that if Mr. Brown is all he is reported to be, it’s a wonder that he has not ere
now done us to death. That’s a good sentence, quite a literary flavour about
it.”
“You’re really more conceited than I am–with less excuse! Ahem! But it
certainly is queer that Mr. Brown has not yet wreaked vengeance upon us. (You
see, I can do it too.) We pass on our way unscathed.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t think us worth bothering about,” suggested the young
man simply.
Tuppence received the remark with great disfavour.
“How horrid you are, Tommy. Just as though we didn’t count.”
“Sorry, Tuppence. What I meant was that we work like moles in the dark,
and that he has no suspicion of our nefarious schemes. Ha ha!”
“Ha ha!” echoed Tuppence approvingly, as she rose.
South Audley Mansions was an imposing-looking block of flats just off Park
Lane. No. 20 was on the second floor.
Tommy had by this time the glibness born of practice. He rattled off the
formula to the elderly woman, looking more like a housekeeper than a servant,
who opened the door to him.
“Christian name?”
“Margaret.”
Tommy spelt it, but the other interrupted him.
“No, G U E.”
“Oh, Marguerite; French way, I see.” He paused, then plunged boldly. “We
had her down as Rita Vandemeyer, but I suppose that’s incorrect?”
“She’s mostly called that, sir, but Marguerite’s her name.”
“Thank you. That’s all. Good morning.”
Hardly able to contain his excitement, Tommy hurried down the stairs.
Tuppence was waiting at the angle of the turn.
“You heard?”
“Yes. Oh, TOMMY!”
Tommy squeezed her arm sympathetically.
“I know, old thing. I feel the same.”
“It’s–it’s so lovely to think of things–and then for them really to
happen!” cried Tuppence enthusiastically.
Her hand was still in Tommy’s. They had reached the entrance hall. There
were footsteps on the stairs above them, and voices.
Suddenly, to Tommy’s complete surprise, Tuppence dragged him into the
little space by the side of the lift where the shadow was deepest.
“What the—-”
“Hush!”
Two men came down the stairs and passed out through the entrance.
Tuppence’s hand closed tighter on Tommy’s arm.
“Quick–follow them. I daren’t. He might recognize me. I don’t know who
the other man is, but the bigger of the two was Whittington.”
CHAPTER VII
THE HOUSE IN SOHO
WHITTINGTON and his companion were walking at a good pace. Tommy started in
pursuit at once, and was in time to see them turn the corner of the street. His
vigorous strides soon enabled him to gain upon them, and by the time he, in his
turn, reached the corner the distance between them was sensibly lessened. The
small Mayfair streets were comparatively deserted, and he judged it wise to
content himself with keeping them in sight.
The sport was a new one to him. Though familiar with the technicalities
from a course of novel reading, he had never before attempted to “follow”
anyone, and it appeared to him at once that, in actual practice, the proceeding
was fraught with difficulties. Supposing, for instance, that they should
suddenly hail a taxi? In books, you simply leapt into another, promised the
driver a sovereign–or its modern equivalent–and there you were. In actual
fact, Tommy foresaw that it was extremely likely there would be no second taxi.
Therefore he would have to run. What happened in actual fact to a young man who
ran incessantly and persistently through the London streets? In a main road he
might hope to create the illusion that he was merely running for a bus. But in
these obscure aristocratic byways he could not but feel that an officious
policeman might stop him to explain matters.
At this juncture in his thoughts a taxi with flag erect turned the corner
of the street ahead. Tommy held his breath. Would they hail it?
He drew a sigh of relief as they allowed it to pass unchallenged. Their
course was a zigzag one designed to bring them as quickly as possible to Oxford
Street. When at length they turned into it, proceeding in an easterly
direction, Tommy slightly increased his pace. Little by little he gained upon