Detectives and Young Adventurers: The Complete Short Stories. Agatha Christie

suppose,’ said Tommy, ‘that there’s no absolute necessity for a husband to be either?’

      But Tuppence merely threw him a pitying glance and withdrew.

      Amongst Mrs Laidlaw’s train of admirers was a simple but extremely wealthy gentleman of the name of Hank Ryder.

      Mr Ryder came from Alabama, and from the first he was disposed to make a friend and confidant of Tommy.

      ‘That’s a wonderful woman, sir,’ said Mr Ryder following the lovely Marguerite with reverential eyes. ‘Plumb full of civilisation. Can’t beat la gaie France, can you? When I’m near her, I feel as though I was one of the Almighty’s earliest experiments. I guess he’d got to get his hand in before he attempted anything so lovely as that perfectly lovely woman.’

      Tommy agreeing politely with these sentiments, Mr Ryder unburdened himself still further.

      ‘Seems kind of a shame a lovely creature like that should have money worries.’

      ‘Has she?’ asked Tommy.

      ‘You betcha life she has. Queer fish, Laidlaw. She’s skeered of him. Told me so. Daren’t tell him about her little bills.’

      ‘Are they little bills?’ asked Tommy.

      ‘Well – when I say little! After all, a woman’s got to wear clothes, and the less there are of them the more they cost, the way I figure it out. And a pretty woman like that doesn’t want to go about in last season’s goods. Cards too, the poor little thing’s been mighty unlucky at cards. Why, she lost fifty to me last night.’

      ‘She won two hundred from Jimmy Faulkener the night before,’ said Tommy drily.

      ‘Did she indeed? That relieves my mind some. By the way, there seems to be a lot of dud notes floating around in your country just now. I paid in a bunch at my bank this morning, and twenty-five of them were down-and-outers, so the polite gentleman behind the counter informed me.’

      ‘That’s rather a large proportion. Were they new looking?’

      ‘New and crisp as they make ’em. Why, they were the ones Mrs Laidlaw paid over to me, I reckon. Wonder where she got ’em from. One of these toughs on the racecourse as likely as not.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Tommy. ‘Very likely.’

      ‘You know, Mr Beresford, I’m new to this sort of high life. All these swell dames and the rest of the outfit. Only made my pile a short while back. Came right over to Yurrop to see life.’

      Tommy nodded. He made a mental note to the effect that with the aid of Marguerite Laidlaw, Mr Ryder would probably see a good deal of life and that the price charged would be heavy.

      Meantime, for the second time, he had evidence that the forged notes were being distributed pretty near at hand, and that in all probability Marguerite Laidlaw had a hand in their distribution.

      On the following night he himself was given a proof.

      It was at that small select meeting place mentioned by Inspector Marriot. There was dancing there, but the real attraction of the place lay behind a pair of imposing folding doors. There were two rooms there with green baize-covered tables, where vast sums changed hands nightly.

      Marguerite Laidlaw, rising at last to go, thrust a quantity of small notes into Tommy’s hands.

      ‘They are so bulkee, Tommee – you will change them, yes? A beeg note. See my so sweet leetle bag, it bulges him to distraction.’

      Tommy brought her the hundred pound note she asked for. Then in a quiet corner he examined the notes she had given him. At least a quarter of them were counterfeit.

      But where did she get her supplies from? To that he had as yet no answer. By means of Albert’s cooperation, he was almost sure that Laidlaw was not the man. His movements had been watched closely and had yielded no result.

      Tommy suspected her father, the saturnine M. Heroulade. He went to and fro to France fairly often. What could be simpler than to bring the notes across with him? A false bottom to the trunk – something of that kind.

      Tommy strolled slowly out of the Club, absorbed in these thoughts, but was suddenly recalled to immediate necessities. Outside in the street was Mr Hank P. Ryder, and it was clear at once that Mr Ryder was not strictly sober. At the moment he was trying to hang his hat on the radiator of a car, and missing it by some inches every time.

      ‘This goddarned hatshtand, this goddamed hatshtand,’ said Mr Ryder tearfully. ‘Not like that in the Shtates. Man can hang up his hat every night – every night, sir. You’re wearing two hatshs. Never sheen a man wearing two hatshs before. Must be effect – climate.’

      ‘Perhaps I’ve got two heads,’ said Tommy gravely.

      ‘Sho you have,’ said Mr Ryder. ‘Thatsh odd. Thatsh remarkable fac’. Letsh have a cocktail. Prohibition – probishun thatsh whatsh done me in. I guess I’m drunk – constootionally drunk. Cocktailsh – mixed ’em – Angel’s Kiss – that’s Marguerite – lovely creature, fon o’ me too. Horshes Neck, two Martinis – three Road to Ruinsh – no, roadsh to roon – mixed ’em all – in a beer tankard. Bet me I wouldn’t – I shaid – to hell, I shaid –’

      Tommy interrupted.

      ‘That’s all right,’ he said soothingly. ‘Now what about getting home?’

      ‘No home to go to,’ said Mr Ryder sadly, and wept.

      ‘What hotel are you staying at?’ asked Tommy.

      ‘Can’t go home,’ said Mr Ryder. ‘Treasure hunt. Swell thing to do. She did it. Whitechapel – white heartsh, white headsn shorrow to the grave –’

      But Mr Ryder became suddenly dignified. He drew himself erect and attained a sudden miraculous command over his speech.

      ‘Young man, I’m telling you. Margee took me. In her car. Treasure hunting. English aristocrashy all do it. Under the cobblestones. Five hundred poundsh. Solemn thought, ’tis solemn thought. I’m telling you, young man. You’ve been kind to me. I’ve got your welfare at heart, sir, at heart. We Americans –’

      Tommy interrupted him this time with even less ceremony.

      ‘What’s that you say? Mrs Laidlaw took you in a car?’

      The American nodded with a kind of owlish solemnity.

      ‘To Whitechapel?’ Again that owlish nod.

      ‘And you found five hundred pounds there?’

      Mr Ryder struggled for words.

      ‘S-she did,’ he corrected his questioner. ‘Left me outside. Outside the door. Always left outside. It’s kinder sad. Outside – always outside.’

      ‘Would you know your way there?’

      ‘I guess so. Hank Ryder doesn’t lose his bearings

      –’

      Tommy hauled him along unceremoniously. He found his own car where it was waiting, and presently they were bowling eastward. The cool air revived Mr Ryder. After slumping against Tommy’s shoulder in a kind of stupor, he awoke clear-headed and refreshed.

      ‘Say, boy, where are we?’ he demanded.

      ‘Whitechapel,’ said Tommy crisply. ‘Is this where you came with Mrs Laidlaw tonight?’

      ‘It looks kinder familiar,’ admitted Mr Ryder, looking round. ‘Seems to me we turned off to the left somewhere down here. That’s it – that street there.’

      Tommy turned off obediently. Mr Ryder issued directions.

      ‘That’s it. Sure. And round to the right. Say, aren’t the smells awful. Yes, past that pub at the corner – sharp round, and stop at the mouth of that little