The Secret Adversary. Agatha Christie

unless a kindly fortune permitted him to renew his subscription.

      ‘It may catch him,’ she murmured. ‘Anyway it’s worth trying.’

      After handing it over the counter she set out briskly for home, stopping at a baker’s to buy three-pennyworth of new buns.

      Later, in her tiny cubicle at the top of the house she munched buns and reflected on the future. What was the Esthonia Glassware Co., and what earthly need could it have for her services? A pleasurable thrill of excitement made Tuppence tingle. At any rate, the country vicarage had retreated into the background again. The morrow held possibilities.

      It was a long time before Tuppence went to sleep that night, and, when at length she did, she dreamed that Mr Whittington had set her to washing up a pile of Esthonia Glassware, which bore an unaccountable resemblance to hospital plates!

      It wanted some five minutes to eleven when Tuppence reached the block of buildings in which the offices of the Esthonia Glassware Co. were situated. To arrive before the time would look over-eager. So Tuppence decided to walk to the end of the street and back again. She did so. On the stroke of eleven she plunged into the recesses of the building. The Esthonia Glassware Co. was on the top floor. There was a lift, but Tuppence chose to walk up.

      Slightly out of breath, she came to a halt outside the ground glass door with the legend painted across it: ‘Esthonia Glassware Co.’

      Tuppence knocked. In response to a voice from within, she turned the handle and walked into a small, rather dirty office.

      A middle-aged clerk got down from a high stool at a desk near the window and came towards her inquiringly.

      ‘I have an appointment with Mr Whittington,’ said Tuppence.

      ‘Will you come this way, please.’ He crossed to a partition door with ‘Private’ on it, knocked, then opened the door and stood aside to let her pass in.

      Mr Whittington was seated behind a large desk covered with papers. Tuppence felt her previous judgment confirmed. There was something wrong about Mr Whittington. The combination of his sleek prosperity and his shifty eye was not attractive.

      He looked up and nodded.

      ‘So you’ve turned up all right? That’s good. Sit down, will you?’

      Tuppence sat down on the chair facing him. She looked particularly small and demure this morning. She sat there meekly with downcast eyes whilst Mr Whittington sorted and rustled amongst his papers. Finally he pushed them away, and leaned over the desk.

      ‘Now, my dear young lady, let us come to business.’ His large face broadened into a smile. ‘You want work? Well, I have work to offer you. What should you say now to £100 down, and all expenses paid?’ Mr Whittington leaned back in his chair, and thrust his thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat.

      Tuppence eyed him warily.

      ‘And the nature of the work?’ she demanded.

      ‘Nominal—purely nominal. A pleasant trip, that is all.’

      ‘Where to?’

      Mr Whittington smiled again.

      ‘Paris.’

      ‘Oh!’ said Tuppence thoughtfully. To herself she said: ‘Of course, if father heard that he would have a fit! But somehow I don’t see Mr Whittington in the rôle of the gay deceiver.’

      ‘Yes,’ continued Whittington. ‘What could be more delightful? To put the clock back a few years—a very few, I am sure—and re-enter one of those charming pensionnats de jeunes filles with which Paris abounds—’

      Tuppence interrupted him.

      ‘A pensionnat?’

      ‘Exactly. Madame Colombier’s in the Avenue de Neuilly.’

      Tuppence knew the name well. Nothing could have been more select. She had had several American friends there. She was more than ever puzzled.

      ‘You want me to go to Madame Colombier’s? For how long?’

      ‘That depends. Possibly three months.’

      ‘And that is all? There are no other conditions?’

      ‘None whatever. You would, of course, go in the character of my ward, and you would hold no communication with your friends. I should have to request absolute secrecy for the time being. By the way, you are English, are you not?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Yet you speak with a slight American accent?’

      ‘My great pal in hospital was a little American girl. I dare say I picked it up from her. I can soon get out of it again.’

      ‘On the contrary, it might be simpler for you to pass as an American. Details about your past life in England might be more difficult to sustain. Yes, I think that would be decidedly better. Then—’

      ‘One moment, Mr Whittington! You seem to be taking my consent for granted.’

      Whittington looked surprised.

      ‘Surely you are not thinking of refusing? I can assure you that Madame Colombier’s is a most high-class and orthodox establishment. And the terms are most liberal.’

      ‘Exactly,’ said Tuppence. ‘That’s just it. The terms are almost too liberal, Mr Whittington. I cannot see any way in which I can be worth that amount of money to you.’

      ‘No?’ said Whittington softly. ‘Well, I will tell you. I could doubtless obtain someone else for very much less. What I am willing to pay for is a young lady with sufficient intelligence and presence of mind to sustain her part well, and also one who will have sufficient discretion not to ask too many questions.’

      Tuppence smiled a little. She felt that Whittington had scored.

      ‘There’s another thing. So far there has been no mention of Mr Beresford. Where does he come in?’

      ‘Mr Beresford?’

      ‘My partner,’ said Tuppence with dignity. ‘You saw us together yesterday.’

      ‘Ah, yes. But I’m afraid we shan’t require his services.’

      ‘Then it’s off!’ Tuppence rose. ‘It’s both or neither. Sorry—but that’s how it is. Good morning, Mr Whittington.’

      ‘Wait a minute. Let us see if something can’t be managed. Sit down again, Miss—’ He paused interrogatively.

      Tuppence’s conscience gave her a passing twinge as she remembered the archdeacon. She seized hurriedly on the first name that came into her head.

      ‘Jane Finn,’ she said hastily; and then paused open-mouthed at the effect of those two simple words.

      All the geniality had faded out of Whittington’s face. It was purple with rage, and the veins stood out on the forehead. And behind it all there lurked a sort of incredulous dismay. He leaned forward and hissed savagely:

      ‘So that’s your little game, is it?’

      Tuppence, though utterly taken aback, nevertheless kept her head. She had not the faintest comprehension of his meaning, but she was naturally quick-witted, and felt it imperative to ‘keep her end up’ as she phrased it.

      Whittington went on:

      ‘Been playing with me, have you, all the time, like a cat and mouse? Knew all the time what I wanted you for, but kept up the comedy. Is that it, eh?’ He was cooling down. The red colour was ebbing out of his face. He eyed her keenly. ‘Who’s been blabbing? Rita?’

      Tuppence shook her head. She was doubtful as to how long she could sustain this illusion, but she realized the importance of not dragging an unknown Rita into it.

      ‘No,’ she replied with perfect truth. ‘Rita knows nothing about me.’

      His