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- Author: Agatha Christie
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“Yes.”
“Yet you speak with a slight American accent?”
“My great pal in hospital was a little American girl. I dare say I picked it up from her. I can soon get out of it again.”
“On the contrary, it might be simpler for you to pass as an American. Details about your past life in England might be more difficult to sustain. Yes, I think that would be decidedly better. Then——”
“One moment, Mr. Whittington! You seem to be taking my consent for granted.”
Whittington looked surprised.
“Surely you are not thinking of refusing? I can assure you that Madame Colombier’s is a most high-class and orthodox establishment. And the terms are most liberal.”
“Exactly,” said Tuppence. “That’s just it. The terms are almost too liberal, Mr. Whittington. I cannot see any way in which I can be worth that amount of money to you.”
“No?” said Whittington softly. “Well, I will tell you. I could doubtless obtain some one else for very much less. What I am willing to pay for is a young lady with sufficient intelligence and presence of mind to sustain her part well, and also one who will have sufficient discretion not to ask too many questions.”
Tuppence smiled a little. She felt that Whittington had scored.
“There’s another thing. So far there has been no mention of Mr. Beresford. Where does he come in?”
“Mr. Beresford?”
“My partner,” said Tuppence with dignity. “You saw us together yesterday.”
“Ah, yes. But I’m afraid we shan’t require his services.”
“Then it’s off!” Tuppence rose. “It’s both or neither. Sorry—but that’s how it is. Good morning, Mr. Whittington.”
“Wait a minute. Let us see if something can’t be managed. Sit down again, Miss——” He paused interrogatively.
Tuppence’s conscience gave her a passing twinge as she remembered the archdeacon. She seized hurriedly on the first name that came into her head.
“Jane Finn,” she said hastily; and then paused open-mouthed at the effect of those two simple words.
All the geniality had faded out of Whittington’s face. It was purple with rage, and the veins stood out on the forehead. And behind it all there lurked a sort of incredulous dismay. He leaned forward and hissed savagely:
“So that’s your little game, is it?”
Tuppence, though utterly taken aback, nevertheless kept her head. She had not the faintest comprehension of his meaning, but she was naturally quick-witted, and felt it imperative to “keep her end up” as she phrased it.
Whittington went on:
“Been playing with me, have you, all the time, like a cat and mouse? Knew all the time what I wanted you for, but kept up the comedy. Is that it, eh?” He was cooling down. The red colour was ebbing out of his face. He eyed her keenly. “Who’s been blabbing? Rita?”
Tuppence shook her head. She was doubtful as to how long she could sustain this illusion, but she realized the importance of not dragging an unknown Rita into it.
“No,” she replied with perfect truth. “Rita knows nothing about me.”
His eyes still bored into her like gimlets.
“How much do you know?” he shot out.
“Very little indeed,” answered Tuppence, and was pleased to note that Whittington’s uneasiness was augmented instead of allayed. To have boasted that she knew a lot might have raised doubts in his mind.
“Anyway,” snarled Whittington, “you knew enough to come in here and plump out that name.”
“It might be my own name,” Tuppence pointed out.
“It’s likely, isn’t it, then there would be two girls with a name like that?”
“Or I might just have hit upon it by chance,” continued Tuppence, intoxicated with the success of truthfulness.
Mr. Whittington brought his fist down upon the desk with a bang.
“Quit fooling! How much do you know? And how much do you want?”
The last five words took Tuppence’s fancy mightily, especially after a meagre breakfast and a supper of buns the night before. Her present part was of the adventuress rather than the adventurous order, but she did not deny its possibilities. She sat up and smiled with the air of one who has the situation thoroughly well in hand.
“My dear Mr. Whittington,” she said, “let us by all means lay our cards upon the table. And pray do not be so angry. You heard me say yesterday that I proposed to live by my wits. It seems to me that I have now proved I have some wits to live by! I admit I have knowledge of a certain name, but perhaps my knowledge ends there.”
“Yes—and perhaps it doesn’t,” snarled Whittington.
“You insist on misjudging me,” said Tuppence, and sighed gently.
“As I said once before,” said Whittington angrily, “quit fooling, and come to the point. You can’t play the innocent with me. You know a great deal more than you’re willing to admit.”
Tuppence paused a moment to admire her own ingenuity, and then said softly:
“I shouldn’t like to contradict you, Mr. Whittington.”
“So we come to the usual question—how much?”
Tuppence was in a dilemma. So far she had fooled Whittington with complete success, but to mention a palpably impossible sum might awaken his suspicions. An idea flashed across her brain.
“Suppose we say a little something down, and a fuller discussion of the matter later?”
Whittington gave her an ugly glance.
“Blackmail, eh?”
Tuppence smiled sweetly.
“Oh no! Shall we say payment of services in advance?”
Whittington grunted.
“You see,” explained Tuppence still sweetly, “I’m so very fond of money!”
“You’re about the limit, that’s what you are,” growled Whittington, with a sort of unwilling admiration. “You took me in all right. Thought you were quite a meek little kid with just enough brains for my purpose.”
“Life,” moralized Tuppence, “is full of surprises.”
“All the same,” continued Whittington, “some one’s been talking. You say it isn’t Rita. Was it——? Oh, come in.”
The clerk followed his discreet knock into the room, and laid a paper at his master’s elbow.
“Telephone message just come for you, sir.”
Whittington snatched it up and read it. A frown gathered on his brow.
“That’ll do, Brown. You can go.”
The clerk withdrew, closing the door behind him. Whittington turned to Tuppence.
“Come to-morrow at the same time. I’m busy now. Here’s fifty to go on with.”
He rapidly sorted out some notes, and pushed them across the table to Tuppence, then stood up, obviously impatient for her to go.
The girl counted the notes in a businesslike manner, secured them in her handbag, and rose.
“Good morning, Mr. Whittington,” she said politely. “At least, au revoir, I should say.”
“Exactly. Au revoir!” Whittington looked almost genial again, a reversion that aroused in Tuppence a faint misgiving. “Au revoir, my clever and charming young lady.”
Tuppence sped lightly down the stairs. A wild elation possessed her. A neighbouring clock showed the time to be five minutes to twelve.
“Let’s give Tommy a surprise!” murmured Tuppence, and hailed a taxi.
The cab drew up outside the tube station. Tommy was just within the entrance. His eyes opened to their fullest extent as he hurried forward to assist Tuppence to alight. She smiled at him affectionately, and remarked in a slightly affected voice:
“Pay the thing, will you, old bean? I’ve got nothing smaller than a five-pound note!”
A SET BACK
The moment was not quite so triumphant as it ought to have been. To begin with, the resources of Tommy’s pockets were somewhat limited. In the end the fare was managed, the lady recollecting a plebeian twopence, and the driver, still holding the varied assortment of coins in his hand, was prevailed upon to move on, which he did after one last hoarse demand as to what the gentleman thought he was giving him?
“I think you’ve given him too much, Tommy,” said Tuppence innocently. “I fancy he wants to give some of it back.”
It was possibly this remark which induced the driver to move away.
“Well,” said Mr. Beresford, at length able to relieve his feelings, “what the—dickens, did you want to take a taxi for?”
“I was afraid I might be late and keep you waiting,” said Tuppence gently.
“Afraid—you—might—be—late! Oh, Lord, I give it up!” said Mr. Beresford.
“And really and truly,” continued Tuppence, opening her eyes very wide, “I haven’t got anything smaller than a five-pound note.”
“You did that part of it very well, old bean, but all the same the fellow wasn’t taken in—not for a moment!”
“No,” said Tuppence thoughtfully, “he didn’t believe it. That’s the curious part about speaking the truth. No one does believe it. I found that out this morning. Now let’s go to lunch. How about the Savoy?”
Tommy grinned.
“How about the Ritz?”
“On second thoughts, I prefer the Piccadilly. It’s nearer. We shan’t have to take another taxi. Come along.”
“Is this a new brand of humour? Or is your brain really unhinged?” inquired Tommy.
“Your last supposition is the correct one. I have come into money, and the shock has been too much for me! For that particular form of mental trouble an eminent physician recommends unlimited Hors d’œuvre, Lobster à l’américane, Chicken Newberg, and Pêche Melba! Let’s go and get them!”
“Tuppence, old girl, what has really come over you?”
“Oh, unbelieving one!” Tuppence wrenched open her bag. “Look here, and here, and here!”
“Great Jehosaphat! My dear girl, don’t wave Fishers aloft like that!”
“They’re not Fishers. They’re five times better than Fishers, and this one’s ten times better!”
Tommy groaned.
“I must have been drinking unawares! Am I dreaming, Tuppence, or do I really behold a large quantity of five-pound notes being waved about in a dangerous fashion?”
“Even so, O King! Now, will you come and have lunch?”
“I’ll come anywhere. But what have you been doing? Holding up a bank?”
“All in good time. What an awful place Piccadilly Circus is. There’s a huge bus bearing down on us. It would be too terrible if they killed the five-pound notes!”
“Grill room?” inquired Tommy, as they reached the opposite pavement in safety.
“The other’s more expensive,” demurred Tuppence.
“That’s mere wicked wanton extravagance. Come on below.”
“Are you sure I can get all the things I want there?”
“That extremely unwholesome menu you were outlining just now? Of course you can—or as much as is good for you, anyway.”
“And now tell me,” said Tommy, unable to restrain his pent-up curiosity any longer, as they sat in state surrounded by the many hors d’œuvre of Tuppence’s dreams.
Miss Cowley told him.
“And the curious part of it is,” she ended, “that I really did invent the name of Jane Finn! I didn’t want to give my own because of poor father—in case I should get mixed up in anything shady.”
“Perhaps that’s so,” said Tommy slowly. “But you didn’t invent it.”
“What?”
“No. I told it to you. Don’t you remember, I said yesterday I’d overheard two people talking about a female called Jane Finn? That’s what brought the name into your mind so pat.”
“So you did. I remember now. How extraordinary——” Tuppence tailed off into silence. Suddenly she aroused herself. “Tommy!”
“Yes?”
“What were they like, the two men you passed?”
Tommy frowned in an effort at remembrance.
“One was a big fat sort of chap. Clean shaven, I think—and dark.”
“That’s him,” cried Tuppence, in an ungrammatical squeal. “That’s Whittington! What was the other man like?”
“I can’t remember. I didn’t notice him particularly. It was really the outlandish name that caught my attention.”
“And people say that coincidences don’t happen!” Tuppence tackled her Pêche Melba happily.
But Tommy had become serious.
“Look here, Tuppence, old girl, what is this going to lead to?”
“More money,” replied his companion.
“I know that. You’ve only got one idea in your head. What I mean is, what about the next step? How are you going to keep the game up?”
“Oh!” Tuppence laid down her spoon. “You’re right, Tommy, it is a bit of a poser.”
“After all, you know, you can’t bluff him forever. You’re sure to slip up sooner or later. And, anyway, I’m not at all sure that it isn’t actionable—blackmail, you know.”
“Nonsense. Blackmail is saying you’ll tell unless you are given money. Now, there’s nothing I could tell, because I don’t really know anything.”
“Hm,” said Tommy doubtfully. “Well, anyway, what are we going to do? Whittington was in a hurry to get rid of you this morning, but next time he’ll want to know something more before he parts with his money. He’ll want to know how much you know, and where you got your information from, and a lot of other things that you can’t cope with. What are you going to do about it?”
Tuppence frowned severely.
“We must think. Order some Turkish coffee, Tommy. Stimulating to the brain. Oh, dear, what a lot I have eaten!”
“You have made rather a hog of yourself! So have I for that matter, but I flatter myself that my choice of dishes was more judicious than yours. Two coffees.” (This was to the waiter.) “One Turkish, one French.”
Tuppence sipped her coffee with a deeply reflective air, and snubbed Tommy when he spoke to her.
“Be quiet. I’m thinking.”
“Shades of Pelmanism!” said
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