“None whatever,” replied Tuppence cheerily.
“Well, that’s a start anyway! It shows that there is really something very deep at the back of it.”
“You think so?”
“It’s a generally accepted hypothesis. Remember Sherlock Holmes and the depth the butter had sunk into the parsley-I mean the other way round. I’ve always had a devouring wish to know all about that case. Perhaps Watson will disinter it from his notebook one of these days. Then I shall die happy. But we must get busy.”
“Quite so,” said Tuppence. “Not a quick man, the esteemed Wilmott, but sure.”
“She knows men,” said Tommy. “Or do I say he knows men. It is so confusing when you assume the character of a male detective.”
“Oh! My dear fellow, my dear fellow!”
“A little more action, Tuppence, and a little less repetition.”
“A classic phrase cannot be repeated too often,” said Tuppence with dignity.
“Have a muffin,” said Tommy kindly.
“Not at eleven o’clock in the morning, thank you. Silly case, this. Boots-you know-Why boots?”
“Well,” said Tommy, “why not?”
“It doesn’t fit. Boots.” She shook her head. “All wrong. Who wants other people’s boots? The whole thing’s mad.”
“Perhaps they got hold of the wrong bag?” suggested Tommy.
“That’s possible. But if they were after papers, a despatch case would be more likely. Papers are the only things one thinks of in connection with ambassadors.”
“Boots suggest footprints,” said Tommy thoughtfully. “Do you think they wanted to lay a trail of Wilmott’s footsteps somewhere?”
Tuppence considered the suggestion, abandoning her role, then shook her head.
“It seems wildly impossible,” she said. “No, I believe we shall have to resign ourselves to the fact that the boots have nothing to do with it.”
“Well,” said Tommy with a sigh. “The next step is to interview friend Richards. He may be able to throw some light on the mystery.”
On production of the Ambassador’s card, Tommy was admitted to the Embassy, and presently a pale young man, with a respectful manner, and a subdued voice, presented himself to undergo examination.
“I am Richards, sir, Mr. Wilmott’s valet. I understood you wished to see me?”
“Yes, Richards. Mr. Wilmott called on me this morning, and suggested that I should come round and ask you a few questions. It is this matter of the kitbag.”
“Mr. Wilmott was rather upset over the affair, I know, sir. I can hardly see why, since no harm was done. I certainly understood from the man who called for the other bag that it belonged to Senator Westerham, but of course I may have been mistaken.”
“What kind of a man was he?”
“Middle-aged. Grey-hair. Very good class, I should say-most respectable. I understood he was Senator Westerham’s valet. He left Mr. Wilmott’s bag and took away the other.”
“Had it been unpacked at all?”
“Which one, sir?”
“Well I meant the one you brought from the boat. But I should like to know about the other as well-Mr. Wilmott’s own. Had that been unpacked, do you fancy?”
“I should say not, sir. It was just as I strapped it up on the boat. I should say the gentleman-whoever he was-just opened it-realized it wasn’t his, and shut it up again.”
“Nothing missing? No small article?”
“I don’t think so, sir. In fact, I’m quite sure.”
“And now the other one. Had you started to unpack that?” “As a matter of fact, sir, I was just opening it at the very moment Senator Westerham’s man arrived. I’d just undone the straps.”
“Did you open it at all?”
“We just unfastened it together, sir, to be sure no mistake had been made this time. The man said it was all right, and he strapped it up again and took it away.”
“What was inside? Boots also?”
“No, sir, mostly toilet things, I fancy. I know I saw a tin of bath salts.”
Tommy abandoned that line of research.
“You never saw anyone tampering with anything in your master’s cabin on board ship, I suppose?”
“Oh, no, sir.”
“Never anything suspicious of any kind?”
“And what do I mean by that, I wonder,” he thought to himself with a trace of amusement. “Anything suspicious-just words!”