N or M?. Agatha Christie
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one arm into his woolly coat and, toddling over to a chair, picked up the cushion and pushed Bonzo behind it. Chuckling gleefully, she said with terrific pains:
‘Hide! Bow wow. Hide!’
Miss Minton, acting as a kind of interpreter, said with vicarious pride:
‘She loves hide-and-seek. She’s always hiding things.’ She cried out with exaggerated surprise:
‘Where is Bonzo? Where is Bonzo? Where can Bonzo have gone?’
Betty flung herself down and went into ecstasies of mirth.
MrCayley, finding attention diverted from his explanation of Germany’s methods of substitution of raw materials, looked put out and coughed aggressively.
Mrs Sprot came out with her hat on and picked up Betty.
Attention returned to Mr Cayley.
‘You were saying, Mr Cayley?’ said Tuppence.
But Mr Cayley was affronted. He said coldly:
‘That woman is always plumping that child down and expecting people to look after it. I think I’ll have the woollen muffler after all, dear. The sun is going in.’
‘Oh, but, Mr Cayley, do go on with what you were telling us. It was so interesting,’ said Miss Minton.
Mollified, Mr Cayley weightily resumed his discourse, drawing the folds of the woolly muffler closer round his stringy neck.
‘As I was saying, Germany has so perfected her system of—’
Tuppence turned to Mrs Cayley, and asked:
‘What do you think about the war, Mrs Cayley?’
Mrs Cayley jumped.
‘Oh, what do I think? What—what do you mean?’
‘Do you think it will last as long as six years?’
Mrs Cayley said doubtfully:
‘Oh, I hope not. It’s a very long time, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. A long time. What do you really think?’
Mrs Cayley seemed quite alarmed by the question. She said:
‘Oh, I—I don’t know. I don’t know at all. Alfred says it will.’
‘But you don’t think so?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s difficult to say, isn’t it?’
Tuppence felt a wave of exasperation. The chirruping Miss Minton, the dictatorial Mr Cayley, the nit-witted Mrs Cayley—were these people really typical of her fellow-countrymen? Was Mrs Sprot any better with her slightly vacant face and boiled gooseberry eyes? What could she, Tuppence, ever find out here? Not one of these people, surely—
Her thought was checked. She was aware of a shadow. Someone behind her who stood between her and the sun. She turned her head.
Mrs Perenna, standing on the terrace, her eyes on the group. And something in those eyes—scorn, was it? A kind of withering contempt. Tuppence thought:
‘I must find out more about Mrs Perenna.’
Tommy was establishing the happiest of relationships with Major Bletchley.
‘Brought down some golf clubs with you, didn’t you, Meadowes?’
Tommy pleaded guilty.
‘Ha! I can tell you, my eyes don’t miss much. Splendid. We must have a game together. Ever played on the links here?’
Tommy replied in the negative.
‘They’re not bad—not bad at all. Bit on the short side, perhaps, but lovely view over the sea and all that. And never very crowded. Look here, what about coming along with me this morning? We might have a game.’
‘Thanks very much. I’d like it.’
‘Must say I’m glad you’ve arrived,’ remarked Bletchley as they were trudging up the hill. ‘Too many women in that place. Gets on one’s nerves. Glad I’ve got another fellow to keep me in countenance. You can’t count Cayley—the man’s a kind of walking chemist’s shop. Talks of nothing but his health and the treatment he’s tried and the drugs he’s taking. If he threw away all his little pill-boxes and went out for a good ten-mile walk every day he’d be a different man. The only other male in the place is von Deinim, and to tell you the truth, Meadowes, I’m not too easy in my mind about him.’
‘No?’ said Tommy.
‘No. You take my word for it, this refugee business is dangerous. If I had my way I’d intern the lot of them. Safety first.’
‘A bit drastic, perhaps.’
‘Not at all. War’s war. And I’ve got my suspicions of Master Carl. For one thing he’s clearly not a Jew. Then he came over here just a month—only a month, mind you—before war broke out. That’s a bit suspicious.’
Tommy said invitingly:
‘Then you think—?’
‘Spying—that’s his little game!’
‘But surely there’s nothing of great military or naval importance hereabouts?’
‘Ah, old man, that’s where the artfulness comes in! If he were anywhere near Plymouth or Portsmouth he’d be under supervision. In a sleepy place like this, nobody bothers. But it’s on the coast, isn’t it? The truth of it is the Government is a great deal too easy with these enemy aliens. Anyone who cared could come over here and pull a long face and talk about their brothers in concentration camps. Look at that young man—arrogance in every line of him. He’s a Nazi—that’s what he is—a Nazi.’
‘What we really need in this country is a witch doctor or two,’ said Tommy pleasantly.
‘Eh, what’s that?’
‘To smell out the spies,’ Tommy explained gravely.
‘Ha, very good that—very good. Smell ’em out—yes, of course.’
Further conversation was brought to an end, for they had arrived at the clubhouse.
Tommy’s name was put down as a temporary member, he was introduced to the secretary, a vacant-looking elderly man, and the subscription duly paid. Tommy and the Major started on their round.
Tommy was a mediocre golfer. He was glad to find that his standard of play was just about right for his new friend. The Major won by two up and one to play, a very happy state of events.
‘Good match, Meadowes, very good match—you had bad luck with that mashie shot, just turned off at the last minute. We must have a game fairly often. Come along and I’ll introduce you to some of the fellows. Nice lot on the whole, some of them inclined to be rather old women, if you know what I mean? Ah, here’s Haydock—you’ll like Haydock. Retired naval wallah. Has that house on the cliff next door to us. He’s our local ARP warden.’
Commander Haydock was a big hearty man with a weather-beaten face, intensely blue eyes, and a habit of shouting most of his remarks.
He greeted Tommy with friendliness.
‘So you’re going to keep Bletchley countenance at Sans Souci? He’ll be glad of another man. Rather swamped by female society, eh, Bletchley?’
‘I’m not much of a ladies’ man,’ said Major Bletchley.
‘Nonsense,’ said Haydock. ‘Not your type of lady, my boy, that’s it. Old boarding-house pussies. Nothing to do but gossip and knit.’
‘You’re forgetting Miss Perenna,’ said Bletchley.
‘Ah, Sheila—she’s an attractive girl all right. Regular beauty if you ask me.’
‘I’m