N or M_ - Agatha Christie [4]
‘And N or M amongst them?’
‘Not necessarily. Somebody, perhaps, who’s in touch with N or M. But it’s quite likely to be N or M themselves. It’s an inconspicuous sort of place, a boarding-house at a seaside resort.’
‘You’ve no idea whether it’s a man or a woman I’ve to look for?’
Grant shook his head.
Tommy said: ‘Well, I can but try.’
‘Good luck to your trying, Beresford. Now–to details–’
II
Half an hour later when Tuppence broke in, panting and eager with curiosity, Tommy was alone, whistling in an armchair with a doubtful expression on his face.
‘Well?’ demanded Tuppence, throwing an infinity of feeling into the monosyllable.
‘Well,’ said Tommy with a somewhat doubtful air, ‘I’ve got a job–of kinds.’
‘What kind?’
Tommy made a suitable grimace.
‘Office work in the wilds of Scotland. Hush-hush and all that, but doesn’t sound very thrilling.’
‘Both of us, or only you?’
‘Only me, I’m afraid.’
‘Blast and curse you. How could our Mr Carter be so mean?’
‘I imagine they segregate the sexes in these jobs. Otherwise too distracting for the mind.’
‘Is it coding–or code breaking? Is it like Deborah’s job? Do be careful, Tommy, people go queer doing that and can’t sleep and walk about all night groaning and repeating 978345286 or something like that and finally have nervous breakdowns and go into homes.’
‘Not me.’
Tuppence said gloomily:
‘I expect you will sooner or later. Can I come too–not to work but just as a wife. Slippers in front of the fire and a hot meal at the end of the day?’
Tommy looked uncomfortable.
‘Sorry, old thing. I am sorry. I hate leaving you–’
‘But you feel you ought to go,’ murmured Tuppence reminiscently.
‘After all,’ said Tommy feebly, ‘you can knit, you know.’
‘Knit?’ said Tuppence. ‘Knit?’
Seizing her Balaclava helmet she flung it on the ground.
‘I hate khaki wool,’ said Tuppence, ‘and Navy wool and Air Force blue. I should like to knit something magenta!’
‘It has a fine military sound,’ said Tommy. ‘Almost a suggestion of Blitzkrieg.’
He felt definitely very unhappy. Tuppence, however, was a Spartan and played up well, admitting freely that of course he had to take the job and that it didn’t really matter about her. She added that she had heard they wanted someone to scrub down the First-Aid Post floors. She might possibly be found fit to do that.
Tommy departed for Aberdeen three days later. Tuppence saw him off at the station. Her eyes were bright and she blinked once or twice, but she kept resolutely cheerful.
Only as the train drew out of the station and Tommy saw the forlorn little figure walking away down the platform did he feel a lump in his own throat. War or no war he felt he was deserting Tuppence…
He pulled himself together with an effort. Orders were orders.
Having duly arrived in Scotland, he took a train the next day to Manchester. On the third day a train deposited him at Leahampton. Here he went to the principal hotel and on the following day made a tour of various private hotels and guesthouses, seeing rooms and inquiring terms for a long stay.
Sans Souci was a dark red Victorian villa, set on the side of a hill with a good view over the sea from its upper windows. There was a slight smell of dust and cooking in the hall and the carpet was worn, but it compared quite favourably with some of the other establishments Tommy had seen. He interviewed the proprietress, Mrs Perenna, in her office, a small untidy room with a large desk covered with loose papers.
Mrs Perenna herself was rather untidy looking, a woman of middle-age with a large mop of fiercely curling black hair, some vaguely applied make-up and a determined smile showing a lot of very white teeth.
Tommy murmured a mention of his elderly cousin, Miss Meadowes, who had stayed at Sans Souci two years ago. Mrs Perenna remembered Miss Meadowes quite well–such a dear old lady–at least perhaps not really old–very active and such a sense of humour.
Tommy agreed