Midsummer Mysteries Read online

‘Ah! What I have to say will not keep. In plain English, Mr Blunt, where is that letter?’

  ‘My dear fellow, I don’t know,’ said Tommy cheerfully. ‘I haven’t got it. But you know that as well as I do. I should go on looking about if I were you. I like to see you and friend Coggins playing hide-and-seek together.’

  The other’s face darkened.

  ‘You are pleased to be flippant, Mr Blunt. You see that square box over there. That is Coggins’s little outfit. In it there is vitriol … yes, vitriol … and irons that can be heated in the fire, so that they are red hot and burn …’

  Tommy shook his head sadly.

  ‘An error in diagnosis,’ he murmured. ‘Tuppence and I labelled this adventure wrong. It’s not a Clubfoot story. It’s a Bull-dog Drummond, and you are the inimitable Carl Peterson.’

  ‘What is this nonsense you are talking,’ snarled the other.

  ‘Ah!’ said Tommy. ‘I see you are unacquainted with the classics. A pity.’

  ‘Ignorant fool! Will you do what we want or will you not? Shall I tell Coggins to get out his tools and begin?’

  ‘Don’t be so impatient,’ said Tommy. ‘Of course I’ll do what you want, as soon as you tell me what it is. You don’t suppose I want to be carved up like a filleted sole and fried on a gridiron? I loathe being hurt.’

  Dymchurch looked at him in contempt.

  ‘Gott! What cowards are these English.’

  ‘Common sense, my dear fellow, merely common sense. Leave the vitriol alone and let us come down to brass tacks.’

  ‘I want the letter.’

  ‘I’ve already told you I haven’t got it.’

  ‘We know that—we also know who must have it. The girl.’

  ‘Very possibly you’re right,’ said Tommy. ‘She may have slipped it into her handbag when your pal Carl startled us.’

  ‘Oh, you do not deny. That is wise. Very good, you will write to this Tuppence, as you call her, bidding her bring the letter here immediately.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ began Tommy.

  The other cut in before he had finished the sentence.

  ‘Ah! You can’t? Well, we shall soon see. Coggins!’

  ‘Don’t be in such a hurry,’ said Tommy. ‘And do wait for the end of the sentence. I was going to say that I can’t do that unless you untie my arms. Hang it all, I’m not one of those freaks who can write with their noses or their elbows.’

  ‘You are willing to write, then?’

  ‘Of course. Haven’t I been telling you so all along? I’m all out to be pleasant and obliging. You won’t do anything unkind to Tuppence, of course. I’m sure you won’t. She’s such a nice girl.’

  ‘We only want the letter,’ said Dymchurch, but there was a singularly unpleasant smile on his face.

  At a nod from him the brutal Coggins knelt down and unfastened Tommy’s arms. The latter swung them to and fro.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Will kind Coggins hand me my fountain pen? It’s on the table, I think, with my other miscellaneous property.’

  Scowling, the man brought it to him, and provided a sheet of paper.

  ‘Be careful what you say,’ Dymchurch said menacingly. ‘We leave it to you, but failure means—death—and slow death at that.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Tommy, ‘I will certainly do my best.’

  He reflected a minute or two, then began to scribble rapidly.

  ‘How will this do?’ he asked, handing over the completed epistle.

  Dear Tuppence,

  Can you come along at once and bring that blue letter with you?

  We want to decode it here and now.

  In haste,

  Francis.

  ‘Francis?’ queried the bogus Inspector, with lifted eyebrows. ‘Was that the name she called you?’

  ‘As you weren’t at my christening,’ said Tommy, ‘I don’t suppose you can know whether it’s my name or not. But I think the cigarette case you took from my pocket is a pretty good proof that I’m speaking the truth.’

  The other stepped over to the table and took up the case, read ‘Francis from Tuppence’ with a faint grin and laid it down again.

  ‘I am glad to find you are behaving so sensibly,’ he said. ‘Coggins, give that note to Vassilly. He is on guard outside. Tell him to take it at once.’

  The next twenty minutes passed slowly, the ten minutes after that more slowly still. Dymchurch was striding up and down with a face that grew darker and darker. Once he turned menacingly on Tommy.

  ‘If you have dared to double-cross us,’ he growled.

  ‘If we’d had a pack of cards here, we might have had a game of picquet to pass the time,’ drawled Tommy. ‘Women always keep one waiting. I hope you’re not going to be unkind to little Tuppence when she comes?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Dymchurch. ‘We shall arrange for you to go to the same place—together.’

  ‘Will you, you swine,’ said Tommy under his breath.

  Suddenly there was a stir in the outer office. A man whom Tommy had not yet seen poked his head in and growled something in Russian.

  ‘Good,’ said Dymchurch. ‘She is coming—and coming alone.’

  For a moment a faint anxiety caught at Tommy’s heart.

  The next minute he heard Tuppence’s voice.

  ‘Oh! there you are, Inspector Dymchurch. I’ve brought the letter. Where is Francis?’

  With the last words she came through the door, and Vassilly sprang on her from behind, clapping his hand over her mouth. Dymchurch tore the handbag from her grasp and turned over its contents in a frenzied search.

  Suddenly he uttered an ejaculation of delight and held up a blue envelope with a Russian stamp on it. Coggins gave a hoarse shout.

  And just in that minute of triumph the other door, the door into Tuppence’s own office, opened noiselessly and Inspector Marriot and two men armed with revolvers stepped into the room, with the sharp command: ‘Hands up.’

  There was no fight. The others were taken at a hopeless disadvantage. Dymchurch’s automatic lay on the table, and the two others were not armed.

  ‘A very nice little haul,’ said Inspector Marriot with approval, as he snapped the last pair of handcuffs. ‘And we’ll have more as time goes on, I hope.’

  White with rage, Dymchurch glared at Tuppence.

  ‘You little devil,’ he snarled. ‘It was you put them on to us.’

  Tuppence laughed.

  ‘It wasn’t all my doing. I ought to have guessed, I admit, when you brought in the number sixteen this afternoon. But it was Tommy’s note clinched matters. I rang up Inspector Marriot, got Albert to meet him with the duplicate key of the office, and came along myself with the empty blue envelope in my bag. The letter I forwarded according to my instructions as soon as I had parted with you two this afternoon.’

  But one word had caught the other’s attention.

  ‘Tommy?’ he queried.

  Tommy, who had just been released from his bonds, came towards them.

  ‘Well done, brother Francis,’ he said to Tuppence, taking both her hands in his. And to Dymchurch: ‘As I told you, my dear fellow, you really ought to read the classics.’

  The Incredible Theft

  As the butler handed round the soufflé, Lord Mayfield leaned confidentially towards his neighbour on the right, Lady Julia Carrington. Known as a perfect host, Lord Mayfield took trouble to live up to his reputation. Although unmarried, he was always charming to women.

  Lady Julia Carrington was a woman of forty, tall, dark and vivacious. She was very thin, but still beautiful. Her hands and feet in particular were exquisite. Her manner was abrupt and restless, that of a woman who lived on her nerves.

  About opposite to her at the round table sat her husband, Air Marshal Sir George Carrington. His career had begun in the Navy, and he still retained the bluff breeziness of the ex-Naval man. He was laughing and chaffing the beautiful Mrs Vanderlyn, who was sitting on the other side of her host.
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  Mrs Vanderlyn was an extremely good-looking blonde. Her voice held a soupçon of American accent, just enough to be pleasant without undue exaggeration.

  On the other side of Sir George Carrington sat Mrs Macatta, M.P. Mrs Macatta was a great authority on Housing and Infant Welfare. She barked out short sentences rather than spoke them, and was generally of somewhat alarming aspect. It was perhaps natural that the Air Marshal would find his right-hand neighbour the pleasanter to talk to.

  Mrs Macatta, who always talked shop wherever she was, barked out short spates of information on her special subjects to her left-hand neighbour, young Reggie Carrington.

  Reggie Carrington was twenty-one, and completely uninterested in Housing, Infant Welfare, and indeed any political subject. He said at intervals, ‘How frightful!’ and ‘I absolutely agree with you,’ and his mind was clearly elsewhere. Mr Carlile, Lord Mayfield’s private secretary, sat between young Reggie and his mother. A pale young man with pince-nez and an air of intelligent reserve, he talked little, but was always ready to fling himself into any conversational breach. Noticing that Reggie Carrington was struggling with a yawn, he leaned forward and adroitly asked Mrs Macatta a question about her ‘Fitness for Children’ scheme.

  Round the table, moving silently in the subdued amber light, a butler and two footmen offered dishes and filled up wine-glasses. Lord Mayfield paid a very high salary to his chef, and was noted as a connoisseur of wines.

  The table was a round one, but there was no mistaking who was the host. Where Lord Mayfield sat was so very decidedly the head of the table. A big man, square-shouldered, with thick silvery hair, a big straight nose and a slightly prominent chin. It was a face that lent itself easily to caricature. As Sir Charles McLaughlin, Lord Mayfield had combined a political career with being the head of a big engineering firm. He was himself a first-class engineer. His peerage had come a year ago, and at the same time he had been created first Minister of Armaments, a new ministry which had only just come into being.

  The dessert had been placed on the table. The port had circulated once. Catching Mrs Vanderlyn’s eye, Lady Julia rose. The three women left the room.

  The port passed once more, and Lord Mayfield referred lightly to pheasants. The conversation for five minutes or so was sporting. Then Sir George said:

  ‘Expect you’d like to join the others in the drawing-room, Reggie, my boy. Lord Mayfield won’t mind.’

  The boy took the hint easily enough.

  ‘Thanks, Lord Mayfield, I think I will.’

  Mr Carlile mumured:

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, Lord Mayfield—certain memoranda and other work to get through …’

  Lord Mayfield nodded. The two young men left the room. The servants had retired some time before. The Minister for Armaments and the head of the Air Force were alone.

  After a minute or two, Carrington said:

  ‘Well—O.K.?’

  ‘Absolutely! There’s nothing to touch this new bomber in any country in Europe.’

  ‘Make rings round ’em, eh? That’s what I thought.’

  ‘Supremacy of the air,’ said Lord Mayfield decisively.

  Sir George Carrington gave a deep sigh.

  ‘About time! You know, Charles, we’ve been through a ticklish spell. Lots of gunpowder everywhere all over Europe. And we weren’t ready, damn it! We’ve had a narrow squeak. And we’re not out of the wood yet, however much we hurry on construction.’

  Lord Mayfield murmured:

  ‘Nevertheless, George, there are some advantages in starting late. A lot of the European stuff is out of date already—and they’re perilously near bankruptcy.’

  ‘I don’t believe that means anything,’ said Sir George gloomily. ‘One’s always hearing this nation and that is bankrupt! But they carry on just the same. You know, finance is an absolute mystery to me.’

  Lord Mayfield’s eyes twinkled a little. Sir George Carrington was always so very much the old fashioned ‘bluff, honest old sea dog’. There were people who said that it was a pose he deliberately adopted.

  Changing the subject, Carrington said in a slightly over-casual manner:

  ‘Attractive woman, Mrs Vanderlyn—eh?’

  Lord Mayfield said:

  ‘Are you wondering what she’s doing here?’

  His eyes were amused.

  Carrington looked a little confused.

  ‘Not at all—not at all.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you were! Don’t be an old humbug, George. You were wondering, in a slightly dismayed fashion, whether I was the latest victim!’

  Carrington said slowly:

  ‘I’ll admit that it did seem a trifle odd to me that she should be here—well, this particular weekend.’

  Lord Mayfield nodded.

  ‘Where the carcass is, there are the vultures gathered together. We’ve got a very definite carcass, and Mrs Vanderlyn might be described as Vulture No. 1.’

  The Air Marshal said abruptly:

  ‘Know anything about this Vanderlyn woman?’

  Lord Mayfield clipped off the end of a cigar, lit it with precision and, throwing his head back, dropped out his words with careful deliberation.

  ‘What do I know about Mrs Vanderlyn? I know that she’s an American subject. I know that she’s had three husbands, one Italian, one German and one Russian, and that in consequence she has made useful what I think are called “contacts” in three countries. I know that she manages to buy very expensive clothes and live in a very luxurious manner, and that there is some slight uncertainty as to where the income comes from which permits her to do so.’

  With a grin, Sir George Carrington murmured:

  ‘Your spies have not been inactive, Charles, I see.’

  ‘I know,’ Lord Mayfield continued, ‘that in addition to having a seductive type of beauty, Mrs Vanderlyn is also a very good listener, and that she can display a fascinating interest in what we call “shop”. That is to say, a man can tell her all about his job and feel that he is being intensely interesting to the lady! Sundry young officers have gone a little too far in their zeal to be interesting, and their careers have suffered in consequence. They have told Mrs Vanderlyn a little more than they should have done. Nearly all the lady’s friends are in the Services—but last winter she was hunting in a certain county near one of our largest armament firms, and she formed various friendships not at all sporting in character. To put it briefly, Mrs Vanderlyn is a very useful person to …’ He described a circle in the air with his cigar. ‘Perhaps we had better not say to whom! We will just say to a European power—and perhaps to more than one European power.’

  Carrington drew a deep breath.

  ‘You take a great load off my mind, Charles.’

  ‘You thought I had fallen for the siren? My dear George! Mrs Vanderlyn is just a little too obvious in her methods for a wary old bird like me. Besides, she is, as they say, not quite so young as she once was. Your young squadron leaders wouldn’t notice that. But I am fifty-six, my boy. In another four years I shall probably be a nasty old man continually haunting the society of unwilling debutantes.’

  ‘I was a fool,’ said Carrington apologetically, ‘but it seemed a bit odd—’

  ‘It seemed to you odd that she should be here, in a somewhat intimate family party just at the moment when you and I were to hold an unofficial conference over a discovery that will probably revolutionize the whole problem of air defence?’

  Sir George Carrington nodded.

  Lord Mayfield said, smiling:

  ‘That’s exactly it. That’s the bait.’

  ‘The bait?’

  ‘You see, George, to use the language of the movies, we’ve nothing actually “on” the woman. And we want something! She’s got away with rather more than she should in the past. But she’s been careful—damnably careful. We know what she’s been up to, but we’ve got no definite proof of it. We’ve got to tempt her with something big.’

  ‘Something big being the specific
ation of the new bomber?’

  ‘Exactly. It’s got to be something big enough to induce her to take a risk—to come out into the open. And then—we’ve got her!’

  Sir George grunted.

  ‘Oh, well,’ he said. ‘I dare say it’s all right. But suppose she won’t take the risk?’

  ‘That would be a pity,’ said Lord Mayfield. Then he added: ‘But I think she will …’

  He rose.

  ‘Shall we join the ladies in the drawing-room? We mustn’t deprive your wife of her bridge.’

  Sir George grunted:

  ‘Julia’s a damned sight too fond of her bridge. Drops a packet over it. She can’t afford to play as high as she does, and I’ve told her so. The trouble is, Julia’s a born gambler.’

  Coming round the table to join his host, he said:

  ‘Well, I hope your plan comes off, Charles.’

  In the drawing-room conversation had flagged more than once. Mrs Vanderlyn was usually at a disadvantage when left alone with members of her own sex. That charming sympathetic manner of hers, so much appreciated by members of the male sex, did not for some reason or other commend itself to women. Lady Julia was a woman whose manners were either very good or very bad. On this occasion she disliked Mrs Vanderlyn, and was bored by Mrs Macatta, and made no secret of her feelings. Conversation languished, and might have ceased altogether but for the latter.

  Mrs Macatta was a woman of great earnestness of purpose. Mrs Vanderlyn she dismissed immediately as a useless and parasitic type. Lady Julia she tried to interest in a forthcoming charity entertainment which she was organizing. Lady Julia answered vaguely, stifled a yawn or two and retired into her own inner preoccupation. Why didn’t Charles and George come? How tiresome men were. Her comments became even more perfunctory as she became absorbed in her own thoughts and worries.

  The three women were sitting in silence when the men finally entered the room.

  Lord Mayfield thought to himself:

  ‘Julia looks ill tonight. What a mass of nerves the woman is.’

  Aloud he said:

  ‘What about a rubber—eh?’

  Lady Julia brightened at once. Bridge was as the breath of life to her.