‘We’ve put it in the advertisements now,’ Tommy reminded her. ‘So it won’t be so bad.’
‘I’m sure we advertise in the most tempting way too,’ said Tuppence in a melancholy voice. ‘All the same, I’m not going to be beaten. If necessary, I shall commit a crime myself, and you will detect it.’
‘And what good would that do? Think of my feelings when I bid you a tender farewell at Bow Street – or is it Vine Street?’
‘You are thinking of your bachelor days,’ said Tuppence pointedly.
‘The Old Bailey, that is what I mean,’ said Tommy.
‘Well,’ said Tuppence, ‘something has got to be done about it. Here we are bursting with talent and no chance of exercising it.’
‘I always like your cheery optimism, Tuppence. You seem to have no doubt whatever that you have talent to exercise.’
‘Of course,’ said Tuppence, opening her eyes very wide.
‘And yet you have no expert knowledge whatever.’
‘Well, I have read every detective novel that has been published in the last ten years.’
‘So have I,’ said Tommy, ‘but I have a sort of feeling that that wouldn’t really help us much.’
‘You always were a pessimist, Tommy. Belief in oneself – that is the great thing.’
‘Well, you have got it all right,’ said her husband.
‘Of course it is easy in detective stories,’ said Tuppence thoughtfully, ‘because one works backwards. I mean if one knows the solution one can arrange the clues. I wonder now –’
She paused wrinkling her brows.
‘Yes?’ said Tommy inquiringly.
‘I have got a sort of idea,’ said Tuppence. ‘It hasn’t quite come yet, but it’s coming.’ She rose resolutely. ‘I think I shall go and buy that hat I told you about.’
‘Oh, God!’ said Tommy, ‘another hat!’
‘It’s a very nice one,’ said Tuppence with dignity.
She went out with a resolute look on her face.
Once or twice in the following days Tommy inquired curiously about the idea. Tuppence merely shook her head and told him to give her time.
And then, one glorious morning, the first client arrived, and all else was forgotten.
There was a knock on the outer door of the office and Albert, who had just placed an acid drop between his lips, roared out an indistinct ‘Come in.’ He then swallowed the acid drop whole in his surprise and delight. For this looked like the Real Thing.
A tall young man, exquisitely and beautifully dressed, stood hesitating in the doorway.
‘A toff, if ever there was one,’ said Albert to himself. His judgement in such matters was good.
The young man was about twenty-four years of age, had beautifully slicked back hair, a tendency to pink rims round the eyes, and practically no chin to speak of.
In an ecstasy, Albert pressed a button under his desk and almost immediately a perfect fusilade of typing broke out from the direction of ‘Clerks’. Tuppence had rushed to the post of duty. The effect of this hum of industry was to overawe the young man still further.
‘I say,’ he remarked. ‘Is this the whatnot – detective agency – Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives? All that sort of stuff, you know? Eh?’
‘Did you want, sir, to speak to Mr Blunt himself?’ inquired Albert, with an air of doubts as to whether such a thing could be managed.
‘Well – yes, laddie, that was the jolly old idea. Can it be done?’
‘You haven’t an appointment, I suppose?’
The visitor became more and more apologetic.
‘Afraid I haven’t.’
‘It’s always wise, sir, to ring up on the phone first. Mr Blunt is so terribly busy. He’s engaged on the telephone at the moment. Called into consultation by Scotland Yard.’
The young man seemed suitably impressed.
Albert lowered his voice, and imparted information in a friendly fashion.
‘Important theft of documents from a Government Office. They want Mr Blunt to take up the case.’
‘Oh! really. I say. He must be no end of a fellow.’
‘The Boss, sir,’ said Albert, ‘is It.’
The young man sat down on a hard chair, completely unconscious of the fact that he was being subjected to keen scrutiny by two pairs of eyes looking through cunningly contrived peep-holes – those of Tuppence, in the intervals of frenzied typing, and those of Tommy awaiting the suitable moment.
Presently a bell rang with violence on Albert’s desk.
‘The Boss is free now. I will find out whether he can see you,’ said Albert, and disappeared through the door marked ‘Private’.
He reappeared immediately.
‘Will you come this way, sir?’
The visitor was ushered into the private office, and a pleasant faced young man with red hair and an air of brisk capability rose to greet him.
‘Sit down. You wish to consult me? I am Mr Blunt.’
‘Oh! Really. I say, you’re awfully young, aren’t you?’
‘The day of the Old Men is over,’ said Tommy, waving his hand. ‘Who caused the war? The Old Men. Who is responsible for the present state of unemployment? The Old Men. Who is responsible for every single rotten thing that has happened? Again I say, the Old Men!’
‘I expect you are right,’ said the client, ‘I know a fellow who is a poet – at least he says he is a poet – and he always talks like that.’
‘Let me tell you this, sir, not a person on my highly trained staff is a day over twenty-five. That is the truth.’
Since the highly trained staff consisted of Tuppence and Albert, the statement was truth itself.
‘And now – the facts,’ said Mr Blunt.
‘I want you to find someone that’s missing,’ blurted out the young man.
‘Quite so. Will you give me the details?’
‘Well, you see, it’s rather difficult. I mean, it’s a frightfully delicate business and all that. She might be frightfully waxy about it. I mean – well, it’s so dashed difficult to explain.’
He
