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

one you took of this room or the one I took?’

      ‘The one I took. Yours didn’t come out. You under exposed it. You always do.’

      ‘It is nice for you,’ said Tuppence, ‘to think that there is one thing you can do better than me.’

      ‘A foolish remark,’ said Tommy, ‘but I will let it pass for the moment. What I wanted to show you was this.’

      He pointed to a small white speck on the photograph.

      ‘That is a scratch on the film,’ said Tuppence.

      ‘Not at all,’ said Tommy. ‘That, Tuppence, is a fairy.’

      ‘Tommy, you idiot.’

      ‘Look for yourself.’

      He handed her a magnifying glass. Tuppence studied the print attentively through it. Seen thus by a slight stretch of fancy the scratch on the film could be imagined to represent a small winged creature on the fender.

      ‘It has got wings,’ cried Tuppence. ‘What fun, a real live fairy in our flat. Shall we write to Conan Doyle about it? Oh, Tommy. Do you think she’ll give us wishes?’

      ‘You will soon know,’ said Tommy. ‘You have been wishing hard enough for something to happen all the afternoon.’

      At that minute the door opened, and a tall lad of fifteen who seemed undecided as to whether he was a butler 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      ‘I wish Albert wouldn’t go to the Pictures,’ sighed Tuppence, after she had signified her assent, and Albert had withdrawn.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 grey-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 Her 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. Ill 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 any one 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.’

      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.

      From the outer office, two doors led into inner offices. On one door was painted the legend ‘Clerks’. On the other ‘Private’. Behind the latter was a small comfortable room furnished with an immense businesslike desk, a lot of artistically labelled files, all empty, and some solid leatherseated chairs. Behind the desk sat the pseudo Mr Blunt trying to look as though he had run a Detective Agency all his life. A telephone, of course, stood at his elbow. Tuppence and he had rehearsed several good telephone effects, and Albert also had his instructions.

      In the adjoining room was Tuppence, a typewriter, the necessary tables and chairs of an inferior type to those in the room of the great Chief, and a gas ring for making tea.

      Nothing was wanting, in fact, save clients.

      Tuppence, in the first ecstasies of initiation, had a few bright hopes.

      ‘It will be too marvellous,’ she declared. ‘We will hunt down murderers, and discover the missing family jewels, and find people who’ve disappeared and detect embezzlers.’

      At this point Tommy felt it his duty to strike a more discouraging note.

      ‘Calm yourself, Tuppence, and try to forget the cheap fiction you are in the habit of reading. Our clientèle, if we have any clientèle at all – will consist solely of husbands who want their wives shadowed, and wives who want their husbands shadowed. Evidence for divorce is the sole prop of private inquiry agents.’

      ‘Ugh!’ said Tuppence, wrinkling a fastidious nose. ‘We shan’t touch divorce cases. We must raise the tone of our new profession.’