The Best Murder Mysteries in One Edition. Эдгар Аллан По

eyes still bored into her like gimlets.

      “How much do you know?” he shot out.

      “Very little indeed,” answered Tuppence, and was pleased to note that Whittington’s uneasiness was augmented instead of allayed. To have boasted that she knew a lot might have raised doubts in his mind.

      “Anyway,” snarled Whittington, “you knew enough to come in here and plump out that name.”

      “It might be my own name,” Tuppence pointed out.

      “It’s likely, isn’t it, then there would be two girls with a name like that?”

      “Or I might just have hit upon it by chance,” continued Tuppence, intoxicated with the success of truthfulness.

      Mr. Whittington brought his fist down upon the desk with a bang.

      “Quit fooling! How much do you know? And how much do you want?”

      The last five words took Tuppence’s fancy mightily, especially after a meagre breakfast and a supper of buns the night before. Her present part was of the adventuress rather than the adventurous order, but she did not deny its possibilities. She sat up and smiled with the air of one who has the situation thoroughly well in hand.

      “My dear Mr. Whittington,” she said, “let us by all means lay our cards upon the table. And pray do not be so angry. You heard me say yesterday that I proposed to live by my wits. It seems to me that I have now proved I have some wits to live by! I admit I have knowledge of a certain name, but perhaps my knowledge ends there.”

      “Yes—and perhaps it doesn’t,” snarled Whittington.

      “You insist on misjudging me,” said Tuppence, and sighed gently.

      “As I said once before,” said Whittington angrily, “quit fooling, and come to the point. You can’t play the innocent with me. You know a great deal more than you’re willing to admit.”

      Tuppence paused a moment to admire her own ingenuity, and then said softly: “I shouldn’t like to contradict you, Mr. Whittington.”

      “So we come to the usual question—how much?”

      Tuppence was in a dilemma. So far she had fooled Whittington with complete success, but to mention a palpably impossible sum might awaken his suspicions. An idea flashed across her brain.

      “Suppose we say a little something down, and a fuller discussion of the matter later?”

      Whittington gave her an ugly glance.

      “Blackmail, eh?”

      Tuppence smiled sweetly.

      “Oh no! Shall we say payment of services in advance?”

      Whittington grunted.

      “You see,” explained Tuppence still sweetly, “I’m so very fond of money!”

      “You’re about the limit, that’s what you are,” growled Whittington, with a sort of unwilling admiration. “You took me in all right. Thought you were quite a meek little kid with just enough brains for my purpose.”

      “Life,” moralized Tuppence, “is full of surprises.”

      “All the same,” continued Whittington, “some one’s been talking. You say it isn’t Rita. Was it——? Oh, come in.”

      The clerk followed his discreet knock into the room, and laid a paper at his master’s elbow.

      “Telephone message just come for you, sir.”

      Whittington snatched it up and read it. A frown gathered on his brow.

      “That’ll do, Brown. You can go.”

      The clerk withdrew, closing the door behind him. Whittington turned to Tuppence.

      “Come to-morrow at the same time. I’m busy now. Here’s fifty to go on with.”

      He rapidly sorted out some notes, and pushed them across the table to Tuppence, then stood up, obviously impatient for her to go.

      The girl counted the notes in a businesslike manner, secured them in her handbag, and rose.

      “Good morning, Mr. Whittington,” she said politely. “At least, au revoir, I should say.”

      “Exactly. Au revoir!” Whittington looked almost genial again, a reversion that aroused in Tuppence a faint misgiving. “Au revoir, my clever and charming young lady.”

      Tuppence sped lightly down the stairs. A wild elation possessed her. A neighbouring clock showed the time to be five minutes to twelve.

      “Let’s give Tommy a surprise!” murmured Tuppence, and hailed a taxi.

      The cab drew up outside the tube station. Tommy was just within the entrance. His eyes opened to their fullest extent as he hurried forward to assist Tuppence to alight. She smiled at him affectionately, and remarked in a slightly affected voice: “Pay the thing, will you, old bean? I’ve got nothing smaller than a five-pound note!”

      Chapter 3

       A Set Back

       Table of Contents

      THE moment was not quite so triumphant as it ought to have been. To begin with, the resources of Tommy’s pockets were somewhat limited. In the end the fare was managed, the lady recollecting a plebeian twopence, and the driver, still holding the varied assortment of coins in his hand, was prevailed upon to move on, which he did after one last hoarse demand as to what the gentleman thought he was giving him?

      “I think you’ve given him too much, Tommy,” said Tuppence innocently. “I fancy he wants to give some of it back.”

      It was possibly this remark which induced the driver to move away.

      “Well,” said Mr. Beresford, at length able to relieve his feelings, “what the—dickens, did you want to take a taxi for?”

      “I was afraid I might be late and keep you waiting,” said Tuppence gently.

      “Afraid—you—might—be—late! Oh, Lord, I give it up!” said Mr. Beresford.

      “And really and truly,” continued Tuppence, opening her eyes very wide, “I haven’t got anything smaller than a five-pound note.”

      “You did that part of it very well, old bean, but all the same the fellow wasn’t taken in—not for a moment!”

      “No,” said Tuppence thoughtfully, “he didn’t believe it. That’s the curious part about speaking the truth. No one does believe it. I found that out this morning. Now let’s go to lunch. How about the Savoy?”

      Tommy grinned.

      “How about the Ritz?”

      “On second thoughts, I prefer the Piccadilly. It’s nearer. We shan’t have to take another taxi. Come along.”

      “Is this a new brand of humour? Or is your brain really unhinged?” inquired Tommy.

      “Your last supposition is the correct one. I have come into money, and the shock has been too much for me! For that particular form of mental trouble an eminent physician recommends unlimited Hors d’oeuvre, Lobster a l’americane, Chicken Newberg, and Peche Melba! Let’s go and get them!”

      “Tuppence, old girl, what has really come over you?”

      “Oh, unbelieving one!” Tuppence wrenched open her bag. “Look here, and here, and here!”

      “Great Jehosaphat! My dear girl, don’t wave Fishers aloft like that!”

      “They’re not Fishers. They’re five times better than Fishers, and this one’s ten times better!”