case—but it wasn’t an accident.’
Tommy said slowly: ‘I see.’
Grant said quietly:
‘And that’s why we have reason to believe that Farquhar was on to something—that he was getting somewhere at last. By his death that wasn’t an accident.’
Tommy looked a question.
Grant went on:
‘Unfortunately we know next to nothing of what he had discovered. Farquhar had been methodically following up one line after another. Most of them led nowhere.’
Grant paused and then went on:
‘Farquhar was unconscious until a few minutes before he died. Then he tried to say something. What he said was this: N or M. Song Susie.’
‘That,’ said Tommy, ‘doesn’t seem very illuminating.’
Grant smiled.
‘A little more so than you might think. N or M, you see, is a term we have heard before. It refers to two of the most important and trusted German agents. We have come across their activities in other countries and we know just a little about them. It is their mission to organise a Fifth Column in foreign countries and to act as liaison officer between the country in question and Germany. N, we know, is a man. M is a woman. All we know about them is that these two are Hitler’s most highly trusted agents and that in a code message we managed to decipher towards the beginning of the war there occurred this phrase—Suggest N or M for England. Full powers—’
‘I see. And Farquhar—’
‘As I see it, Farquhar must have got on the track of one or other of them. Unfortunately we don’t know which. Song Susie sounds very cryptic—but Farquhar hadn’t a high-class French accent! There was a return ticket to Leahampton in his pocket which is suggestive. Leahampton is on the south coast—a budding Bournemouth or Torquay. Lots of private hotels and guesthouses. Amongst them is one called Sans Souci—’
Tommy said again:
‘Song Susie—Sans Souci—I see.’
Grant said: ‘Do you?’
‘The idea is,’ Tommy said, ‘that I should go there and—well—ferret round.’
‘That is the idea.’
Tommy’s smile broke out again.
‘A bit vague, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘I don’t even know what I’m looking for.’
‘And I can’t tell you. I don’t know. It’s up to you.’
Tommy sighed. He squared his shoulders.
‘I can have a shot at it. But I’m not a very brainy sort of chap.’
‘You did pretty well in the old days, so I’ve heard.’
‘Oh, that was pure luck,’ said Tommy hastily.
‘Well, luck is rather what we need.’
Tommy considered a moment or two. Then he said:
‘About this place, Sans Souci—’
Grant shrugged his shoulders.
‘May be all a mare’s nest. I can’t tell. Farquhar may have been thinking of “Sister Susie sewing shirts for soldiers”. It’s all guesswork.’
‘And Leahampton itself?’
‘Just like any other of these places. There are rows of them. Old ladies, old 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
