. We can’t have that sort of thing. Trading with the enemy, that’s what it amounts to. These girls–where’s their proper spirit? Plenty of decent young English fellows about.’
Bletchley said:
‘Sheila’s a queer girl–she gets odd sullen fits when she will hardly speak to anyone.’
‘Spanish blood,’ said the Commander. ‘Her father was half Spanish, wasn’t he?’
‘Don’t know. It’s a Spanish name, I should think.’
The Commander glanced at his watch.
‘About time for the