N or M?. Агата Кристи
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Colonels, unimpeachable spinsters, dubious customers, fishy customers, a foreigner or two. In fact, a mixed bag.’
‘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—’
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 cautiously. There was, he knew, a real Miss Meadowes—the department was careful about these points.
And how was dear Miss Meadowes?
Tommy explained sadly that Miss Meadowes was no more and Mrs Perenna clicked her teeth sympathetically and made the proper noises and put on a correct mourning face.
She was soon talking volubly again. She had, she was sure, just the room that would suit Mr Meadowes. A lovely sea view. She thought Mr Meadowes was so right to want to get out of London. Very depressing nowadays, so she understood, and, of course, after such a bad go of influenza—
Still talking, Mrs Perenna led Tommy upstairs and showed him various bedrooms. She mentioned a weekly sum. Tommy displayed dismay. Mrs Perenna explained that prices had risen so appallingly. Tommy explained that his income had unfortunately decreased and what with taxation and one thing and another—
Mrs Perenna groaned and said:
‘This terrible war—’
Tommy agreed and said that in his opinion that fellow Hitler ought to be hanged. A madman, that’s what he was, a madman.
Mrs Perenna agreed and said that what with rations and the difficulty the butchers had in getting the meat they wanted—and sometimes too much and sweet-breads and liver practically disappeared, it all made housekeeping very difficult, but as Mr Meadowes was a relation of Miss Meadowes, she would make it half a guinea less.
Tommy then beat a retreat with the promise to think it over and Mrs Perenna pursued him to the gate, talking more volubly than ever and displaying an archness that Tommy found most alarming. She was, he admitted, quite a handsome woman in her way. He found himself wondering what her nationality was. Surely not quite English? The name was Spanish or Portuguese, but that would be her husband’s nationality, not hers. She might, he thought, be Irish, though she had no brogue. But it would account for the vitality and the exuberance.
It was finally settled that Mr Meadowes should move in the following day.
Tommy timed his arrival for six o’clock. Mrs Perenna came out into the hall to greet him, threw a series of instructions about his luggage to an almost imbecile-looking maid, who goggled at Tommy with her mouth open, and then led him into what she called the lounge.
‘I always introduce my guests,’ said Mrs Perenna, beaming determinedly at the suspicious glares of five people. ‘This is our new arrival, Mr Meadowes—Mrs O’Rourke.’ A terrifying mountain of a woman with beady eyes and a moustache gave him a beaming smile.
‘Major Bletchley.’ Major Bletchley eyed Tommy appraisingly and made a stiff inclination of the head.
‘Mr von Deinim.’ A young man, very stiff, fair-haired and blue-eyed, got up and bowed.
‘Miss Minton.’ An elderly woman with a lot of beads, knitting with khaki wool, smiled and tittered.
‘And Mrs Blenkensop.’ More knitting—an untidy dark head which lifted from an absorbed contemplation of a Balaclava helmet.
Tommy held his breath, the room spun round.