Chapter V

The Adventure of the Sinister Stranger

"It's been a darned dull day," said Tommy, and yawned widely.

"Nearly tea time," said Tuppence and also yawned.

Business was not brisk in the International Detective Agency. The eagerly expected letter from the ham merchant had not arrived and bona fide cases were not forthcoming.

Albert, the office boy, entered with a sealed package which he laid on the table.

"The Mystery of the Sealed Packet," murmured Tommy. "Did it contain the fabulous pearls of the Russian Grand Duchess? Or was it an infernal machine destined to blow Blunt's Brilliant Detectives to pieces?"

"As a matter of fact," said Tuppence, tearing open the package, "it's my wedding present to Francis Haviland. Rather nice, isn't it?"

Tommy took a slender silver cigarette case from her outstretched hand, noted the inscription engraved in her own handwriting: Francis from Tuppence, opened and shut the case, and nodded approvingly.

"You do throw your money about, Tuppence," he remarked. "I'll have one like it, only in gold, for my birthday next month. Fancy wasting a thing like that on Francis Haviland, who always was and always will be one of the most perfect asses God ever made!"

"You forget I used to drive him about during the War, when he was a General. Ah! those were the good old days."

"They were," agreed Tommy. "Beautiful women used to come and squeeze my hand in Hospital, I remember. But I don't send them all wedding presents. I don't believe the bride will care much for this gift of yours, Tuppence."

"It's nice and slim for the pocket, isn't it?" said Tuppence disregarding his remarks.

Tommy slipped it into his own pocket.

"Just right," he said approvingly. "Hullo, here is Albert with the afternoon post. Very possibly the Duchess of Perthshire is commissioning us to find her prize Peke."

They sorted through the letters together. Suddenly Tommy gave vent to a prolonged whistle, and held up one of them in his hand.

"A blue letter with a Russian stamp on it. Do you remember what the Chief said? We were to look out for letters like that."

"How exciting," said Tuppence. "Something has happened at last. Open it and see if the contents are up to schedule. A ham merchant, wasn't it? Half a minute. We shall want some milk for tea. They forgot to leave it this morning. I'll send Albert out for it."

She returned from the outer office, after despatching Albert on his errand, to find Tommy holding the blue sheet of paper in his hand.

"As we thought, Tuppence," he remarked. "Almost word for word what the Chief said."

Tuppence took the letter from him and read it.

It was couched in careful stilted English, and purported to be from one Gregor Feodorsky who was anxious for news of his wife. The International Detective Agency was urged to spare no expense in doing their utmost to trace her. Feodorsky himself was unable to leave Russia at the moment owing to a crisis in the Pork trade.

"I wonder what it really means," said Tuppence thoughtfully, smoothing out the sheet on the table in front of her.

"Code of some kind, I suppose," said Tommy. "That's not our business. Our business is to hand it over to the Chief as soon as possible. Better just verify it by soaking off the stamp and seeing if the number 16 is underneath."

"All right," said Tuppence. "But I should think—"

She stopped dead, and Tommy, surprised by her sudden pause, looked up to see a man's burly figure blocking the doorway.

The intruder was a man of commanding presence, squarely built, with a very round head and a powerful jaw. He might have been about forty-five years of age.

"I must beg your pardon," said the stranger, advancing into the room, hat in hand. "I found your outer office empty, and this door open, so I ventured to intrude. This is Blunt's International Detective Agency, is it not?"

"Certainly it is."

"And you are, perhaps, Mr Blunt? Mr Theodore Blunt?"

"I am Mr Blunt. You wished to consult me? This is my secretary, Miss Robinson."

Tuppence inclined her head gracefully, but continued to scrutinise the stranger narrowly through her downcast eyelashes. She was wondering how long he had been standing in the doorway, and how much he had seen and heard. It did not escape her observation that even while he was talking to Tommy, his eyes kept coming back to the blue paper in her hand.

Tommy's voice, sharp with a warning note, recalled her to the needs of the moment.

"Miss Robinson, please, take notes. Now, sir, will you kindly state the matter on which you wish to have my advice?"

Tuppence reached for her pad and pencil.

The big man began in rather a harsh voice.

"My name is Bower. Dr Charles Bower. I live in Hampstead where I have a practice. I have come to you, Mr Blunt, because several rather strange occurrences have happened lately."

"Yes, Dr Bower?"

"Twice in the course of the last week, I have been summoned by telephone to an urgent case—in each case to find that the summons has been a fake. The first time I thought a practical joke had been played upon me, but on my return the second time, I found that some of my private papers had been displaced and disarranged, and I now believe that the same thing had happened the first time. I made an exhaustive search and came to the conclusion that my whole desk had been thoroughly ransacked, and the various papers replaced hurriedly."

Dr Bower paused, and gazed at Tommy.

"Well, Mr Blunt?"

"Well, Dr Bower," replied the young man smiling.

"What do you think of it, eh?"

"Well, first I should like the facts. What do you keep in your desk?"

"My private papers."

"Exactly. Now, what do those private papers consist of? What value are they to the common thief—or any particular person?"

"To the common thief I cannot see that they would have any value at all, but my notes on certain obscure alkaloids would be of interest to anyone possessed of technical knowledge on the subject. I have been making a study of such matters for the last few years. These alkaloids are deadly and virulent poisons, and are, in addition, almost untraceable. They yield no known reactions."

"The secret of them would be worth money, then?"

"To unscrupulous persons, yes."

"And you suspect—whom?"

The doctor shrugged his massive shoulders.

"As far as I can tell, the house was not entered forcibly from the outside. That seems to point to some member of my household, and yet I cannot believe—" He broke off abruptly, then began again, his face very grave.

"Mr Blunt, I must place myself in your hands unreservedly. I dare not go to the police in the matter. Of my three servants I am almost entirely sure. They have served me long and faithfully. Still, one never knows. Then I have living with me my two nephews, Bertram and Henry. Henry is a good boy—a very good boy—he has never caused me any anxiety, an excellent hard-working young fellow. Bertram, I regret to say, is of quite a different character—wild, extravagant, and persistently idle."

"I see," said Tommy thoughtfully. "You suspect your nephew Bertram of being mixed up in this business. Now I don't agree with you. I suspect the good boy—Henry."

"But why?"

"Tradition. Precedent." Tommy waved his hand airily. "In my experience, the suspicious characters are always innocent—and vice versa, my dear sir. Yes, decidedly, I suspect Henry."

"Excuse me, Mr Blunt," said Tuppence, interrupting in a deferential voice. "Did I understand Dr Bower to say that these notes on—er—obscure alkaloids—are kept in the desk with the other papers?"

"They are kept in the desk, my dear young lady, but in a secret drawer, the position of which is known only to myself. Hence they have so far defied the search."

"And what exactly do you want me to do, Dr Bower?" asked Tommy. "Do you anticipate that a further search will be made?"

"I do, Mr Blunt. I have every reason to believe so. This afternoon, I received a telegram from a patient of mine whom I ordered to Bournemouth a few weeks ago. The telegram states that my patient is in a critical condition, and begs me to come down at once. Rendered suspicious by the events I have told you of, I myself despatched a telegram, prepaid, to the patient in question, and elicited the fact that he was in good health and had sent no summons to me of any kind. It occurred to me that if I pretended to have been taken in, and duly departed to Bournemouth, we should have a very good chance of finding the miscreants at work. They—or he—will doubtless wait until the household has retired to bed before commencing operations. I suggest that you should meet me outside my house at eleven o'clock this evening, and we will investigate the matter together."

"Hoping, in fact, to catch them in the act." Tommy drummed thoughtfully on the table with a paper knife. "Your plan seems to me an excellent one, Dr Bower. I cannot see any hitch in it. Let me see, your address is—?"

"The Larches, Hangman's Lane—rather a lonely part, I am afraid. But we command magnificent views over the Heath."

"Quite so," said Tommy.

The visitor rose.

"Then I shall expect you to-night, Mr Blunt. Outside The Larches at—shall we say, five minutes to eleven—to be on the safe side?"

"Certainly. Five minutes to eleven. Good afternoon, Dr Bower."

Tommy rose, pressed the buzzer on his desk, and Albert appeared to show the client out. The doctor walked with a decided limp, but his powerful physique was evident in spite of it.

"An ugly customer to tackle," murmured Tommy to himself. "Well, Tuppence, old girl, what do you think of it?"

"I'll tell you in one word," said Tuppence. "Clubfoot!"

"What?"

"I said Clubfoot! My study of the Classics has not been in vain. Tommy, this thing's a plant. Obscure alkaloids indeed—I never heard a weaker story."

"Even I did not find it very convincing," admitted her husband.

"Did you see his eyes on the letter? Tommy, he's one of the gang. They've got wise to the fact that you're not the real Mr Blunt, and they're out for our blood."

"In that case," said Tommy, opening the side cupboard, and surveying his rows of books with an affectionate eye. "Our rôle is easy to select. We are the brothers Okewood! And I am Desmond," he added firmly.

Tuppence shrugged her shoulders.

"All right. Have it your own way. I'd just as soon be Francis. Francis was much the more intelligent of the two. Desmond always gets into a mess, and Francis turns up as the gardener or something in the nick of time, and saves the situation."

"Ah!" said Tommy, "but I shall be a super Desmond! When I arrive at The Larches—"

Tuppence interrupted him unceremoniously.

"You're not going to Hampstead to-night?"

"Why not?"

"Walk into a trap with your eyes shut!"

"No, my dear girl, walk into a trap with my eyes open. There's a lot of difference. I think our friend Dr Bower will get a little surprise."

"I don't like it," said Tuppence. "You know what happens when Desmond disobeys the Chief's orders, and acts on his own. Our orders were quite clear. To send on the letters at once and to report immediately on anything that happened."

"You've not got it quite right," said Tommy. "We were to report immediately if anyone came in and mentioned the number 16. Nobody has."

"That's a quibble," said Tuppence.

"It's no good. I've got a fancy for playing a lone hand. My dear old Tuppence, I shall be all right. I shall go armed to the teeth. The essence of the whole thing is that I shall be on my guard and they won't know it. The Chief will be patting me on the back for a good night's work."

"Well," said Tuppence. "I don't like it. That man's as strong as a gorilla."

"Ah!" said Tommy, "but think of my blue-nosed automatic."

The door of the outer office opened and Albert appeared. Closing the door behind him, he approached them with an envelope in his hand.

"A gentleman to see you," said Albert. "When I began the usual stunt of saying you were engaged with Scotland Yard, he told me he knew all about that. Said he came from Scotland Yard himself! And he wrote something on a card and stuck it up in this envelope."

Tommy took the envelope and opened it. As he read the card, a grin passed across his face.

"The gentleman was amusing himself at your expense by speaking the truth, Albert," he remarked. "Show him in."

He tossed the card to Tuppence. It bore the name Detective Inspector Dymchurch, and across it was scrawled in pencil—"A friend of Marriot's."

In another minute the Scotland Yard detective was entering the inner office. In appearance, Inspector Dymchurch was of the same type as Inspector Marriot, short and thick set, with shrewd eyes.

"Good afternoon," said the detective breezily. "Marriot's away in South Wales, but before he went, he asked me to keep an eye on you two, and on this place in general. Oh! bless you, sir," he went on, as Tommy seemed about to interrupt him, "we know all about it. It's not our department, and we don't interfere. But somebody's got wise lately to the fact that all is not what it seems. You've had a gentleman here this afternoon. I don't know what he called himself, and I don't know what his real name is, but I know just a little about him. Enough to want to know more. Am I right in assuming that he made a date with you for some particular spot this evening?"

"Quite right."

"I thought as much. 16 Westerham Road, Finsbury Park? Was that it?"

"You're wrong there," said Tommy with a smile. "Dead wrong. The Larches, Hampstead."

Dymchurch seemed honestly taken aback. Clearly he had not expected this.

"I don't understand it," he muttered. "It must be a new layout. The Larches, Hampstead, you said?"

"Yes. I'm to meet him there at eleven o'clock to-night."

"Don't you do it, sir."

"There!" burst from Tuppence.

Tommy flushed.

"If you think, Inspector—" he began heatedly.

But the Inspector raised a soothing hand.

"I'll tell you what I think, Mr Blunt. The place you want to be at eleven o'clock to-night is here in this office."

"What?" cried Tuppence, astonished.

"Here in this office. Never mind how I know—departments overlap sometimes—but you got one of those famous "Blue" letters to-day. Old what's his name is after that. He lures you up to Hampstead, makes quite sure of your being out of the way, and steps in here at night when all the building is empty and quiet to have a good search round at his leisure."

"But why should he think the letter would be here? He'd know I should have it on me or else have passed it on."

"Begging your pardon, sir, that's just what he wouldn't know. He may have tumbled to the fact that you're not the original Mr Blunt, but he probably thinks that you're a bona fide gentleman who's bought the business. In that case, the letter would be all in the way of regular business and would be filed as such."

"I see," said Tuppence.

"And that's just what we've got to let him think. We'll catch him red handed here to-night."

"So that's the plan, is it?"

"Yes. It's the chance of a lifetime. Now, let me see, what's the time? Six o'clock. What time do you usually leave here, sir?"

"About six."

"You must seem to leave the place as usual. Actually we'll sneak back to it as soon as possible. I don't believe they'll come here till about eleven, but of course they might. If you'll excuse me, I'll just go and take a look round outside and see if I can make out anyone watching the place."

Dymchurch departed, and Tommy began an argument with Tuppence.

It lasted some time and was heated and acrimonious. In the end Tuppence suddenly capitulated.

"All right," she said. "I give in. I'll go home, and sit there like a good little girl whilst you tackle crooks and hob nob with detectives—but you wait, young man. I'll be even with you yet for keeping me out of the fun."

Dymchurch returned at that moment.

"Coast seems clear enough," he said. "But you can't tell. Better seem to leave in the usual manner. They won't go on watching the place once you've gone."

Tommy called Albert, and gave him instructions to lock up.

Then the four of them made their way to the garage near by where the car was usually left. Tuppence drove and Albert sat beside her. Tommy and the detective sat behind.

Presently they were held up by a block in the traffic. Tuppence looked over her shoulder and nodded. Tommy and the detective opened the right hand door, and stepped out into the middle of Oxford Street. In a minute or two Tuppence drove on.