The Crackler: A Tommy & Tuppence Story
Author: Agatha Christie
Date: 2013-08-13 00:00:00+00:00
Description: Previously published in the print anthology Partners in Crime. Tommy and Tuppence sleuth after a clever counterfeiter who has been flooding both sides of the Channel with phony bills. In a dark alley, Tommy finds chalked Xs over all the doors—but what do they mean?
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Rights: All rights reserved

Contents

The Crackler

About the Author

The Agatha Christie Collection

Copyright

About the Publisher

THE CRACKLER

“Tuppence,” said Tommy. “We shall have to move into a much larger office.”

“Nonsense,” said Tuppence. “You mustn’t get swollen-headed and think you are a millionaire just because you solved two or three twopenny halfpenny cases with the aid of the most amazing luck.”

“What some call luck, others call skill.”

“Of course, if you really think you are Sherlock Holmes, Thorndyke, McCarty and the Brothers Okewood all rolled into one, there is no more to be said. Personally I would much rather have luck on my side than all the skill in the world.”

“Perhaps there is something in that,” conceded Tommy. “All the same, Tuppence, we do need a larger office.”

“Why?”

“The classics,” said Tommy. “We need several hundreds of yards of extra bookshelf if Edgar Wallace is to be properly represented.”

“We haven’t had an Edgar Wallace case yet.”

“I’m afraid we never shall,” said Tommy. “If you notice he never does give the amateur sleuth much of a chance. It is all stern Scotland Yard kind of stuff—the real thing and no base counterfeit.”

Albert, the office boy, appeared at the door.

“Inspector Marriot to see you,” he announced.

“The mystery man of Scotland Yard,” murmured Tommy.

“The busiest of the Busies,” said Tuppence. “Or is it ‘Noses?’ I always get mixed between Busies and Noses.”

The Inspector advanced upon them with a beaming smile of welcome.

“Well, and how are things?” he asked breezily. “None the worse for our little adventure the other day?”

“Oh, rather not,” said Tuppence. “Too, too marvellous, wasn’t it?”

“Well, I don’t know that I would describe it exactly that way myself,” said Marriot cautiously.

“What has brought you here today, Marriot?” asked Tommy. “Not just solicitude for our nervous systems, is it?”

“No,” said the Inspector. “It is work for the brilliant Mr. Blunt.”

“Ha!” said Tommy. “Let me put my brilliant expression on.”

“I have come to make you a proposition, Mr. Beresford. What would you say to rounding up a really big gang?”

“Is there such a thing?” asked Tommy.

“What do you mean, is there such a thing?”

“I always thought that gangs were confined to fiction—like master crooks and super criminals.”

“The master crook isn’t very common,” agreed the Inspector. “But Lord bless you, sir, there’s any amount of gangs knocking about.”

“I don’t know that I should be at my best dealing with a gang,” said Tommy. “The amateur crime, the crime of quiet family life—that is where I flatter myself that I shine. Drama of strong domestic interest. That’s the thing—with Tuppence at hand to supply all those little feminine details which are so important, and so apt to be ignored by the denser male.”

His eloquence was arrested abruptly as Tuppence threw a cushion at him and requested him not to talk nonsense.

“Will have your little bit of fun, won’t you, sir?” said Inspector Marriot, smiling paternally at them both. “If you’ll not take offence at my saying so, it’s a pleasure to see two young people enjoying life as much as you two do.”

“Do we enjoy life?” said Tuppence, opening her eyes very wide. “I suppose we do. I’ve never thought about it before.”

“To return to that gang you were talking about,” said Tommy. “In spite of my extensive private practice—duchesses, millionaires, and all the best charwomen—I might, perhaps, condescend to look into the matter for you. I don’t like to see Scotland Yard at fault. You’ll have the Daily Mail after you before you know where you are.”

“As I said before, you must have your bit of fun. Well, it’s like this.” Again he hitched his chair forward. “There’s any amount of forged notes going about just now—hundreds of ’em! The amount of counterfeit Treasury notes in circulation would surprise you. Most artistic bit of work it is. Here’s one of ’em.”

He took a one pound note from his pocket and handed it to Tommy.

“Looks all right, doesn’t it?”

Tommy examined the note with great interest.

“By Jove, I’d never spot there was anything wrong with that.”

“No more would most people. Now here’s a genuine one. I’ll show you the differences—very slight they are, but you’ll soon learn to tell them apart. Take this magnifying glass.”

At the end of five minutes’ coaching both Tommy and Tuppence were fairly expert.

“What do you want us to do, Inspector Marriot?” asked Tuppence. “Just keep our eyes open for these things?”

“A great deal more than that, Mrs. Beresford. I’m pinning my faith on you to get to the bottom of the matter. You see, we’ve discovered that the notes are being circulated from the West End. Somebody pretty high up in the social scale is doing the distributing. They’re passing them the other side of the Channel as well. Now there’s a certain person who is interesting us very much. A Major Laidlaw—perhaps you’ve heard the name?”

“I think I have,” said Tommy. “Connected with racing, isn’t that it?”

“Yes. Major Laidlaw is pretty well-known in connection with the Turf. There’s nothing actually against him, but there’s a general impression that he’s been a bit too smart over one or two rather shady transactions. Men in the know look queer when he’s mentioned. Nobody knows much of his past or where he came from. He’s got a very attractive French wife who’s seen about everywhere with a train of admirers. They must spend a lot of money, the Laidlaws, and I’d like to know where it comes from.”

“Possibly from the train of admirers,” suggested Tommy.

“That’s the general idea. But I’m not so sure. It may be coincidence, but a lot of notes have been forthcoming from a certain very smart little gambling club which is much frequented by the Laidlaws and their set. This racing, gambling set get rid of a lot of loose money in notes. There couldn’t be a better way of getting it into circulation.”

“And where do we come in?”

“This way. Young St. Vincent and his wife are friends of yours, I understand? They’re pretty thick with the Laidlaw set—though not as thick as they were. Through them it will be easy for you to get a footing in the same set in a way that none of our people could attempt. There’s no likelihood of their spotting you. You’ll have an ideal opportunity.”

“What have we got to find out exactly?”

“Where they get the stuff from, if they are passing it.”

“Quite so,” said Tommy. “Major Laidlaw goes out with an empty suitcase. When he returns it is crammed to the bursting point with Treasury notes. How is it done? I sleuth him and find out. Is that the idea?”

“More or less. But don’t neglect the lady, and her father, M. Heroulade. Remember the notes are being passed on both sides of the Channel.”

“My dear Marriot,” exclaimed Tommy reproachfully, “Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives do not know the meaning of the word neglect.”

The Inspector rose.

“Well, good luck to you,” he said, and departed.

“Slush,” said Tuppence enthusiastically.

“Eh?” said Tommy, perplexed.

“Counterfeit money,” explained Tuppence. “It is always called slush. I know I’m right. Oh, Tommy, we have got an Edgar Wallace case. At last we are Busies.”

“We are,” said Tommy. “And we are out to get the Crackler, and we will get him good.”

“Did you say the Cackler or the Crackler?”

“The Crackler.”

“Oh, what is a Crackler?”

“A new word that I have coined,” said Tommy. “Descriptive of one who passes false notes into circulation. Banknotes crackle, therefore he is called a crackler. Nothing could be more simple.”

“That is rather a good idea,” said Tuppence. “It makes it seem more real. I like the Rustler myself. Much more descriptive and sinister.”

“No,” said Tommy, “I said the Crackler first, and I stick to it.”

“I shall enjoy this case,” said Tuppence. “Lots of night clubs and cocktails in it. I shall buy some eyelash-black tomorrow.”

“Your eyelashes are black already,” objected her husband.

“I could make them blacker,” said Tuppence. “And cherry lipstick would be useful too. That ultrabright kind.”

“Tuppence,” said Tommy, “you’re a real rake at heart. What a good thing it is that you are married to a sober steady middle-aged man like myself.”

“You wait,” said Tuppence. “When you have been to the Python Club a bit, you won’t be so sober yourself.”

Tommy produced from a cupboard various bottles, two glasses, and a cocktail shaker.

“Let’s start now,” he said. “We are after you, Crackler, and we mean to get you.”

II

Making the acquaintance of the Laidlaws proved an easy affair. Tommy and Tuppence, young, well-dressed, eager for life, and with apparently money to burn, were soon made free of that particular coterie in which the Laidlaws had their being.

Major Laidlaw was a tall, fair man, typically English in appearance, with a hearty sportsmanlike manner, slightly belied by the hard lines round his eyes and the occasional quick sideways glance that assorted oddly with his supposed character.

He was a very dexterous card player, and Tommy noticed that when the stakes were high he seldom rose from the table a loser.

Marguerite Laidlaw was quite a different proposition. She was a charming creature, with the slenderness of a wood nymph and the face of a Greuze picture. Her dainty broken English was fascinating, and Tommy felt that it was no wonder most men were her slaves. She seemed to take a great fancy to Tommy from the first, and playing his part, he allowed himself to be swept into her train.

“My Tommee,” she would say; “but positively I cannot go without my Tommee. His ’air, eet ees the colour of the sunset, ees eet not?”

Her father was a more sinister figure. Very correct, very upright, with his little black beard and his watchful eyes.

Tuppence was the first to report progress. She came to Tommy with ten one pound notes.

“Have a look at these. They’re wrong ’uns, aren’t they?”

Tommy examined them and confirmed Tuppence’s diagnosis.

“Where did you get them from?”

“That boy, Jimmy Faulkener. Marguerite Laidlaw gave them to him to put on a horse for her. I said I wanted small notes and gave him a tenner in exchange.”

“All new and crisp,” said Tommy thoughtfully. “They can’t have passed through many hands. I suppose young Faulkener is all right?”

“Jimmy? Oh, he’s a dear. He and I are becoming great friends.”

“So I have noticed,” said Tommy coldly. “Do you really think it is necessary?”

“Oh, it isn’t business,” said Tuppence cheerfully. “It’s pleasure. He’s such a nice boy. I’m glad to get him out of that woman’s clutches. You’ve no idea of the amount of money she’s cost him.”

“It looks to me as though he were getting rather a pash for you, Tuppence.”

“I’ve thought the same myself sometimes. It’s nice to know one’s still young and attractive, isn’t it?”

“Your moral tone, Tuppence, is deplorably low. You look at these things from the wrong point of view.”

“I haven’t enjoyed myself so much for years,” declared Tuppence shamelessly. “And anyway, what about you? Do I ever see you nowadays? Aren’t you always living in Marguerite Laidlaw’s pocket?”

“Business,” said Tommy crisply.

“But she is attractive, isn’t she?”

“Not my type,” said Tommy. “I don’t admire her.”

“Liar,” laughed Tuppence. “But I always did think I’d rather marry a liar than a fool.”

“I suppose,” said Tommy, “that there’s no absolute necessity for a husband to be either?”

But Tuppence merely threw him a pitying glance and withdrew.

Amongst Mrs. Laidlaw’s train of admirers was a simple but extremely wealthy gentleman of the name of Hank Ryder.

Mr. Ryder came from Alabama, and from the first he was disposed to make a friend and confidant of Tommy.

“That’s a wonderful woman, sir,” said Mr. Ryder following the lovely Marguerite with reverential eyes. “Plumb full of civilisation. Can’t beat la gaie France, can you? When I’m near her, I feel as though I was one of the Almighty’s earliest experiments. I guess he’d got to get his hand in before he attempted anything so lovely as that perfectly lovely woman.”

Tommy agreeing politely with these sentiments, Mr. Ryder unburdened himself still further.

“Seems kind of a shame a lovely creature like that should have money worries.”

“Has she?” asked Tommy.

“You betcha life she has. Queer fish, Laidlaw. She’s skeered of him. Told me so. Daren’t tell him about her little bills.”

“Are they little bills?” asked Tommy.

“Well—when I say little! After all, a woman’s got to wear clothes, and the less there are of them the more they cost, the way I figure it out. And a pretty woman like that doesn’t want to go about in last season’s goods. Cards too, the poor little thing’s been mighty unlucky at cards. Why, she lost fifty to me last night.”

“She won two hundred from Jimmy Faulkener the night before,” said Tommy drily.

“Did she indeed? That relieves my mind some. By the way, there seems to be a lot of dud notes floating around in your country just now. I paid in a bunch at my bank this morning, and twenty-five of them were down-and-outers, so the polite gentleman behind the counter informed me.”

“That’s rather a large proportion. Were they new looking?”

“New and crisp as they make ’em. Why, they were the ones Mrs. Laidlaw paid over to me, I reckon. Wonder where she got ’em from. One of these toughs on the racecourse as likely as not.”

“Yes,” said Tommy. “Very likely.”

“You know, Mr. Beresford, I’m new to this sort of high life. All these swell dames and the rest of the outfit. Only made my pile a short while back. Came right over to Yurrop to see life.”

Tommy nodded. He made a mental note to the effect that with the aid of Marguerite Laidlaw Mr. Ryder would probably see a good deal of life and that the price charged would be heavy.

Meantime, for the second time, he had evidence that the forged notes were being distributed pretty near at hand, and that in all probability Marguerite Laidlaw had a hand in their distribution.

On the following night he himself was given a proof.

It was at that small select meeting place mentioned by Inspector Marriot. There was dancing there, but the real attraction of the place lay behind a pair of imposing folding doors. There were two rooms there with green baize-covered tables, where vast sums changed hands nightly.

Marguerite Laidlaw, rising at last to go, thrust a quantity of small notes into Tommy’s hands.

“They are so bulkee, Tommee—you will change them, yes? A beeg note. See my so sweet leetle bag, it bulges him to distraction.”

Tommy brought her the hundred pound note she asked for. Then in a quiet corner he examined the notes she had given him. At least a quarter of them were counterfeit.

But where did she get her supplies from? To that he had as yet no answer. By means of Albert’s cooperation, he was almost sure that Laidlaw was not the man. His movements had been watched closely and had yielded no result.

Tommy suspected her father, the saturnine M. Heroulade. He went to and fro to France fairly often. What could be simpler than to bring the notes across with him? A false bottom to the trunk—something of that kind.

Tommy strolled slowly out of the Club, absorbed in these thoughts, but was suddenly recalled to immediate necessities. Outside in the street was Mr. Hank P. Ryder, and it was clear at once that Mr. Ryder was not strictly sober. At the moment he was trying to hang his hat on the radiator of a car, and missing it by some inches every time.

“This goddarned hatshtand, this goddarned hatshtand,” said Mr. Ryder tearfully. “Not like that in the Shtates. Man can hang up his hat every night—every night, sir. You’re wearing two hatshs. Never sheen a man wearing two hatshs before. Must be effect—climate.”

“Perhaps I’ve got two heads,” said Tommy gravely.

“Sho you have,” said Mr. Ryder. “Thatsh odd. Thatsh remarkable fac.” Letsh have a cocktail. Prohibition—probishun thatsh whatsh done me in. I guess I’m drunk—constootionally drunk. Cocktailsh—mixed ’em—Angel’s Kiss—that’s Marguerite—lovely creature, fon o’ me too. Horshes Neck, two Martinis—three Road to Ruinsh—no, roadsh to roon—mixed ’em all—in a beer tankard. Bet me I wouldn’t—I shaid—to hell, I shaid—”

Tommy interrupted.

“That’s all right,” he said soothingly. “Now what about getting home?”

“No home to go to,” said Mr. Ryder sadly, and wept.

“What hotel are you staying at?” asked Tommy.

“Can’t go home,” said Mr. Ryder. “Treasure hunt. Swell thing to do. She did it. Whitechapel—white heartsh, white headsn shorrow to the grave—”

But Mr. Ryder became suddenly dignified. He drew himself erect and attained a sudden miraculous command over his speech.

“Young man, I’m telling you. Margee took me. In her car. Treasure hunting. English aristocrashy all do it. Under the cobblestones. Five hundred poundsh. Solemn thought, ’tis solemn thought. I’m telling you, young man. You’ve been kind to me. I’ve got your welfare at heart, sir, at heart. We Americans—”

Tommy interrupted him this time with even less ceremony.

“What’s that you say? Mrs. Laidlaw took you in a car?”

The American nodded with a kind of owlish solemnity.

“To Whitechapel?” Again that owlish nod.

“And you found five hundred pounds there?”

Mr. Ryder struggled for words.

“S-she did,” he corrected his questioner. “Left me outside. Outside the door. Always left outside. It’s kinder sad. Outside—always outside.”

“Would you know your way there?”

“I guess so. Hank Ryder doesn’t lose his bearings—”

Tommy hauled him along unceremoniously. He found his own car where it was waiting, and presently they were bowling eastward. The cool air revived Mr. Ryder. After slumping against Tommy’s shoulder in a kind of stupor, he awoke clearheaded and refreshed.

“Say, boy, where are we?” he demanded.

“Whitechapel,” said Tommy crisply. “Is this where you came with Mrs. Laidlaw tonight?”

“It looks kinder familiar,” admitted Mr. Ryder, looking round. “Seems to me we turned off to the left somewhere down here. That’s it—that street there.”

Tommy turned off obediently. Mr. Ryder issued directions.

“That’s it. Sure. And round to the right. Say, aren’t the smells awful. Yes, past that pub at the corner—sharp round, and stop at the mouth of that little alley. But what’s the big idea? Hand it to me. Some of the oof left behind? Are we going to put one over on them?”

“That’s exactly it,” said Tommy. “We’re going to put one over on them. Rather a joke, isn’t it?”

“I’ll tell the world,” assented Mr. Ryder. “Though I’m just a mite hazed about it all,” he ended wistfully.

Tommy got out and assisted Mr. Ryder to alight also. They advanced into the alleyway. On the left were the backs of a row of dilapidated houses, most of which had doors opening into the alley. Mr. Ryder came to a stop before one of these doors.

“In here she went,” he declared. “It was this door—I’m plumb certain of it.”

“They all look very alike,” said Tommy. “Reminds me of the story of the soldier and the Princess. You remember, they made a cross on the door to show which one it was. Shall we do the same?”

Laughing, he drew a piece of white chalk from his pocket and made a rough cross low down on the door. Then he looked up at various dim shapes that prowled high on the walls of the alley, one of which was uttering a blood-curdling yawl.

“Lots of cats about,” he remarked cheerfully.

“What is the procedure?” asked Mr. Ryder. “Do we step inside?”

“Adopting due precautions, we do,” said Tommy.

He glanced up and down the alley way, then softly tried the door. It yielded. He pushed it open and peered into a dim yard.

Noiselessly he passed through, Mr. Ryder on his heels.

“Gee,” said the latter, “there’s someone coming down the alley.”

He slipped outside again. Tommy stood still for a minute, then hearing nothing went on. He took a torch from his pocket and switched on the light for a brief second. That momentary flash enabled him to see his way ahead. He pushed forward and tried the closed door ahead of him. That too gave, and very softly he pushed it open and went in.

After standing still a second and listening, he again switched on the torch, and at that flash, as though at a given signal, the place seemed to rise round him. Two men were in front of him, two men were behind him. They closed in on him and bore him down.

“Lights,” growled a voice.

An incandescent gas burner was lit. By its light Tommy saw a circle of unpleasing faces. His eyes wandered gently round the room and noted some of the objects in it.

“Ah!” he said pleasantly. “The headquarters of the counterfeiting industry, if I am not mistaken.”

“Shut your jaw,” growled one of the men.

The door opened and shut behind Tommy, and a genial and well-known voice spoke.

“Got him, boys. That’s right. Now, Mr. Busy, let me tell you you’re up against it.”

“That dear old word,” said Tommy. “How it thrills me. Yes. I am the Mystery Man of Scotland Yard. Why, it’s Mr. Hank Ryder. This is a surprise.”

“I guess you mean that too. I’ve been laughing fit to bust all this evening—leading you here like a little child. And you so pleased with your cleverness. Why, sonny, I was on to you from the start. You weren’t in with that crowd for your health. I let you play about for a while, and when you got real suspicious of the lovely Marguerite, I said to myself: ‘Now’s the time to lead him to it.’ I guess your friends won’t be hearing of you for some time.”

“Going to do me in? That’s the correct expression, I believe. You have got it in for me.”

“You’ve got a nerve all right. No, we shan’t attempt violence. Just keep you under restraint, so to speak.”

“I’m afraid you’re backing the wrong horse,” said Tommy. “I’ve no intention of being ‘kept under restraint,’ as you call it.”

Mr. Ryder smiled genially. From outside a cat uttered a melancholy cry to the moon.

“Banking on that cross you put on the door, eh, sonny?” said Mr. Ryder. “I shouldn’t if I were you. Because I know that story you mentioned. Heard it when I was a little boy. I stepped back into the alleyway to enact the part of the dog with eyes as big as cartwheels. If you were in that alley now, you would observe that every door in the alley is marked with an identical cross.”

Tommy dropped his head despondently.

“Thought you were mighty clever, didn’t you?” said Ryder.

As the words left his lips a sharp rapping sounded on the door.

“What’s that?” he cried, starting.

At the same time an assault began on the front of the house. The door at the back was a flimsy affair. The lock gave almost immediately and Inspector Marriot showed in the doorway.

“Well done, Marriot,” said Tommy. “You were quite right as to the district. I’d like you to make the acquaintance of Mr. Hank Ryder who knows all the best fairy tales.

“You see, Mr. Ryder,” he added gently, “I’ve had my suspicions of you. Albert (that important-looking boy with the big ears is Albert) had orders to follow on his motorcycle if you and I went off joyriding at any time. And whilst I was ostentatiously marking a chalk cross on the door to engage your attention, I also emptied a little bottle of valerian on the ground. Nasty smell, but cats love it. All the cats in the neighbourhood were assembled outside to mark the right house when Albert and the police arrived.”

He looked at the dumbfounded Mr. Ryder with a smile, then rose to his feet.

“I said I would get you Crackler, and I have got you,” he observed.

“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Mr. Ryder. “What do you mean—Crackler?”

“You will find it in the glossary of the next criminal dictionary,” said Tommy. “Etymology doubtful.”

He looked round him with a happy smile.

“And all done without a nose,” he murmured brightly. “Good night, Marriot. I must go now to where the happy ending of the story awaits me. No reward like the love of a good woman—and the love of a good woman awaits me at home—that is, I hope it does, but one never knows nowadays. This has been a very dangerous job, Marriot. Do you know Captain Jimmy Faulkener? His dancing is simply too marvellous, and as for his taste in cocktails—! Yes, Marriot, it has been a very dangerous job.”

About the Author

AGATHA CHRISTIE is the most widely published author of all time, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She died in 1976.

www.AgathaChristie.com

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The Agatha Christie Collection

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The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

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They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

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One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

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Third Girl

Hallowe’en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertram’s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Memoirs

An Autobiography

Come, Tell Me How You Live

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

AGATHA CHRISTIE® TOMMY AND TUPPENCE™ PARTNERS IN CRIME™ are registered trademarks of Agatha Christie Limited in the UK and elsewhere. All rights reserved.

“The Crackler” was previously published as part of Partners in Crime short story collection, copyright © 1929 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition AUGUST 2013 ISBN: 9780062298386

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