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Updated: May 2, 2025
"No," admitted Tuppence, "I haven't but I know some one who has." "Who?" "A friend of mine." "Must be a millionaire," remarked Mrs. Vandemeyer unbelievingly. "As a matter of fact he is. He's an American. He'll pay you that without a murmur. You can take it from me that it's a perfectly genuine proposition." Mrs. Vandemeyer sat up again. "I'm inclined to believe you," she said slowly.
By the way, I suppose that's who Annette meant by Marguerite. I didn't get it at the time." The thought saddened him a little, for it seemed to prove that Mrs. Vandemeyer and the girl were on intimate terms. The taxi drew up at the Ritz. Tommy burst into its sacred portals eagerly, but his enthusiasm received a check. He was informed that Miss Cowley had gone out a quarter of an hour ago.
There were several deep-padded leather arm-chairs, and an old-fashioned open hearth. In the window was a big roll-top desk strewn with papers at which the master of the house was sitting. He rose as they entered. "You have a message for me? Ah" he recognized Tuppence with a smile "it's you, is it? Brought a message from Mrs. Vandemeyer, I suppose?" "Not exactly," said Tuppence.
You have lived for two years with Miss Dufferin, The Parsonage, Llanelly, and Mrs. Vandemeyer can apply to her for a reference. "May I be permitted a word or two of advice? Stick as near to the truth as possible it minimizes the danger of 'slips. I suggest that you should represent yourself to be what you are, a former V.A.D., who has chosen domestic service as a profession.
Sometimes they'd ask me questions by the hour I guess there was nothing they didn't know about the third degree! but somehow I managed to hold my own. The strain of it was awful, though... "They took me back to Ireland, and over every step of the Journey again, in case I'd hidden it somewhere en route. Mrs. Vandemeyer and another woman never left me for a moment.
Tuppence nodded at him with the air of one who has established a thorough understanding. "Know who I'm after?" she inquired genially. Albert, still round-eyed, demanded breathlessly: "One of the flats?" Tuppence nodded and jerked a thumb up the stairs. "No. 20. Calls herself Vandemeyer. Vandemeyer! Ha! ha!" Albert's hand stole to his pocket. "A crook?" he queried eagerly. "A crook?
Do you think I don't know? No, don't answer. If you struggle or cry out, I'll shoot you like a dog." The rim of steel pressed a little harder against the girl's temple. "Now then, march," went on Mrs. Vandemeyer. "This way into my room. In a minute, when I've done with you, you'll go to bed as I told you to. And you'll sleep oh yes, my little spy, you'll sleep all right!"
"It would be beyond the power of anyone but a millionaire to pay." "Ah!" snarled the Russian. "You see, I was right!" "My dear Boris, can you not take a joke?" "Was it a joke?" "Of course." "Then all I can say is that your ideas of humour are peculiar, my dear Rita." Mrs. Vandemeyer smiled. "Let us not quarrel, Boris. Touch the bell. We will have some drinks." Tuppence beat a hasty retreat.
A sane person shut up in a lunatic asylum often ends by becoming insane, they say. I guess I was like that. Playing my part had become second nature to me. I wasn't even unhappy in the end just apathetic. Nothing seemed to matter. And the years went on. "And then suddenly things seemed to change. Mrs. Vandemeyer came down from London.
"Heart failure, or possibly an overdose of some sleeping-draught." He sniffed. "Rather an odour of chloral in the air." Tuppence remembered the glass she had upset. A new thought drove her to the washstand. She found the little bottle from which Mrs. Vandemeyer had poured a few drops. It had been three parts full. Now IT WAS EMPTY.
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