At that minute the door opened, and a tall lad of fifteen who seemed undecided as to whether he was a footman or a page boy inquired in a truly magnificent manner:
“Are you at Home, Madam? The front door bell has just rung.”
“I wish Albert wouldn’t go to the Pictures,” sighed Tuppence after she had signified her assent, and Albert had withdrawn. “He’s copying a Long Island butler now. Thank goodness I’ve cured him of asking for people’s cards and bringing them to me on a salver.”
The door opened again, and Albert announced: “Mr. Carter,” much as though it were a Royal title.
“The Chief,” muttered Tommy, in great surprise.
Tuppence jumped up with a glad exclamation, and greeted a tall gray-haired man with piercing eyes and a tired smile.
“Mr. Carter, I am glad to see you.”
“That’s good, Mrs. Tommy. Now answer me a question. How’s life generally?”
“Satisfactory, but dull,” replied Tuppence with a twinkle.
“Better and better,” said Mr. Carter. “I’m evidently going to find you in the right mood.”
“This,” said Tuppence, “sounds exciting.”
Albert, still copying the Long Island butler, brought in tea. When this operation was completed without mishap and the door had closed behind him Tuppence burst out once more.
“You did mean something, didn’t you Mr. Carter? Are you going to send us on a mission into darkest Russia?”
“Not exactly that,” said Mr. Carter.
“But there is something.”
“Yes-there is something. I don’t think you are the kind who shrinks from risks, are you, Mrs. Tommy?”
Tuppence’s eyes sparkled with excitement.
“There is certain work to be done for the Department-and I fancied-I just fancied-that it might suit you two.”
“Go on,” said Tuppence.
“I see that you take the Daily Leader,” continued Mr. Carter, picking up that journal from the table.
He turned to the advertisement column and indicating a certain advertisement with his finger pushed the paper across to Tommy.
“Read that out,” he said.
Tommy complied.
“The International Detective Agency. Theodore Blunt, Manager. Private Inquiries. Large staff of confidential and highly skilled Inquiry Agents. Utmost discretion. Consultations free. 118 Haleham St. W.C.”
He looked inquiringly at Mr. Carter. The latter nodded.
“That detective agency has been on its last legs for some time,” he murmured. “Friend of mine acquired it for a mere song. We’re thinking of setting it going again-say, for a six months’ trial. And during that time, of course, it will have to have a Manager.”
“What about Mr. Theodore Blunt?” asked Tommy.
“Mr. Blunt has been rather indiscreet, I’m afraid. In fact, Scotland Yard have had to interfere. Mr. Blunt is being detained at His Majesty’s expense, and he won’t tell us half of what we’d like to know.”
“I see, sir,” said Tommy. “At least, I think I see.”
“I suggest that you have six months’ leave from the office. III health. And of course if you like to run a detective agency under the name of Theodore Blunt, it’s nothing to do with me.”
Tommy eyed his Chief steadily.
“Any instructions, sir?”
“Mr. Blunt did some foreign business, I believe. Look out for blue letters with a Russian stamp on them. From a ham merchant anxious to find his wife who came as a Refugee to this country some years ago. Moisten the stamp and you’ll find the number 16 written underneath. Make a copy of these letters and send the originals on to me. Also if anyone comes to the office and makes a reference to the number 16, inform me immediately.”
“I understand, sir,” said Tommy. “And apart from these instructions?”
Mr. Carter picked up his gloves from the table and prepared to depart.
“You can run the Agency as you please. I fancied-” his eyes twinkled a little-“that it might amuse Mrs. Tommy to try her hand at a little detective work.”
2. A POT OF TEA
Mr. and Mrs. Beresford took possession of the offices of the International Detective Agency a few days later. They were on the second floor of a somewhat dilapidated building in Bloomsbury. In the small outer office, Albert relinquished the role of a Long Island butler, and took up that of office boy, a part which he played to perfection. A paper bag of sweets, inky hands, and a tousled head was his conception of the character.