“I want the letter.”
“I’ve already told you I haven’t got it.”
“We know that—we also know who must have it. The girl.”
“Very possibly you’re right,” said Tommy. “She may have slipped it into her handbag when your pal Carl startled us.”
“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 knelt 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