The Ambassador's Boots: A Short Story
Author: Agatha Christie
Date: 2013-08-27 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; Crime
Description: Previously published in the print anthology Partners in Crime. The monogrammed kit bag of the American ambassador to England, Randolph Wilmot, is switched with Senator Ralph Westerman’s. Wilmot hires Tommy and Tuppence to find out why. When the senator’s valet shows up at the embassy to exchange the bags, they discover that the senator has never heard of this valet, or of any confusion between kit bags. Who is the valet, and why did he need the bag?
Publisher: Harper Collins
Rights: All rights reserved

Contents

The Ambassador’s Boots

About the Author

The Agatha Christie Collection

Copyright

About the Publisher

THE AMBASSADOR’S BOOTS

“My dear fellow, my dear fellow,” said Tuppence, and waved a heavily buttered muffin.

Tommy looked at her for a minute or two, then a broad grin spread over his face and he murmured.

“We do have to be so very careful.”

“That’s right,” said Tuppence, delighted. “You guessed. I am the famous Dr. Fortune and you are Superintendent Bell.”

“Why are you being Reginald Fortune?”

“Well, really because I feel like a lot of hot butter.”

“That is the pleasant side of it,” said Tommy. “But there is another. You will have to examine horribly smashed faces and very extra dead bodies a good deal.”

In answer Tuppence threw across a letter. Tommy’s eyebrows rose in astonishment.

“Randolph Wilmott, the American Ambassador. I wonder what he wants.”

“We shall know tomorrow at eleven o’clock.”

Punctually to the time named, Mr. Randolph Wilmott, United States Ambassador to the Court of St. James, was ushered into Mr. Blunt’s office. He cleared his throat and commenced speaking in a deliberate and characteristic manner.

“I have come to you, Mr. Blunt—By the way, it is Mr. Blunt himself to whom I am speaking, is it not?”

“Certainly,” said Tommy. “I am Theodore Blunt, the head of the firm.”

“I always prefer to deal with heads of departments,” said Mr. Wilmott. “It is more satisfactory in every way. As I was about to say, Mr. Blunt, this business gets my goat. There’s nothing in it to trouble Scotland Yard about—I’m not a penny the worse in any way, and it’s probably all due to a simple mistake. But all the same, I don’t see just how that mistake arose. There’s nothing criminal in it, I dare say, but I’d like just to get the thing straightened out. It makes me mad not to see the why and wherefore of a thing.”

“Absolutely,” said Tommy.

Mr. Wilmott went on. He was slow and given to much detail. At last Tommy managed to get a word in.

“Quite so,” he said, “the position is this. You arrived by the liner Nomadic a week ago. In some way your kitbag and the kitbag of another gentleman, Mr. Ralph Westerham, whose initials are the same as yours, got mixed up. You took Mr. Westerham’s kitbag, and he took yours. Mr. Westerham discovered the mistake immediately, sent round your kitbag to the Embassy, and took away his own. Am I right so far?”

“That is precisely what occurred. The two bags must have been practically identical, and with the initials R.W. being the same in both cases, it is not difficult to understand that an error might have been made. I myself was not aware of what had happened until my valet informed me of the mistake, and that Mr. Westerham—he is a Senator, and a man for whom I have a great admiration—had sent round for his bag and returned mine.”

“Then I don’t see—”

“But you will see. That’s only the beginning of the story. Yesterday, as it chanced, I ran up against Senator Westerham, and I happened to mention the matter to him jestingly. To my great surprise, he did not seem to know what I was talking about, and when I explained, he denied the story absolutely. He had not taken my bag off the ship in mistake for his own—in fact, he had not travelled with such an article amongst his luggage.”

“What an extraordinary thing!”

“Mr. Blunt, it is an extraordinary thing. There seems no rhyme or reason in it. Why, if any one wanted to steal my kitbag, he could do so easily enough without resorting to all this roundabout business. And anyway, it was not stolen, but returned to me. On the other hand, if it were taken by mistake, why use Senator Westerham’s name? It’s a crazy business—but just for curiosity I mean to get to the bottom of it. I hope the case is not too trivial for you to undertake?”

“Not at all. It is a very intriguing little problem, capable as you say, of many simple explanations, but nevertheless baffling on the face of it. The first thing, of course, is the reason of the substitution, if substitution it was. You say nothing was missing from your bag when it came back into your possession?”

“My man says not. He would know.”

“What was in it, if I may ask?”

“Mostly boots.”

“Boots,” said Tommy, discouraged.

“Yes,” said Mr. Wilmott. “Boots. Odd, isn’t it?”

“You’ll forgive my asking you,” said Tommy, “but you didn’t carry any secret papers, or anything of that sort sewn in the lining of a boot or screwed into a false heel?”

The Ambassador seemed amused by the question.

“Secret diplomacy hasn’t got to that pitch, I hope.”

“Only in fiction,” said Tommy with an answering smile, and a slightly apologetic manner. “But you see, we’ve got to account for the thing somehow. Who came for the bag—the other bag, I mean?”

“Supposed to be one of Westerham’s servants. Quite a quiet, ordinary man, so I understand. My valet saw nothing wrong with him.”

“Had it been unpacked, do you know?”

“That I can’t say. I presume not. But perhaps you’d like to ask the valet a few questions? He can tell you more than I can about the business.”

“I think that would be the best plan, Mr. Wilmott.”

The Ambassador scribbled a few words on a card and handed it to Tommy.

“I opine that you would prefer to go round to the Embassy and make your inquiries there? If not, I will have the man, his name is Richards, by the way—sent round here.”

“No, thank you, Mr. Wilmott. I should prefer to go to the Embassy.”

The Ambassador rose, glancing at his watch.

“Dear me, I shall be late for an appointment. Well, goodbye, Mr. Blunt. I leave the matter in your hands.”

He hurried away. Tommy looked at Tuppence, who had been scribbling demurely on her pad in the character of the efficient Miss Robinson.

“What about it, old thing?” he asked. “Do you see, as the old bird put it, any rhyme or reason in the proceedings?”

“None whatever,” replied Tuppence cheerily.

“Well, that’s a start, anyway! It shows that there is really something very deep at the back of it.”

“You think so?”

“It’s a generally accepted hypothesis. Remember Sherlock Holmes and the depth the butter had sunk into the parsley—I mean the other way round. I’ve always had a devouring wish to know all about that case. Perhaps Watson will disinter it from his notebook one of these days. Then I shall die happy. But we must get busy.”

“Quite so,” said Tuppence. “Not a quick man, the esteemed Wilmott, but sure.”

“She knows men,” said Tommy. “Or do I say he knows men. It is so confusing when you assume the character of a male detective.”

“Oh, my dear fellow, my dear fellow!”

“A little more action, Tuppence, and a little less repetition.”

“A classic phrase cannot be repeated too often,” said Tuppence with dignity.

“Have a muffin,” said Tommy kindly.

“Not at eleven o’clock in the morning, thank you. Silly case, this. Boots—you know. Why boots?”

“Well,” said Tommy. “Why not?”

“It doesn’t fit. Boots.” She shook her head. “All wrong. Who wants other people’s boots? The whole thing’s mad.”

“Possibly they got hold of the wrong bag,” suggested Tommy.

“That’s possible. But if they were after papers, a despatch case would be more likely. Papers are the only things one thinks of in connection with ambassadors.”

“Boots suggest footprints,” said Tommy thoughtfully. “Do you think they wanted to lay a trail of Wilmott’s footsteps somewhere?”

Tuppence considered the suggestion, abandoning her role, then shook her head.

“It seems wildly impossible,” she said. “No, I believe we shall have to resign ourselves to the fact that the boots have nothing to do with it.”

“Well,” said Tommy with a sigh, “the next step is to interview friend Richards. He may be able to throw some light on the mystery.”

On production of the Ambassador’s card, Tommy was admitted to the Embassy, and presently a pale young man, with a respectful manner and a subdued voice, presented himself to undergo examination.

“I am Richards, sir. Mr. Wilmott’s valet. I understood you wished to see me?”

“Yes, Richards. Mr. Wilmott called on me this morning, and suggested that I should come round and ask you a few questions. It is this matter of the kitbag.”

“Mr. Wilmott was rather upset over the affair, I know, sir. I can hardly see why, since no harm was done. I certainly understood from the man who called for the other bag that it belonged to Senator Westerham, but of course, I may have been mistaken.”

“What kind of man was he?”

“Middle-aged. Grey hair. Very good class, I should say—most respectable. I understood he was Senator Westerham’s valet. He left Mr. Wilmott’s bag and took away the other.”

“Had it been unpacked at all?”

“Which one, sir?”

“Well, I meant the one you brought from the boat. But I should like to know about the other as well—Mr. Wilmott’s own. Had that been unpacked, do you fancy?”

“I should say not, sir. It was just as I strapped it up on the boat. I should say the gentleman—whoever he was—just opened it—realised it wasn’t his, and shut it up again.”

“Nothing missing? No small article?”

“I don’t think so, sir. In fact, I’m quite sure.”

“And now the other one. Had you started to unpack that?”

“As a matter of fact, sir, I was just opening it at the very moment Senator Westerham’s man arrived. I’d just undone the straps.”

“Did you open it at all?”

“We just unfastened it together, sir, to be sure no mistake had been made this time. The man said it was all right, and he strapped it up again and took it away.”

“What was inside? Boots also?”

“No, sir, mostly toilet things, I fancy. I know I saw a tin of bath salts.”

Tommy abandoned that line of research.

“You never saw anyone tampering with anything in your master’s cabin on board ship, I suppose?”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“Never anything suspicious of any kind?”

“And what do I mean by that, I wonder,” he thought to himself with a trace of amusement. “Anything suspicious—just words!”

But the man in front of him hesitated.

“Now that I remember it—”

“Yes,” said Tommy eagerly. “What?”

“I don’t think it could have anything to do with it. But there was a young lady.”

“Yes? A young lady, you say, what was she doing?”

“She was taken faint, sir. A very pleasant young lady. Miss Eileen O’Hara, her name was. A dainty-looking lady, not tall, with black hair. Just a little foreign-looking.”

“Yes?” said Tommy, with even greater eagerness.

“As I was saying, she was taken queer. Just outside Mr. Wilmott’s cabin. She asked me to fetch the doctor. I helped her to the sofa, and then went off for the doctor. I was some time finding him, and when I found him and brought him back, the young lady was nearly all right again.”

“Oh!” said Tommy.

“You don’t think, sir—”

“It’s difficult to know what to think,” said Tommy noncommittally. “Was this Miss O’Hara travelling alone?”

“Yes, I think so, sir.”

“You haven’t seen her since you landed?”

“No, sir.”

“Well,” said Tommy, after a minute or two spent in reflection. “I think that’s all. Thank you, Richards.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Back at the office of the Detective Agency, Tommy retailed his conversation with Richards to Tuppence, who listened attentively.

“What do you think of it, Tuppence?”

“Oh, my dear fellow, we doctors are always sceptical of a sudden faintness! So very convenient. And Eileen as well as O’Hara. Almost too impossibly Irish, don’t you think?”

“It’s something to go upon at last. Do you know what I am going to do, Tuppence? Advertise for the lady.”

“What?”

“Yes, any information respecting Miss Eileen O’Hara known to have travelled such and such a ship and such and such a date. Either she’ll answer it herself if she’s genuine, or someone may come forward to give us information about her. So far, it’s the only hope of a clue.”

“You’ll also put her on her guard, remember.”

“Well,” said Tommy, “one’s got to risk something.”

“I still can’t see any sense in the thing,” said Tuppence, frowning. “If a gang of crooks get hold of the Ambassador’s bag for an hour or two, and then send it back, what possible good can it do them. Unless there are papers in it they want to copy, and Mr. Wilmott swears there was nothing of the kind.”

Tommy stared at her thoughtfully.

“You put these things rather well, Tuppence,” he said at last. “You’ve given me an idea.”

II

It was two days later. Tuppence was out to lunch. Tommy, alone in the austere office of Mr. Theodore Blunt, was improving his mind by reading the latest sensational thriller.

The door of the office opened and Albert appeared.

“A young lady to see you, sir. Miss Cicely March. She says she has called in answer to an advertisement.”

“Show her in at once,” cried Tommy, thrusting his novel into a convenient drawer.

In another minute, Albert had ushered in the young lady. Tommy had just time to see that she was fair-haired and extremely pretty, when the amazing occurrence happened.

The door through which Albert had just passed out was rudely burst open. In the doorway stood a picturesque figure—a big dark man, Spanish in appearance, with a flaming red tie. His features were distorted with rage, and in his hand was a gleaming pistol.

“So this is the office of Mr. Busybody Blunt,” he said in perfect English. His voice was low and venomous. “Hands up at once—or I shoot.”

It sounded no idle threat. Tommy’s hands went up obediently. The girl, crouched against the wall, gave a gasp of terror.

“This young lady will come with me,” said the man. “Yes, you will, my dear. You have never seen me before, but that doesn’t matter. I can’t have my plans ruined by a silly little chit like you. I seem to remember that you were one of the passengers on the Nomadic. You must have been peering into things that didn’t concern you—but I’ve no intention of letting you blab any secrets to Mr. Blunt here. A very clever gentleman, Mr. Blunt, with his fancy advertisements. But as it happens, I keep an eye on the advertisement columns. That’s how I got wise to his little game.”

“You interest me exceedingly,” said Tommy. “Won’t you go on?”

“Cheek won’t help you, Mr. Blunt. From now on, you’re a marked man. Give up this investigation, and we’ll leave you alone. Otherwise—God help you! Death comes swiftly to those who thwart our plans.”

Tommy did not reply. He was staring over the intruder’s shoulder as though he saw a ghost.

As a matter of fact he was seeing something that caused him far more apprehension than any ghost could have done. Up to now, he had not given a thought to Albert as a factor in the game. He had taken for granted that Albert had already been dealt with by the mysterious stranger. If he had thought of him at all, it was as one lying stunned on the carpet in the outer office.

He now saw that Albert had miraculously escaped the stranger’s attention. But instead of rushing out to fetch a policeman in good sound British fashion, Albert had elected to play a lone hand. The door behind the stranger had opened noiselessly, and Albert stood in the aperture enveloped in a coil of rope.

An agonised yelp of protest burst from Tommy, but too late. Fired with enthusiasm, Albert flung a loop of rope over the intruder’s head, and jerked him backwards off his feet.

The inevitable happened. The pistol went off with a roar and Tommy felt the bullet scorch his ear in passing, ere it buried itself in the plaster behind him.

“I’ve got him, sir,” cried Albert, flushed with triumph. “I’ve lassoed him. I’ve been practising with a lasso in my spare time, sir. Can you give me a hand? He’s very violent.”

Tommy hastened to his faithful henchman’s assistance, mentally determining that Albert should have no further spare time.

“You damned idiot,” he said. “Why didn’t you go for a policeman? Owing to this fool’s play of yours, he as near as anything plugged me through the head. Whew! I’ve never had such a near escape.”

“Lassoed him in the nick of time, I did,” said Albert, his ardour quite undamped. “It’s wonderful what those chaps can do on the prairies, sir.”

“Quite so,” said Tommy, “but we’re not on the prairies. We happen to be in a highly civilised city. And now, my dear sir,” he added to his prostrate foe. “What are we going to do with you?”

A stream of oaths in a foreign language was his only reply.

“Hush,” said Tommy. “I don’t understand a word of what you’re saying, but I’ve got a shrewd idea it’s not the kind of language to use before a lady. You’ll excuse him, won’t you, Miss—do you know, in the excitement of this little upset, I’ve quite forgotten your name?”

“March,” said the girl. She was still white and shaken. But she came forward now and stood by Tommy looking down on the recumbent figure of the discomfited stranger. “What are you going to do with him?”

“I could fetch a bobby now,” said Albert helpfully.

But Tommy, looking up, caught a very faint negative movement of the girl’s head, and took his cue accordingly.

“We’ll let him off this time,” he remarked. “Nevertheless I shall give myself the pleasure of kicking him downstairs—if it’s only to teach him manners to a lady.”

He removed the rope, hauled the victim to his feet, and propelled him briskly through the outer office.

A series of shrill yelps was heard and then a thud. Tommy came back, flushed but smiling.

The girl was staring at him with round eyes.

“Did you—hurt him?”

“I hope so,” said Tommy. “But these dagoes make a practice of crying out before they’re hurt—so I can’t be quite sure about it. Shall we come back into my office, Miss March, and resume our interrupted conversation? I don’t think we shall be interrupted again.”

“I’ll have my lasso ready, sir, in case,” said the helpful Albert.

“Put it away,” ordered Tommy sternly.

He followed the girl into the inner office and sat down at his desk, whilst she took a chair facing him.

“I don’t quite know where to begin,” said the girl. “As you heard that man say, I was a passenger on the Nomadic. The lady you advertised about, Miss O’Hara, was also on board.”

“Exactly,” said Tommy. “That we know already but I suspect you must know something about her doings on board that boat, or else that picturesque gentleman would not have been in such a hurry to intervene.”

“I will tell you everything. The American Ambassador was on board. One day, as I was passing his cabin, I saw this woman inside, and she was doing something so extraordinary that I stopped to watch. She had a man’s boot in her hand—”

“A boot?” cried Tommy excitedly. “I’m sorry, Miss March, go on.”

“With a little pair of scissors, she was slitting up the lining. Then she seemed to push something inside. Just at that minute the doctor and another man came down the passage, and immediately she dropped back on the couch and groaned. I waited, and I gathered from what was being said that she had pretended to feel faint. I say pretended—because when I first caught sight of her, she was obviously feeling nothing of the kind.”

Tommy nodded.

“Well?”

“I rather hate to tell you the next part. I was—curious. And also, I’d been reading silly books, and I wondered if she’d put a bomb or a poisoned needle or something like that in Mr. Wilmott’s boot. I know it’s absurd—but I did think so. Anyway, next time I passed the empty cabin, I slipped in and examined the boot. I drew out from the lining a slip of paper. Just as I had it in my hand, I heard the steward coming, and I hurried out so as not to be caught. The folded paper was still in my hand. When I got into my own cabin I examined it. Mr. Blunt, it was nothing but some verses from the Bible.”

“Verses from the Bible?” said Tommy, very much intrigued.

“At least I thought so at the time. I couldn’t understand it, but I thought perhaps it was the work of a religious maniac. Anyway, I didn’t feel it was worthwhile replacing it. I kept it without thinking much about it until yesterday when I used it to make into a boat for my little nephew to sail in his bath. As the paper got wet, I saw a queer kind of design coming out all over it. I hastily took it out of the bath, and smoothed it out flat again. The water had brought out the hidden message. It was a kind of tracing—and looked like the mouth of a harbour. Immediately after that I read your advertisement.”

Tommy sprang from his chair.

“But this is most important. I see it all now. That tracing is probably the plan of some important harbour defences. It had been stolen by this woman. She feared someone was on her track, and not daring to conceal it amongst her own belongings, she contrived this hiding place. Later, she obtained possession of the bag in which the boot was packed—only to discover that the paper had vanished. Tell me, Miss March, you have brought this paper with you?”

The girl shook her head.

“It’s at my place of business. I run a beauty parlour in Bond Street. I am really an agent for the ‘Cyclamen’ preparations in New York. That is why I had been over there. I thought the paper might be important, so I locked it up in the safe before coming out. Ought not Scotland Yard to know about it?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Then shall we go there now, get it out, and take it straight to Scotland Yard?”

“I am very busy this afternoon,” said Tommy, adopting his professional manner and consulting his watch. “The Bishop of London wants me to take up a case for him. A very curious problem, concerning some vestments and two curates.”

“Then in that case,” said Miss March, rising, “I will go alone.”

Tommy raised a hand in protest.

“As I was about to say,” he said, “the Bishop must wait. I will leave a few words with Albert. I am convinced, Miss March, that until that paper has been safely deposited with Scotland Yard you are in active danger.”

“Do you think so?” said the girl doubtfully.

“I don’t think so, I’m sure. Excuse me.” He scribbled some words on the pad in front of him, then tore off the leaf and folded it.

Taking his hat and stick, he intimated to the girl that he was ready to accompany her. In the outer office he handed the folded paper to Albert with an air of importance.

“I am called out on an urgent case. Explain that to his lordship if he comes. Here are my notes on the case for Miss Robinson.”

“Very good, sir,” said Albert, playing up. “And what about the Duchess’s pearls?”

Tommy waved his hand irritably.

“That must wait also.”

He and Miss March hurried out. Halfway down the stairs they encountered Tuppence coming up. Tommy passed her with a brusque: “Late again, Miss Robinson. I am called out on an important case.”

Tuppence stood still on the stairs and stared after them. Then, with raised eyebrows, she went on up to the office.

As they reached the street, a taxi came sailing up to them. Tommy, on the point of hailing it, changed his mind.

“Are you a good walker, Miss March?” he asked seriously.

“Yes, why? Hadn’t we better take that taxi? It will be quicker.”

“Perhaps you did not notice. That taxi driver has just refused a fare a little lower down the street. He was waiting for us. Your enemies are on the lookout. If you feel equal to it, it would be better for us to walk to Bond Street. In the crowded streets they will not be able to attempt much against us.”

“Very well,” said the girl, rather doubtfully.

They walked westwards. The streets, as Tommy had said, were crowded, and progress was slow. Tommy kept a sharp lookout. Occasionally he drew the girl to one side with a quick gesture, though she herself had seen nothing suspicious.

Suddenly glancing at her, he was seized with compunction.

“I say, you look awfully done up. The shock of that man. Come into this place and have a good cup of strong coffee. I suppose you wouldn’t hear of a nip of brandy.”

The girl shook her head, with a faint smile.

“Coffee be it then,” said Tommy. “I think we can safely risk its being poisoned.”

They lingered some time over their coffee, and finally set off at a brisker pace.

“We’ve thrown them off, I think,” said Tommy, looking over his shoulder.

Cyclamen Ltd was a small establishment in Bond Street, with pale pink taffeta curtains, and one or two jars of face cream and a cake of soap decorating the window.

Cicely March entered, and Tommy followed. The place inside was tiny. On the left was a glass counter with toilet preparations. Behind this counter was a middle-aged woman with grey hair and an exquisite complexion, who acknowledged Cicely March’s entrance with a faint inclination of the head before continuing to talk to the customer she was serving.

This customer was a small dark woman. Her back was to them and they could not see her face. She was speaking in slow difficult English. On the right was a sofa and a couple of chairs with some magazines on a table. Here sat two men—apparently bored husbands waiting for their wives.

Cicely March passed straight on through a door at the end which she held ajar for Tommy to follow her. As he did so, the woman customer exclaimed, “Ah, but I think that is an amico of mine,” and rushed after them, inserting her foot in the door just in time to prevent its closing. At the same time the two men rose to their feet. One followed her through the door, the other advanced to the shop attendant and clapped his hand over her mouth to drown the scream rising to her lips.

In the meantime, things were happening rather quickly beyond the swing door. As Tommy passed through a cloth was flung over his head, and a sickly odour assailed his nostrils. Almost as soon however, it was jerked off again, and a woman’s scream rang out.

Tommy blinked a little and coughed as he took in the scene in front of him. On his right was the mysterious stranger of a few hours ago, and busily fitting handcuffs upon him was one of the bored men from the shop parlour. Just in front of him was Cicely March wrestling vainly to free herself, whilst the woman customer from the shop held her firmly pinioned. As the latter turned her head, and the veil she wore unfastened itself and fell off, the well-known features of Tuppence were revealed.

“Well done, Tuppence,” said Tommy, moving forward. “Let me give you a hand. I shouldn’t struggle if I were you, Miss O’Hara—or do you prefer to be called Miss March?”

“This is Inspector Grace, Tommy,” said Tuppence. “As soon as I read the note you left I rang up Scotland Yard, and Inspector Grace and another man met me outside here.”

“Very glad to get hold of this gentleman,” said the Inspector, indicating his prisoner. “He’s wanted badly. But we’ve never had cause to suspect this place—thought it was a genuine beauty shop.”

“You see,” explained Tommy gently, “we do have to be so very careful! Why should anyone want the Ambassador’s bag for an hour or so? I put the question the other way round. Supposing it was the other bag that was the important one. Someone wanted that bag to be in the Ambassador’s possession for an hour or so. Much more illuminating! Diplomatic luggage is not subjected to the indignities of a Customs examination. Clearly smuggling. But smuggling of what? Nothing too bulky. At once I thought of drugs. Then that picturesque comedy was enacted in my office. They’d seen my advertisement and wanted to put me off the scent—or failing that, out of the way altogether. But I happened to notice an expression of blank dismay in the charming lady’s eyes when Albert did his lasso act. That didn’t fit in very well with her supposed part. The stranger’s attack was meant to assure my confidence in her. I played the part of the credulous sleuth with all my might—swallowed her rather impossible story and permitted her to lure me here, carefully leaving behind full instructions for dealing with the situation. Under various pretexts I delayed our arrival, so as to give you all plenty of time.”

Cicely March was looking at him with a stony expression.

“You are mad. What do you expect to find here?”

“Remembering that Richards saw a tin of bath salts, what do you say about beginning with the bath salts, eh, Inspector?”

“A very sound idea, sir.”

He picked up one of the dainty pink tins, and emptied it on the table. The girl laughed.

“Genuine crystals, eh?” said Tommy. “Nothing more deadly than carbonate of soda?”

“Try the safe,” suggested Tuppence.

There was a small wall safe in the corner. The key was in the lock. Tommy swung it open and gave a shout of satisfaction. The back of the safe opened out into a big recess in the wall, and that recess was stacked with the same elegant tins of bath salts. Rows and rows of them. He took one out and prised up the lid. The top showed the same pink crystals, but underneath was a fine white powder.

The Inspector uttered an ejaculation.

“You’ve got it, sir. Ten to one, that tin’s full of pure cocaine. We knew there was a distributing area somewhere round here, handy to the West End, but we haven’t been able to get a clue to it. This is a fine coup of yours, sir.”

“Rather a triumph for Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives,” said Tommy to Tuppence, as they emerged into the street together. “It’s a great thing to be a married man. Your persistent schooling has at last taught me to recognise peroxide when I see it. Golden hair has got to be the genuine article to take me in. We will concoct a businesslike letter to the Ambassador, informing him that the matter has been dealt with satisfactorily. And now, my dear fellow, what about tea, and lots of hot buttered muffins?”

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

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

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The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

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

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star Over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set and Other Stories

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

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Poirot Investigates

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The Big Four

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Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirot’s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Under Dog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGinty’s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Man’s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

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 Ambassador’s Boots” 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 SEPTEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780062300591

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