property.”
Scowling, the man brought it to him, 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.
“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.