N or M?. Agatha Christie
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her.
‘Smug, detestable English…’
The eyebrows of Mrs Blenkensop rose ever so slightly. Carl von Deinim was a refugee from Nazi persecution, given asylum and shelter by England. Neither wise nor grateful to listen assentingly to such words.
Again Tuppence turned. But this time, before she reached the shelter, the couple had parted abruptly, the girl to cross the road leaving the sea front, Carl von Deinim to come along to Tuppence’s direction.
He would not, perhaps, have recognised her but for her own pause and hesitation. Then quickly he brought his heels together and bowed.
Tuppence twittered at him:
‘Good morning, Mr von Deinim, isn’t it? Such a lovely morning.’
‘Ah, yes. The weather is fine.’
Tuppence ran on:
‘It quite tempted me. I don’t often come out before breakfast. But this morning, what with not sleeping very well—one often doesn’t sleep well in a strange place, I find. It takes a day or two to accustom oneself, I always say.’
‘Oh yes, no doubt that is so.’
‘And really this little walk has quite given me an appetite for breakfast.’
‘You go back to Sans Souci now? If you permit I will walk with you.’ He walked gravely by her side.
Tuppence said:
‘You also are out to get an appetite?’
Gravely, he shook his head.
‘Oh no. My breakfast I have already had it. I am on my way to work.’
‘Work?’
‘I am a research chemist.’
‘So that’s what you are,’ thought Tuppence, stealing a quick glance at him.
Carl von Deinim went on, his voice stiff:
‘I came to this country to escape Nazi persecution. I had very little money—no friends. I do now what useful work I can.’
He stared straight ahead of him. Tuppence was conscious of some undercurrent of strong feeling moving him powerfully.
She murmured vaguely:
‘Oh yes, I see. Very creditable, I am sure.’
Carl von Deinim said:
‘My two brothers are in concentration camps. My father died in one. My mother died of sorrow and fear.’
Tuppence thought:
‘The way he says that—as though he had learned it by heart.’
Again she stole a quick glance at him. He was still staring ahead of him, his face impassive.
They walked in silence for some moments. Two men passed them. One of them shot a quick glance at Carl. She heard him mutter to his companion:
‘Bet you that fellow is a German.’
Tuppence saw the colour rise in Carl von Deinim’s cheeks.
Suddenly he lost command of himself. That tide of hidden emotion came to the surface. He stammered:
‘You heard—you heard—that is what they say—I—’
‘My dear boy,’ Tuppence reverted suddenly to her real self. Her voice was crisp and compelling. ‘Don’t be an idiot. You can’t have it both ways.’
He turned his head and stared at her.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re a refugee. You have to take the rough with the smooth. You’re alive, that’s the main thing. Alive and free. For the other—realise that it’s inevitable. This country’s at war. You’re a German.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘You can’t expect the mere man in the street—literally the man in the street—to distinguish between bad Germans and good Germans, if I may put it so crudely.’
He still stared at her. His eyes, so very blue, were poignant with suppressed feeling. Then suddenly he too smiled. He said:
‘They said of Red Indians, did they not, that a good Indian was a dead Indian.’ He laughed. ‘To be a good German I must be on time at my work. Please. Good morning.’
Again that stiff bow. Tuppence stared after his retreating figure. She said to herself:
‘Mrs Blenkensop, you had a lapse then. Strict attention to business in future. Now for breakfast at Sans Souci.’
The hall door of Sans Souci was open. Inside, Mrs Perenna was conducting a vigorous conversation with someone.
‘And you’ll tell him what I think of that last lot of margarine. Get the cooked ham at Quillers—it was twopence cheaper last time there, and be careful about the cabbages—’ She broke off as Tuppence entered.
‘Oh, good morning, Mrs Blenkensop, you are an early bird. You haven’t had breakfast yet. It’s all ready in the dining-room.’ She added, indicating her companion: ‘My daughter Sheila. You haven’t met her. She’s been away and only came home last night.’
Tuppence looked with interest at the vivid, handsome face. No longer full of tragic energy, bored now and resentful. ‘My daughter Sheila.’ Sheila Perenna.
Tuppence murmured a few pleasant words and went into the dining-room. There were three people breakfasting—Mrs Sprot and her baby girl, and big Mrs O’Rourke. Tuppence said ‘Good morning’ and Mrs O’Rourke replied with a hearty ‘The top of the morning to you’ that quite drowned Mrs Sprot’s more anaemic salutation.
The old woman stared at Tuppence with a kind of devouring interest.
‘’Tis a fine thing to be out walking before breakfast,’ she observed. ‘A grand appetite it gives you.’
Mrs Sprot said to her offspring:
‘Nice bread and milk, darling,’ and endeavoured to insinuate a spoonful into Miss Betty Sprot’s mouth.
The latter cleverly circumvented this endeavour by an adroit movement of her head, and continued to stare at Tuppence with large round eyes.
She pointed a milky finger at the newcomer, gave her a dazzling smile and observed in gurgling tones: ‘Ga—ga bouch.’
‘She likes you,’ cried Mrs Sprot, beaming on Tuppence as on one marked out for favour. ‘Sometimes she’s so shy with strangers.’
‘Bouch,’ said Betty Sprot. ‘Ah pooth ah bag,’ she added with emphasis.
‘And what would she be meaning by that?’ demanded Mrs O’Rourke, with interest.
‘She doesn’t speak awfully clearly yet,’ confessed Mrs Sprot. ‘She’s only just over two, you know. I’m afraid most of what she says is just bosh. She can say Mama, though, can’t you, darling?’
Betty looked thoughtfully at her mother and remarked with an air of finality:
‘Cuggle bick.’
‘’Tis a language of their own they have, the little angels,’ boomed out Mrs O’Rourke. ‘Betty, darling, say Mama now.’
Betty looked hard at Mrs O’Rourke, frowned and observed with terrific emphasis: ‘Nazer—’
‘There now, if she isn’t doing her best! And a lovely sweet girl she is.’
Mrs O’Rourke rose, beamed in a ferocious manner at Betty, and waddled heavily out of the room.
‘Ga, ga, ga,’ said Betty with enormous satisfaction, and beat with a spoon on the table.
Tuppence said with a twinkle:
‘What does Nazer really mean?’
Mrs Sprot