LITMIR.BIZ

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–?’ faltered Tommy.

      ‘Read for yourself.’

      The typewritten words danced before his eyes. The description of a green toque, a coat with a handkerchief in the pocket marked P.L.C. He looked an agonized question at Mr Carter. The latter replied to it:

      ‘Washed up on the Yorkshire coast – near Ebury. I’m afraid – it looks very much like foul play.’

      ‘My God!’ gasped Tommy. ‘Tuppence! Those devils – I’ll never rest till I’ve got even with them! I’ll hunt them down! I’ll –’

      The pity on Mr Carter’s face stopped him.

      ‘I know what you feel like, my poor boy. But it’s no good. You’ll waste your strength uselessly. It may sound harsh, but my advice to you is: Cut your losses. Time’s merciful. You’ll forget.’

      ‘Forget Tuppence? Never!’

      Mr Carter shook his head.

      ‘So you think now. Well, it won’t bear thinking of – that brave little girl! I’m sorry about the whole business – confoundedly sorry.’

      Tommy came to himself with a start.

      ‘I’m taking up your time, sir,’ he said with an effort. ‘There’s no need for you to blame yourself. I dare say we were a couple of young fools to take on such a job. You warned us all right. But I wish to God I’d been the one to get it in the neck. Goodbye, sir.’

      Back at the Ritz, Tommy packed up his few belongings mechanically, his thoughts far away. He was still bewildered by the introduction of tragedy into his cheerful commonplace existence. What fun they had had together, he and Tuppence! And now – oh, he couldn’t believe it – it couldn’t be true! Tuppence – dead! Little Tuppence, brimming over with life! It was a dream, a horrible dream. Nothing more.

      They brought him a note, a few kind words of sympathy from Peel Edgerton, who had read the news in the paper. (There had been a large headline: EX-V.A.D. FEARED DROWNED.) The letter ended with the offer of a post on a ranch in Argentine, where Sir James had considerable interests.

      ‘Kind old beggar,’ muttered Tommy, as he flung it aside.

      The door opened, and Julius burst in with his usual violence. He held an open newspaper in his hand.

      ‘Say, what’s all this? They seem to have got some fool idea about Tuppence.’

      ‘It’s true,’ said Tommy quietly.

      ‘You mean they’ve done her in?’

      Tommy nodded.

      ‘I suppose when they got the treaty she – wasn’t any good to them any longer, and they were afraid to let her go.’

      ‘Well, I’m darned!’ said Julius. ‘Little Tuppence. She sure was the pluckiest little girl –’

      But suddenly something seemed to crack in Tommy’s brain. He rose to his feet.

      ‘Oh, get out! You don’t really care, damn you! You asked her to marry you in your rotten cold-blooded way, but I loved her. I’d have given the soul out of my body to save her from harm. I’d have stood by without a word and let her marry you, because you could have given her the sort of time she ought to have had, and I was only a poor devil without a penny to bless himself with. But it wouldn’t have been because I didn’t care!’

      ‘See here,’ began Julius temperately.

      ‘Oh, go to the devil! I can’t stand your coming here and talking about “little Tuppence”. Go and look after your cousin. Tuppence is my girl! I’ve always loved her, from the time we played together as kids. We grew up and it was just the same. I shall never forget when I was in hospital, and she came in in that ridiculous cap and apron! It was like a miracle to see the girl I loved turn up in a nurse’s kit –’

      But Julius interrupted him.

      ‘A nurse’s kit! Gee whiz! I must be going to Coney Hatch! I could swear I’ve seen Jane in a nurse’s cap too. And that’s plumb impossible! No, by gum, I’ve got it! It was her I saw talking to Whittington at that nursing home in Bournemouth. She wasn’t a patient there! She was a nurse!’

      ‘I dare say,’ said Tommy angrily, ‘she’s probably been in with them from the start. I shouldn’t wonder if she stole those papers from Danvers to begin with.’

      ‘I’m darned if she did!’ shouted Julius. ‘She’s my cousin, and as patriotic a girl as ever stepped.’

      ‘I don’t care a damn who she is, but get out of here!’ retorted Tommy also at the top of his voice.

      The young men were on the point of coming to blows. But suddenly, with an almost magical abruptness, Julius’s anger abated.

      ‘All right, son,’ he said quietly, ‘I’m going. I don’t blame you any for what you’ve been saying. It’s mighty lucky you did say it. I’ve been the most almighty blithering darned idiot that it’s possible to imagine. Calm down,’ – Tommy had made an impatient gesture – ‘I’m going right away now – going to the London and North Western Railway depot, if you want to know.’

      ‘I don’t care a damn where you’re going,’ growled Tommy.

      As the door closed behind Julius, he returned to his suitcase.

      ‘That’s the lot,’ he murmured, and rang the bell.

      ‘Take my luggage down.’

      ‘Yes, sir. Going away, sir?’

      ‘I’m going to the devil,’ said Tommy, regardless of the menial’s feelings.

      That functionary, however, merely replied respectfully:

      ‘Yes, sir. Shall I call a taxi?’

      Tommy nodded.

      Where was he going? He hadn’t the faintest idea. Beyond a fixed determination to get even with Mr Brown he had no plans. He had re-read Sir James’s letter, and shook his head. Tuppence must be avenged. Still, it was kind of the old fellow.

      ‘Better answer it, I suppose.’ He went across to the writing-table. With the usual perversity of bedroom stationery, there were innumerable envelopes and no paper. He rang. No one came. Tommy fumed at the delay. Then he remembered that there was a good supply in Julius’s sitting-room. The American had announced his immediate departure. There would be no fear of running up against him. Besides, he wouldn’t mind if he did. He was beginning to be rather ashamed of the things he had said. Old Julius had taken them jolly well. He’d apologize if he found him there.

      But the room was deserted. Tommy walked across to the writing-table, and opened the middle drawer. A photograph, carelessly thrust in face upwards, caught his eye. For a moment he stood rooted to the ground. Then he took it out, shut the drawer, walked slowly over to an arm-chair, and sat down still staring at the photograph in his hand.

      What on earth was a photograph of the French girl Annette doing in Julius Hersheimmer’s writing-table?

       Chapter 22

       In Downing Street

      The Prime Minister tapped the desk in front of him with nervous fingers. His face was worn and harassed. He took up his conversation with Mr Carter at the point it had broken off.

      ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Do you really mean that things are not so desperate after all?’

      ‘So this lad seems to think.’

      ‘Let’s have a look at his letter again.’

      Mr

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