N or M_ - Agatha Christie [28]
Tuppence said immediately:
‘What a very odd-looking woman that was to whom you were talking, Mr Deinim.’
‘Yes. It is a Central European type. She is a Pole.’
‘Really? A–a friend of yours?’
Tuppence’s tone was a very good copy of the inquisitive voice of Aunt Gracie in her younger days.
‘Not at all,’ said Carl stiffly. ‘I never saw the woman before.’
‘Oh really. I thought–’ Tuppence paused artistically.
‘She asked me only for a direction. I speak German to her because she does not understand much English.’
‘I see. And she was asking the way somewhere?’
‘She asked me if I knew a Mrs Gottlieb near here. I do not, and she says she has, perhaps, got the name of the house wrong.’
‘I see,’ said Tuppence thoughtfully.
Mr Rosenstein. Mrs Gottlieb.
She stole a swift glance at Carl von Deinim. He was walking beside her with a set stiff face.
Tuppence felt a definite suspicion of this strange woman. And she felt almost convinced that when she had first caught sight of them, the woman and Carl had been already talking some time together.
Carl von Deinim?
Carl and Sheila that morning. ‘You must be careful.’
Tuppence thought:
‘I hope–I hope these young things aren’t in it!’
Soft, she told herself, middle-aged and soft! That’s what she was! The Nazi creed was a youth creed. Nazi agents would in all probability be young. Carl and Sheila. Tommy said Sheila wasn’t in it. Yes, but Tommy was a man, and Sheila was beautiful with a queer breath-taking beauty.
Carl and Sheila, and behind them that enigmatic figure: Mrs Perenna. Mrs Perenna, sometimes the voluble commonplace guesthouse hostess, sometimes, for fleeting minutes, a tragic, violent personality.
Tuppence went slowly upstairs to her bedroom.
That evening, when she went to bed, she pulled out the long drawer of her bureau. At one side of it was a small japanned box with a flimsy cheap lock. Tuppence slipped on gloves, unlocked the box, and opened it. A pile of letters lay inside. On the top was the one received that morning from ‘Raymond’. Tuppence unfolded it with due precautions.
Then her lips set grimly. There had been an eyelash in the fold of the paper this morning. The eyelash was not there now.
She went to the washstand. There was a little bottle labelled innocently: ‘Grey powder’ with a dose.
Adroitly Tuppence dusted a little of the powder on to the letter and on to the surface of the glossy japanned enamel of the box.
There were no fingerprints on either of them.
Again Tuppence nodded her head with a certain grim satisfaction.
For there should have been fingerprints–her own.
A servant might have read the letters out of curiosity, though it seemed unlikely–certainly unlikely that she should have gone to the trouble of finding a key to fit the box.
But a servant would not think of wiping off fingerprints.
Mrs Perenna? Sheila? Somebody else? Somebody, at least, who was interested in the movements of British armed forces.
IV
Tuppence’s plan of campaign had been simple in its outlines. First, a general sizing up of probabilities and possibilities. Second, an experiment to determine whether there was or was not an inmate of Sans Souci who was interested in troop movements and anxious to conceal the fact. Third–who that person was?
It was concerning that third operation that Tuppence pondered as she lay in bed the following morning. Her train of thought was slightly hampered by Betty Sprot, who had pranced in at an early hour, preceding indeed the cup of somewhat tepid inky liquid known as Morning Tea.
Betty was both active and voluble. She had taken a great fancy to Tuppence. She climbed up on the bed and thrust an extremely tattered picture-book under Tuppence’s nose, commanding with brevity:
‘Wead.’
Tuppence read obediently.
‘Goosey goosey gander, whither will you wander?
‘Upstairs, downstairs, in my lady’s chamber.’
Betty rolled with mirth–repeating in an ecstasy:
‘Upstares–upstares–upstares–’ and then with a sudden climax, ‘Down–’ and proceeded to roll off the bed with a thump.
This proceeding was repeated several times until it