LITMIR.BIZ

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tell the world,’ assented Mr Ryder. ‘Though I’m just a mite hazed about it all,’ he ended wistfully.

      Tommy got out and assisted Mr Ryder to alight also. They advanced into the alley way. On the left were the backs of a row of dilapidated houses, most of which had doors opening into the alley. Mr Ryder came to a stop before one of these doors.

      ‘In here she went,’ he declared. ‘It was this door – I’m plumb certain of it.’

      ‘They all look very alike,’ said Tommy. ‘Reminds me of the story of the soldier and the Princess. You remember, they made a cross on the door to show which one it was. Shall we do the same?’

      Laughing, he drew a piece of white chalk from his pocket and made a rough cross low down on the door. Then he looked up at various dim shapes that prowled high on the walls of the alley, one of which was uttering a blood-curdling yawl.

      ‘Lots of cats about,’ he remarked cheerfully.

      ‘What is the procedure?’ asked Mr Ryder. ‘Do we step inside?’

      ‘Adopting due precautions, we do,’ said Tommy.

      He glanced up and down the alley way, then softly tried the door. It yielded. He pushed it open and peered into a dim yard.

      Noiselessly he passed through, Mr Ryder on his heels.

      ‘Gee,’ said the latter, ‘there’s someone coming down the alley.’

      He slipped outside again. Tommy stood still for a minute, then hearing nothing went on. He took a torch from his pocket and switched on the light for a brief second. That momentary flash enabled him to see his way ahead. He pushed forward and tried the closed door ahead of him. That too gave, and very softly he pushed it open and went in.

      After standing still a second and listening, he again switched on the torch, and at that flash, as though at a given signal, the place seemed to rise round him. Two men were in front of him, two men were behind him. They closed in on him and bore him down.

      ‘Lights,’ growled a voice.

      An incandescent gas burner was lit. By its light Tommy saw a circle of unpleasing faces. His eyes wandered gently round the room and noted some of the objects in it.

      ‘Ah!’ he said pleasantly. ‘The headquarters of the counterfeiting industry, if I am not mistaken.’

      ‘Shut your jaw,’ growled one of the men.

      The door opened and shut behind Tommy, and a genial and well-known voice spoke.

      ‘Got him, boys. That’s right. Now, Mr Busy, let me tell you you’re up against it.’

      ‘That dear old word,’ said Tommy. ‘How it thrills me. Yes. I am the Mystery Man of Scotland Yard. Why, it’s Mr Hank Ryder. This is a surprise.’

      ‘I guess you mean that too. I’ve been laughing fit to bust all this evening – leading you here like a little child. And you so pleased with your cleverness. Why, sonny, I was on to you from the start. You weren’t in with that crowd for your health. I let you play about for a while, and when you got real suspicious of the lovely Marguerite, I said to myself: “Now’s the time to lead him to it.” I guess your friends won’t be hearing of you for some time.’

      ‘Going to do me in? That’s the correct expression, I believe. You have got it in for me.’

      ‘You’ve got a nerve all right. No, we shan’t attempt violence. Just keep you under restraint, so to speak.’

      ‘I’m afraid you’re backing the wrong horse,’ said Tommy. ‘I’ve no intention of being “kept under restraint,” as you call it.’

      Mr Ryder smiled genially. From outside a cat uttered a melancholy cry to the moon.

      ‘Banking on that cross you put on the door, eh, sonny?’ said Mr Ryder. ‘I shouldn’t if I were you. Because I know that story you mentioned. Heard it when I was a little boy. I stepped back into the alleyway to enact the part of the dog with eyes as big as cart-wheels. If you were in that alley now, you would observe that every door in the alley is marked with an identical cross.’

      Tommy dropped his head despondently.

      ‘Thought you were mighty clever, didn’t you?’ said Ryder.

      As the words left his lips a sharp rapping sounded on the door.

      ‘What’s that?’ he cried, starting.

      At the same time an assault began on the front of the house. The door at the back was a flimsy affair. The lock gave almost immediately and Inspector Marriot showed in the doorway.

      ‘Well done, Marriot,’ said Tommy. ‘You were quite right as to the district. I’d like you to make the acquaintance of Mr Hank Ryder who knows all the best fairy tales.

      ‘You see, Mr Ryder,’ he added gently, ‘I’ve had my suspicions of you. Albert (that important-looking boy with the big ears is Albert) had orders to follow on his motorcycle if you and I went off joy-riding at any time. And whilst I was ostentatiously marking a chalk cross on the door to engage your attention, I also emptied a little bottle of valerian on the ground. Nasty smell, but cats love it. All the cats in the neighbourhood were assembled outside to mark the right house when Albert and the police arrived.’

      He looked at the dumbfounded Mr Ryder with a smile, then rose to his feet.

      ‘I said I would get you Crackler, and I have got you,’ he observed.

      ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ asked Mr Ryder. ‘What do you mean – Crackler?’

      ‘You will find it in the glossary of the next criminal dictionary,’ said Tommy. ‘Etymology doubtful.’

      He looked round him with a happy smile.

      ‘And all done without a nose,’ he murmured brightly. ‘Good-night, Marriot. I must go now to where the happy ending of the story awaits me. No reward like the love of a good woman – and the love of a good woman awaits me at home – that is, I hope it does, but one never knows nowadays. This has been a very dangerous job, Marriot. Do you know Captain Jimmy Faulkener? His dancing is simply too marvellous, and as for his taste in cocktails –! Yes, Marriot, it has been a very dangerous job.’

      Chapter 9

       The Sunningdale Mystery

      ‘The Sunningdale Mystery’ was first published as ‘The Sunninghall Mystery’ in The Sketch, 19 October 1924. The Old Man in the Corner was created by Baroness Orczy (1865–1947).

      ‘Do you know where we are going to lunch today, Tuppence?’

      Mrs Beresford considered the question.

      ‘The Ritz?’ she suggested hopefully.

      ‘Think again.’

      ‘That nice little place in Soho?’

      ‘No.’ Tommy’s tone was full of importance. ‘An ABC shop. This one, in fact.’

      He drew her deftly inside an establishment of the kind indicated, and steered her to a corner marble-topped table.

      ‘Excellent,’ said Tommy with satisfaction, as he seated himself. ‘Couldn’t be better.’

      ‘Why has this craze for the simple life come upon you?’ demanded Tuppence.

      ‘You see, Watson, but you do not observe. I wonder now whether one of these haughty damsels would condescend to notice us? Splendid, she drifts this way. It is true that she appears to be thinking of something else, but doubtless her sub-conscious mind is functioning busily with such matters as ham and eggs and pots of tea. Chop and fried potatoes, please, miss, and a large coffee, a roll and butter, and a plate of tongue for the lady.’

      The waitress repeated the order in a scornful tone, but Tuppence leant forward suddenly and interrupted

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