The Ambassador’s Boots: An Agatha Christie Short Story

‘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.’