N or M?

Tuppence nodded. Her eyes dwelt thoughtfully on the dark passionate face, and on the tight-fitting pullover that revealed the lines of the girl’s figure. She was talking earnestly, with emphasis. Carl von Deinim was listening to her.

Tuppence murmured:

‘I think this is where you leave me.’

‘Right,’ agreed Tommy.

He turned and strolled in the opposite direction.

At the end of the promenade he encountered Major Bletchley. The latter peered at him suspiciously and then grunted out, ‘Good morning.’

‘Good morning.’

‘See you’re like me, an early riser,’ remarked Bletchley.

Tommy said:

‘One gets in the habit of it out East. Of course, that’s many years ago now, but I still wake early.’

‘Quite right, too,’ said Major Bletchley with approval. ‘God, these young fellows nowadays make me sick. Hot baths—coming down to breakfast at ten o’clock or later. No wonder the Germans have been putting it over on us. No stamina. Soft lot of young pups. Army’s not what it was, anyway. Coddle ’em, that’s what they do nowadays. Tuck ’em up at night with hot-water bottles. Faugh! Makes me sick!’

Tommy shook his head in melancholy fashion and Major Bletchley, thus encouraged, went on:

‘Discipline, that’s what we need. Discipline. How are we going to win the war without discipline? Do you know, sir, some of these fellows come on parade in slacks—so I’ve been told. Can’t expect to win a war that way. Slacks! My God!’

Mr Meadowes hazarded the opinion that things were very different from what they had been.

‘It’s all this democracy,’ said Major Bletchley gloomily. ‘You can overdo anything. In my opinion they’re overdoing the democracy business. Mixing up the officers and the men, feeding together in restaurants—Faugh!—the men don’t like it, Meadowes. The troops know. The troops always know.’

‘Of course,’ said Mr Meadowes, ‘I have no real knowledge of Army matters myself—’

The Major interrupted him, shooting a quick sideways glance. ‘In the show in the last war?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Thought so. Saw you’d been drilled. Shoulders. What regiment?’

‘Fifth Corfeshires.’ Tommy remembered to produce Meadowes’ military record.

‘Ah yes, Salonica!’

‘Yes.’

‘I was in Mespot.’

Bletchley plunged into reminiscences. Tommy listened politely. Bletchley ended up wrathfully.

‘And will they make use of me now? No, they will not. Too old. Too old be damned. I could teach one or two of these young cubs something about war.’

‘Even if it’s only what not to do?’ suggested Tommy with a smile.

‘Eh, what’s that?’

A sense of humour was clearly not Major Bletchley’s strong suit. He peered suspiciously at his companion. Tommy hastened to change the conversation.

‘Know anything about that Mrs—Blenkensop, I think her name is?’

‘That’s right, Blenkensop. Not a bad-looking woman—bit long in the tooth—talks too much. Nice woman, but foolish. No, I don’t know her. She’s only been at Sans Souci a couple of days.’ He added: ‘Why do you ask?’

Tommy explained.

‘Happened to meet her just now. Wondered if she was always out as early as this?’

‘Don’t know, I’m sure. Women aren’t usually given to walking before breakfast—thank God,’ he added.

‘Amen,’ said Tommy. He went on: ‘I’m not much good at making polite conversation before breakfast. Hope I wasn’t rude to the woman, but I wanted my exercise.’

Major Bletchley displayed instant sympathy.

‘I’m with you, Meadowes. I’m with you. Women are all very well in their place, but not before breakfast.’ He chuckled a little. ‘Better be careful, old man. She’s a widow, you know.’

‘Is she?’

The Major dug him cheerfully in the ribs.

‘We know what widows are. She’s buried two husbands and if you ask me she’s on the look-out for number three. Keep a very wary eye open, Meadowes. A wary eye. That’s my advice.’

And in high good humour Major Bletchley wheeled about at the end of the parade and set the pace for a smart walk back to breakfast at Sans Souci.

In the meantime, Tuppence had gently continued her walk along the esplanade, passing quite close to the shelter and the young couple talking there. As she passed she caught a few words. It was the girl speaking.

‘But you must be careful, Carl. The very least suspicion—’

Tuppence was out of earshot. Suggestive words? Yes, but capable of any number of harmless interpretations. Unobtrusively she turned and again passed the two. Again words floated to her.

‘Smug, detestable English…’

The eyebrows of Mrs Blenkensop rose ever so slightly. Carl von Deinim was a refugee from Nazi persecution, given asylum and shelter by England. Neither wise nor grateful to listen assentingly to such words.

Again Tuppence turned. But this time, before she reached the shelter, the couple had parted abruptly, the girl to cross the road leaving the sea front, Carl von Deinim to come along to Tuppence’s direction.

He would not, perhaps, have recognised her but for her own pause and hesitation. Then quickly he brought his heels together and bowed.

Tuppence twittered at him:

‘Good morning, Mr von Deinim, isn’t it? Such a lovely morning.’

‘Ah, yes. The weather is fine.’