“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 now I 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 of 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 voice 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 hardworking 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 tone. “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 tonight, 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 a 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 role 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 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 tonight?”
“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 any one 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 tonight.”
“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 tonight 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 today. 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 tonight.”
“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 hobnob 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.
II
“Better not go in just yet,” said Dymchurch as he and Tommy hurried into Haleham Street. “You’ve got the key all right?”
Tommy nodded.
“Then what about a bite of dinner? It’s early, but there’s a little place here right opposite. We’ll get a table by the window, so that we can watch the place all the time.”
They had a very welcome little meal, in the manner the detective had suggested. Tommy found Inspector Dymchurch quite an entertaining companion. Most of his official work had lain amongst international spies, and he had tales to tell which astonished his simple listener.
They remained in the little restaurant until eight o’clock, when Dymchurch suggested a move.
“It’s quite dark now, sir,” he explained. “We shall be able to slip in without any one being the wiser.”
It was, as he said, quite dark. They crossed the road, looked quickly up and down the deserted street, and slipped inside the entrance. Then they mounted the stairs, and Tommy inserted his key in the lock of the outer office.
Just as he did so, he heard, as he thought, Dymchurch whistle beside him.
“What are you whistling for?” he asked sharply.
“I didn’t whistle,” said Dymchurch, very much astonished. “I thought you did.”
“Well, some one—” began Tommy.
He got no further. Strong arms seized him from behind, and before he could cry out, a pad of something sweet and sickly was pressed over his mouth and nose.
He struggled valiantly, but in vain. The chloroform did its work. His head began to whirl and the floor heaved up and down in front of him. Choking, he lost consciousness. . . .
He came to himself painfully, but in full possession of his faculties. The chloroform had been only a whiff. They had kept him under long enough to force a gag into his mouth and ensure that he did not cry out.
When he came to himself, he was half-lying, half-sitting, propped against the wall in a corner of his own inner office. Two men were busily turning out the contents of the desk and ransacking the cupboards, and as they worked they cursed freely.
“Swelp me, guv’nor,” said the taller of the two hoarsely, “we’ve turned the whole b—y place upside down and inside out. It’s not there.”
“It must be here,” snarled the other. “It isn’t on him. And there’s no other place it can be.”
As he spoke he turned, and to Tommy’s utter amazement he saw that the last speaker was none other than Inspector Dymchurch. The latter grinned when he saw Tommy’s astonished face.
“So our young friend is awake again,” he said. “And a little surprised—yes, a little surprised. But it was so simple. We suspect that all is not as it should be with the International Detective Agency. I volunteer to find out if that is so, or not. If the new Mr. Blunt is indeed a spy, he will be suspicious, so I send first my dear old friend, Carl Bauer. Carl is told to act suspiciously and pitch an improbable tale. He does so, and then I appear on the scene. I used the name of Inspector Marriot to gain confidence. The rest is easy.”
He laughed.
Tommy was dying to say several things, but the gag in his mouth prevented him. Also, he was dying to do several things—mostly with his hands and feet—but alas, that too had been attended to. He was securely bound.
The thing that amazed him most was the astounding change in the man standing over him. As Inspector Dymchurch the fellow had been a typical Englishman. Now, no one could have mistaken him for a moment for anything but a well-educated foreigner who talked English perfectly without a trace of accent.
“Coggins, my good friend,” said the erstwhile Inspector, addressing his ruffianly looking associate, “take your life preserver and stand by the prisoner. I am going to remove the gag. You understand, my dear Mr.
Blunt, do you not, that it would be criminally foolish on your part to cry out? But I am sure you do. For your age, you are quite an intelligent lad.”
Very deftly he removed the gag and stepped back.
Tommy eased his stiff jaws, rolled his tongue round his mouth, swallowed twice—and said nothing at all.
“I congratulate you on your restraint,” said the other. “You appreciate the position, I see. Have you nothing at all to say?”
“What I have to say will keep,” said Tommy. “And it won’t spoil by waiting.”
“Ah! What I have to say will not keep. In plain English, Mr. Blunt, where is that letter?”
“My dear fellow, I don’t know,” said Tommy cheerfully. “I haven’t got it. But you know that as well as I do. I should go on looking about if I were you. I like to see you and friend Coggins playing hide-and-seek together.”
The other’s face darkened.
“You are pleased to be flippant, Mr. Blunt. You see that square box over there. That is Coggins’s little outfit. In it there is vitriol . . . yes, vitriol . . . and irons that can be heated in the fire, so that they are red hot and burn. . . .”
Tommy shook his head sadly.
“An error in diagnosis,” he murmured. “Tuppence and I labelled this adventure wrong. It’s not a Clubfoot story. It’s a Bull-dog Drummond, and you are the inimitable Carl Peterson.”
“What is this nonsense you are talking,” snarled the other.
“Ah!” said Tommy. “I see you are unacquainted with the classics. A pity.”
“Ignorant fool! Will you do what we want or will you not? Shall I tell Coggins to get out his tools and begin?”
“Don’t be so impatient,” said Tommy. “Of course I’ll do what you want, as soon as you tell me what it is. You don’t suppose I want to be carved up like a filleted sole and fried on a gridiron? I loathe being hurt.”
Dymchurch looked at him in contempt.
“Gott! What cowards are these English.”
“Common sense, my dear fellow, merely common sense. Leave the vitriol alone and let us come down to brass tacks.”
“I want the letter.”
“I’ve already told you I haven’t got it.”
The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection Page 31