N or M by Agatha Christie Page A

what he wanted, poor old Carrot Top. Still I suppose we got to be humble and take a back seat and leave the war to you young idiots.
    "I won't say 'Take care of yourself.' because I gather that the whole point is that you should do just the opposite. But don't go and be stupid.
    "Lots of love,
    “Tuppence.”
    She put the letters into envelopes, addressed and stamped them, and posted them on her way back to Sans Souci.
    As she reached the bottom of the cliff her attention was caught by two figures a little way up.
    Tuppence stopped dead. It was the same woman she had seen yesterday and talking to her was Carl von Deinim.
    Regretfully Tuppence noted the fact that there was no cover. She could not get near them unseen and overhear what was being said.
    Moreover, at that moment, the young German turned his head and saw her. Rather abruptly, the two figures parted. The woman came rapidly down the hill, crossing the road and passing Tuppence on the other side.
    Carl von Deinim waited until Tuppence came up to him.
    Then, gravely and politely he wished her good-morning.
    Tuppence said immediately:
    “What a very odd looking woman that was to whom you were talking, Mr von Deinim.”
    “Yes. It's a Central European type. She is a Pole.”
    “Really? A - a friend of yours?”
    Tuppence's tone was a very good copy of the inquisitive voice of Aunt Gracie in her younger days.
    “Not at all,” said Carl stiffly. “I never saw the woman before.”
    “Oh, really. I thought -” Tuppence paused artistically.
    “She asks me only a direction. I speak German to her because she does not understand much English.”
    “I see. And she was asking the way somewhere?”
    “She asked if I knew a Mrs Gottlieb near here. I do not, and she says she has, perhaps, got the name of the house wrong.”
    “I see.” said Tuppence thoughtfully.
    Mr Rothenstein. Mrs Gottlieb.
    She stole a swift glance at Carl von Deinim. He was walking beside her with a set stiff face.
    Tuppence felt a definite suspicion of this strange woman. And she felt almost convinced that when she had first caught sight of them, the woman and Carl had been already talking some time together.
    Carl von Deinim?
    Carl and Sheila that morning. “You must be careful...”
    Tuppence thought:
    “I hope - I hope these young things aren't in it!”
    Soft, she told herself, middle-aged and soft! That's what she was! The Nazi creed was a youth creed. Nazi agents would in all probability be young. Carl and Sheila. Tommy said Sheila wasn't in it. Yes, but Tommy was a man, and Sheila was beautiful with a queer breath-taking beauty.
    Carl and Sheila, and behind them that enigmatic figure: Mrs Perenna. Mrs Perenna, sometimes the voluble, commonplace, guest house hostess, sometimes, for fleeting minutes, a tragic violent personality.
    Tuppence went slowly upstairs to her bedroom.
    That evening, when Tuppence went to bed, she pulled out the long drawer of her bureau. At one a side of it was a small japanned box with a flimsy cheap lock. Tuppence slipped on gloves, unlocked the box, and opened it. A pile of letters lay inside. On the top was the one received that morning from “Raymond.” Tuppence unfolded it with due precautions.
    Then her lips set grimly. There had been an eyelash in the fold of the paper this morning. The eyelash was not there now.
    She went to the washstand. There was a little bottle labelled innocently: “Grey powder” with a dose.
    Adroitly Tuppence dusted a little of the powder onto the letter and onto the surface of the glossy japanned enamel of the box.
    There were no fingerprints on either of them.
    Again Tuppence nodded her head with a certain grim satisfaction.
    For there should have been fingerprints - her own.
    A servant might have read letters out of curiosity, though it seemed unlikely - certainly unlikely that she should have gone to the trouble of finding a key to fit the box.
    But a servant would not think of wiping off fingerprints.
    Mrs Perenna? Sheila?