N or M_ - Agatha Christie [51]
‘–and we’re still honeycombed with spies–riddled with ’em. It was the same in the last war–hairdressers, waiters–’
Tommy, leaning back, catching the profile of Appledore as the latter hovered deft-footed, thought –‘Waiters? You could call that fellow Fritz easier than Appledore…’
Well, why not? The fellow spoke perfect English, true, but then many Germans did. They had perfected their English by years in English restaurants. And the racial type was not unlike. Fair-haired, blue-eyed–often betrayed by the shape of the head–yes, the head–where had he seen a head lately…
He spoke on an impulse. The words fitted in appositely enough with what the Commander was just saying.
‘All these damned forms to fill in. No good at all, Meadowes. Series of idiotic questions–’
Tommy said:
‘I know. Such as “What is your name?” Answer N or M.’
There was a swerve–a crash. Appledore, the perfect servant, had blundered. A stream of crême de menthe soaked over Tommy’s cuff and hand.
The man stammered, ‘Sorry, sir.’
Haydock blazed out in fury:
‘You damned clumsy fool! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
His usually red face was quite purple with anger. Tommy thought, ‘Talk of an Army temper–Navy beats it hollow!’ Haydock continued with a stream of abuse. Appledore was abject in apologies.
Tommy felt uncomfortable for the man, but suddenly, as though by magic, the Commander’s wrath passed and he was his hearty self again.
‘Come along and have a wash. Beastly stuff. It would be the crême de menthe.’
Tommy followed him indoors and was soon in the sumptuous bathroom with the innumerable gadgets. He carefully washed off the sticky sweet stuff. The Commander talked from the bedroom next door. He sounded a little shamefaced.
‘Afraid I let myself go a bit. Poor old Appledore–he knows I let go a bit more than I mean always.’
Tommy turned from the wash-basin drying his hands. He did not notice that a cake of soap had slipped on to the floor. His foot stepped on it. The linoleum was highly polished.
A moment later Tommy was doing a wild ballet dancer step. He shot across the bathroom, arms outstretched. One came up against the right-hand tap of the bath, the other pushed heavily against the side of a small bathroom cabinet. It was an extravagant gesture never likely to be achieved except by some catastrophe such as had just occurred.
His foot skidded heavily against the end panel of the bath.
The thing happened like a conjuring trick. The bath slid out from the wall, turning on a concealed pivot. Tommy found himself looking into a dim recess. He had no doubt whatever as to what occupied that recess. It contained a transmitting wireless apparatus.
The Commander’s voice had ceased. He appeared suddenly in the doorway. And with a click, several things fell into place in Tommy’s brain.
Had he been blind up to now? That jovial florid face–the face of a ‘hearty Englishman’–was only a mask. Why had he not seen it all along for what it was–the face of a bad-tempered overbearing Prussian officer. Tommy was helped, no doubt, by the incident that had just happened. For it recalled to him another incident, a Prussian bully turning on a subordinate and rating him with the Junker’s true insolence. So had Commander Haydock turned on his subordinate that evening when the latter had been taken unawares.
And it all fitted in–it fitted in like magic. The double bluff. The enemy agent Hahn, sent first, preparing the place, employing foreign workmen, drawing attention to himself and proceeding finally to the next stage in the plan, his own unmasking by the gallant British sailor Commander Haydock. And then how natural that the Englishman should buy the place and tell the story to everyone, boring them by constant repetition. And so N, securely settled in his appointed place, with sea communications and his secret wireless and his staff officers at Sans Souci close at hand, is ready to carry out Germany’s plan.
Tommy was unable to resist a flash of genuine admiration. The