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 looked helplessly at Tommy. Tommy felt annoyed. He had been on the point of going out to lunch, but he foresaw that getting the facts out of this client would be a long and tedious business.
‘Did she disappear of her own free will, or do you suspect abduction?’ he demanded crisply.
‘I don’t know,’ said the young man. ‘I don’t know anything.’
Tommy reached for a pad and pencil.
‘First of all,’ he said, ‘will you give me your name? My office boy is trained never to ask names. In that way consultations can remain completely confidential.’
‘Oh! rather,’ said the young man. ‘Jolly good idea. My name – er – my name’s Smith.’
‘Oh! no,’ said Tommy. ‘The real one, please.’
His visitor looked at him in awe.
‘Er – St Vincent,’ he said. ‘Lawrence St Vincent.’
‘It’s a curious thing,’ said Tommy, ‘how very few people there are whose real name is Smith. Personally, I don’t know anyone called Smith. But nine men out of ten who wish to conceal their real name give that of Smith. I am writing a monograph upon the subject.’
At that moment a buzzer purred discreetly on his desk. That meant that Tuppence was requesting to take hold. Tommy, who wanted his lunch, and who felt profoundly unsympathetic towards Mr St Vincent, was only too pleased to relinquish the helm.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, and picked up the telephone.
Across his face there shot rapid changes – surprise, consternation, slight elation.
‘You don’t say so,’ he said into the phone. ‘The Prime Minister himself? Of course, in that case, I will come round at once.’
He replaced the receiver on the hook, and turned to his client.
‘My dear sir, I must ask you to excuse me. A most urgent summons. If you will give the facts of the case to my confidential secretary, she will deal with them.’
He strode to the adjoining door.
‘Miss Robinson.’
Tuppence, very neat and demure with smooth black head and dainty collars and cuffs, tripped in. Tommy made the necessary introductions and departed.
‘A lady you take an interest in has disappeared, I understand, Mr St Vincent,’ said Tuppence, in her soft voice, as she sat down and took up Mr Blunt’s pad and pencil. ‘A young lady?’
‘Oh! rather,’ said St Vincent. ‘Young – and – and – awfully good-looking and all that sort of thing.’
Tuppence’s face grew grave.
‘Dear me,’ she murmured. ‘I hope that –’
‘You don’t think anything’s really happened to her?’ demanded Mr St Vincent, in lively concern.
‘Oh! we must hope for the best,’ said Tuppence, with a kind of false cheerfulness which depressed Mr St Vincent horribly.
‘Oh! look here, Miss Robinson. I say, you must do something. Spare no expense. I wouldn’t have anything happen to her for the world. You seem awfully sympathetic, and I don’t mind telling you in confidence that I simply worship the ground that girl walks on. She’s a topper, an absolute topper.’
‘Please tell me her name and all about her.’
‘Her name’s Jeanette – I don’t know her second name. She works in a hat shop – Madame Violette’s in Brook Street – but she’s as straight as they make them. Has ticked me off no end of times – I went round there yesterday –