“Oh, you do not deny. That is wise. Very good, you will write to this Tuppence, as you call her, bidding her bring the letter here immediately.”
“I can’t do that,” began Tommy.
The other cut in before he had finished the sentence.
“Ah! You can’t? Well, we shall soon see. Coggins!”
“Don’t be in such a hurry,” said Tommy. “And do wait for the end of the sentence. I was going to say that I can’t do that unless you untie my arms. Hang it all, I’m not one of those freaks who can write with their noses or their elbows.”
“You are willing to write, then?”
“Of course. Haven’t I been telling you so all along? I’m all out to be pleasant and obliging. You won’t do anything unkind to Tuppence, of course. I’m sure you won’t. She’s such a nice girl.”
“We only want the letter,” said Dymchurch, but there was a singularly unpleasant smile on his face.
At a nod from him, the brutal Coggins knealt down and unfastened Tommy’s arms. The latter swung them to and fro.
“That’s better,” he said cheerfully. “Will kind Coggins hand me my fountain pen? It’s on the table, I think, with my other miscellaneous property.”
Scowling, the man brought it to hire, and provided a sheet of paper.
“Be careful what you say,” Dymchurch said menacingly.
“We leave it to you, but failure means-death-and slow death at that.”
“In that case,” said Tommy, “I will certainly do my best.”
He reflected a minute or two, then began to scribble rapidly.
“How will this do?” he asked, handing over the completed epistle.
Dear Tuppence,
Can you come along at once and bring that blue letter
with you? We want to decode it here and now.
In haste
Francis
“Francis?” queried the bogus Inspector, with lifted eyebrows. “Was that the name she called you?”
“As you weren’t at my christening,” said Tommy, “I don’t suppose you can know whether it’s my name or not. But I think the cigarette case you took from my pocket is a pretty good proof that I’m speaking the truth.”
The other stepped over to the table and took up the case, read “Francis from Tuppence,” with a faint grin and laid it down again.
“I am glad to find you are behaving so sensibly,” he said. “Coggins, give that note to Vassily. He is on guard outside. Tell him to take it at once.”
The next twenty minutes passed slowly, the ten minutes after that more slowly still. Dymchurch was striding up and down with a face that grew darker and darker. Once he turned menacingly on Tommy.
“If you have dared to double cross us . . .” he growled.
“If we’d had a pack of cards here, we might have had a game of picquet to pass the time,” drawled Tommy. “Women always keep one waiting. I hope you’re not going to be unkind to little Tuppence when she comes?”
“Oh! no,” said Dymchurch. “We shall arrange for you to go to the same place-together.”
“Will you, you swine,” said Tommy under his breath.
Suddenly there was a stir in the outer office. A man whom Tommy had not yet seen poked his head in and growled something in Russian.
“Good,” said Dymchurch. “She is coming-and coming alone.”
For a moment a faint anxiety caught at Tommy’s heart.
The next minute he heard Tuppence’s voice.
“Oh! there you are, Inspector Dymchurch. I’ve brought the letter. Where is Francis?”
With the last words she came through the door, and Vassily sprang on her from behind, clapping his hand over her mouth. Dymchurch tore the handbag from her grasp, and turned over its contents in a frenzied search.
Suddenly he uttered an ejaculation of delight and held up a blue envelope with a Russian stamp on it. Coggins gave a hoarse shout.
And just in that minute of triumph, the other door, the door into Tuppence’s own office, opened noiselessly and Inspector Marriott and two men armed with revolvers stepped into the room, with the sharp command: “Hands Up!”
There was no fight. The others were taken at a hopeless disadvantage. Dymchurch’s automatic lay on the table, and the two others were not armed.