So here he was - a failure - an ignominious failure - trussed up like a chicken, with no one to guess where he was.
If only Tuppence could have second sight! She might suspect. She had, sometimes, an uncanny insight...
What was that?
He strained his ears listening to a far-off sound.
Only some man humming a tune.
And here he was, unable to make a sound to attract anyone's attention.
The humming came nearer. A most untuneful noise.
But the tune, though mangled, was recognizable. It dated from the last war - had been revived for this one.
"If you were the only girl in the world and I was the only boy."
How often he had hummed that in 1917.
Dash this fellow. Why couldn't he sing in tune?
Suddenly Tommy's body grew taut and rigid. Those particular lapses were strangely familiar. Surely there was only one person who always went wrong in that one particular place and in that one particular way!
"Albert, by Gosh!" thought Tommy.
Albert prowling round Smugglers' Rest. Albert quite close at hand, and here was he, trussed up, unable to move hand or foot, unable to make a sound...
Wait a minute. Was he?
There was just one sound - not so easy with the mouth shut as with the mouth open, but it could be done.
Desperately Tommy began to snore. He kept his eyes closed, ready to feign a deep sleep if Appledore should come down, and he snored, he snored...
Short snore, short snore, short snore - pause - long snore, long snore, long snore - pause - short snore, short snore, short snore...
II
Albert, when Tuppence had left him, was deeply perturbed.
With the advance of years he had become a person of slow mental processes, but those processes were tenacious.
The state of affairs in general seemed to him quite wrong.
The war was all wrong to begin with.
"Those Germans," thought Albert gloomily and almost without rancour. Heiling Hitler and goose-stepping and over-running the world and bombing and machine-gunning and generally making pestilential nuisances of themselves. They'd got to be stopped, no two ways about it - and so far it seemed as though nobody had been able to stop them.
And now here was Mrs Beresford, a nice lady if there ever was one, getting herself mixed up in trouble and looking out for more trouble, and how was he going to stop her? Didn't look as though he could. Up against this Fifth Column and a nasty lot they must be. Some of 'em English born, too! A disgrace, that was!
And the master who was always the one to hold the missus back from her impetuous ways - the master was missing.
Albert didn't like that at all. It looked to him as though "those Germans" might be at the bottom of that.
Yes, it looked bad, it did. Looked as though he might have copped one.
Albert was not given to the exercise of deep reasoning. Like most Englishmen, he felt something strongly and proceeded to muddle around until he had, somehow or other, cleared up the mess. Deciding that the master had got to be found, Albert, rather after the manner of a faithful dog, set out to find him.
He acted upon no settled plan, but proceeded in exactly the same way as he was wont to embark upon the search for his wife's missing handbag or his own spectacles when either of those essential articles were mislaid. That is to say, he went to the place where he had last seen the missing objects and started from there.
In this case, the last thing known about Tommy was that he had dined with Commander Haydock at Smuggler's Rest, and had then returned to Sans Souci and been last seen turning in at the gate.
Albert accordingly climbed the hill as far as the gate of Sans Souci, and spent some five minutes staring hopefully at the gate. Nothing of a scintillating character having occurred to him, he sighed and wandered slowly up the hill to Smuggler's Rest.
Albert, too, had visited the Ornate Cinema that week, and had been powerfully impressed by the theme of "Wandering Minstrel". Romantic, it was! He could not but be struck by the similarity of his own predicament. He, like that hero of the screen, Larry Cooper, was a faithful Blondel seeking his imprisoned master. Like Blondel, he had fought at that master's side in bygone days. Now his master was betrayed by treachery, and there was none but his faithful Blondel to seek for him and restore him to the loving arms of Queen Berengaria.
Albert heaved a sigh as he remembered the melting strains of "Richard, O mon roi," which the faithful troubadour had crooned so feelingly beneath tower after tower.
Pity he himself wasn't better at picking up a tune.
Took him a long time to get hold of a tune, it did.
His lips shaped themselves into a tentative whistle.
Begun playing the old tunes again lately, they had.
"If you were the only girl in the world and I was the only boy -"
Albert paused to survey the neat white painted gate of Smuggler's Rest. That was it, that was where the master had gone to dinner.
He went up the hill a little further and came out on the downs.
Nothing here. Nothing but grass and a few sheep.
The gate of Smugglers' Rest swung open and a car passed out. A big man in plus fours with golf clubs drove out and down the hill.
"That would be Commander Haydock, that would," Albert deduced.
He wandered down again and stared at Smugglers' Rest. A tidy little place. Nice bit of garden. Nice view.
He eyed it benignly. "I would say such wonderful things to you," he hummed.
Through a side door of the house a man came out with a hoe and passed out of sight through a little gate.
Albert, who grew nasturtiums and a bit of lettuce in his back garden, was instantly interested.
He edged nearer to Smugglers' Rest and passed through the open gate. Yes, tidy little place.
He circled slowly round it. Some way below him, reached by steps, was a flat plateau planted as a vegetable garden. The man who had come out of the house was busy down there.
Albert watched him with interest for some minutes. Then he turned to contemplate the house.
Tidy little place, he thought for the third time. Just the sort of place a retired Naval gentleman would like to have. This was where the master had dined that night.
Slowly Albert circled round and round the house. He looked at it much as he had looked at the gate of Sans Souci - hopefully, as though asking it to tell him something.
And as he went he hummed softly to himself, a twentieth century Blondel in search of his master.
"There would be such wonderful things to do," hummed Albert. "I would say such wonderful things to you. There would be such wonderful things to do -" Gone wrong somewhere, hadn't he? He'd hummed that bit before.
Hallo, funny, so the Commander kept pigs, did he? A long drawn grunt came to him. Funny - seemed almost as though it were underground. Funny place to keep pigs.
Couldn't be pigs. No, it was someone having a bit of shut-eye. Bit of shut-eye in the cellar, so it seemed...
Right kind of day for a snooze, but funny place to go for it. Humming like a bumble bee, Albert approached nearer.
That's where it was coming from - through that little grating. Grunt, grunt, grunt. Snoooooore. Snoooooore. Snoooooore - grunt, grunt, grunt. Funny sort of snore - reminded him of something...
"Coo!" said Albert. "That's what it is - S.O.S. - Dot, dot, dot, dash, dash, dash, dot, dot, dot."
He looked round him with a quick glance.
Then, kneeling down, he tapped a soft message on the iron grille of the little window of the cellar.
Chapter 13
Although Tuppence went to bed in an optimistic frame of mind, she suffered a severe reaction in those waking hours of early dawn when human morale sinks to its lowest.
On descending to breakfast, however, her spirits were raised by the sight of a letter on her plate addressed in a painfully backhanded script.
This was no communication from Douglas, Raymond, or Cyril, or any other of the camouflaged correspondence that arrived punctually for her, and which included this morning a brightly coloured Bonzo postcard with a scrawled "Sorry I haven't written before. All well, Maudie," on it.
Tuppence thrust this aside and opened the letter.
Dear Patricia (it ran),
Auntie Grace is, I am afraid, much worse today. The doctors do not actually say she is sinking, but I am afraid that there cannot be much hope. If you want to see her before the end I think it would be well to come today. If you will take the 10:20 train to Yarrow, a friend will meet you with his car.
Shall look forward to seeing you again, dear, in spite of the melancholy reason.
Yours ever,
Penelope Playne.
It was all Tuppence could do to restrain her jubilation.
Good old Penny Playne.
With some difficulty she assumed a mourning expression - and sighed heavily as she laid the letter down.
To the two sympathetic listeners present, Mrs O'Rourke and Miss Minton, she imparted the contents of the letter, and enlarged freely on the personality of Aunt Gracie, her indomitable spirit, her indifference to air raids and danger, and her vanquishment by illness. Miss Minton tended to be curious as to the exact nature of Aunt Grace's sufferings and compared them interestedly with the diseases of her own cousin Selina. Tuppence, hovering slightly between dropsy and diabetes, found herself slightly confused, but compromised on complications with the kidneys. Mrs O'Rourke displayed an avid interest as to whether Tuppence would benefit pecuniarily by the old lady's death and learned that dear Cyril had always been Aunt Gracie's favourite grandnephew as well as being her godson.
After breakfast, Tuppence rang up the tailor's and cancelled a fitting of a coat and skirt for that afternoon, and then sought out Mrs Perenna and explained that she might be away from home for a night or two.
Mrs Perenna expressed the usual conventional sentiments. She looked tired this morning, and had an anxious harassed expression.
"Still no news of Mr Meadowes," she said. "It really is most odd, is it not?"
"I'm sure he must have met with an accident," sighed Mrs Blenkensop. "I always said so."
"Oh, but surely, Mrs Blenkensop, the accident would have been reported by this time."
"Well, what do you think?" asked Tuppence.
Mrs Perenna shook her head.
"I really don't know what to say. I quite agree that he can't have gone away of his own free will. He would have sent word by now."
"It was always a most unjustified suggestion," said Mrs Blenkensop warmly. "That horrid Major Bletchley started it. No, if it isn't an accident, it must be loss of memory. I believe that is far more common than is generally known, especially at times of stress like those we are living through now."
Mrs Perenna nodded her head. She pursed up her lips with rather a doubtful expression. She shot a quick look at Tuppence.
"You know, Mrs Blenkensop," she said, "we don't know very much about Mr Meadowes, do we?"
Tuppence said sharply: "What do you mean?"
"Oh, please don't take me up so sharply. I don't believe it - not for a minute."
"Don't believe what?"
"This story that's going around."
"What story? I haven't heard anything."
"No - well - perhaps people wouldn't tell you. I don't really know how it started. I've an idea that Mr Cayley mentioned it first. Of course he's rather a suspicious man, if you know what I mean?"
Tuppence contained herself with as much patience as possible.
"Please tell me," she said.
"Well, it was just a suggestion, you know, that Mr Meadowes might be an enemy agent - one of, these dreadful Fifth Column people."
Tuppence put all she could of an outraged Mrs Blenkensop into her indignant:
"I never heard of such an absurd idea!"
"No. I don't think there's anything in it. But, of course, Mr Meadowes was seen about a good deal with that German boy - and I believe he asked a lot of questions about the chemical processes at the factory - and so people think that a perhaps the two of them might have been working together."
Tuppence said:
"You don't think there's any doubt about Carl, do you, Mrs Perenna?"
She saw a quick spasm distort the other woman's face.
"I wish I could think it was not true."
Tuppence said gently: "Poor Sheila..."
Mrs Perenna's eyes flashed.
"Her heart's broken, the poor child. Why should it be that way? Why couldn't it be someone else she set her heart upon?"
Tuppence shook her head.
"Things don't happen that way."
"You're right." The other spoke in a deep, bitter voice. "It's got to be the way things tear you to pieces... It's got to be sorrow and bitterness and dust and ashes. I'm sick of the cruelty - the unfairness of this world. I'd like to smash it and break it - and let us all start again near to the earth and without these rules and laws and the tyranny of nation over nation. I'd like -"
A cough interrupted her. A deep, throaty cough. Mrs O'Rourke was standing in the doorway, her vast bulk filling the aperture completely.
"Am I interrupting now?" she demanded.
Like a sponge across a slate, all evidence of Mrs Perenna's outburst vanished from her face - leaving in its wake only the mild worried face of the proprietress of a guest house whose guests were causing trouble.
"No, indeed, Mrs O'Rourke." she said. "We were just talking about what had become of Mr Meadowes. It's amazing the police can find no trace of him."
"Ah, the police!" said Mrs O'Rourke in tones of easy contempt. "What good would they be? No good at all, at all! Only fit for finding motor cars, and dropping on poor wretches who haven't taken out their dog licenses."
"What's your theory, Mrs O'Rourke?" asked Tuppence.
"You'll have been hearing the story that's going about?"
"About his being a Fascist, and an enemy agent - yes," said Tuppence coldly.
"It might be true now," said Mrs O'Rourke thoughtfully, "for there's been something about the man that's intrigued me from the beginning. I've watched him, you know." She smiled directly t Tuppence - and like all Mrs O'Rourke's smiles it had a vaguely terrifying quality - the smile of an ogress. "He'd not the look of a man who'd retired from business and had nothing to do with himself. If I was backing my judgment, I'd say he came here with a purpose."
