Detectives and Young Adventurers: The Complete Short Stories. Agatha Christie

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 wish 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 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 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 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 your 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