“Let me see—the eleventh—why?”
“Look at the calendar.”
Hanging on the wall was one of those calendars from which you tear a leaf every day. It bore the legend of Sunday the 16th. Today was Monday.
“By Jove, that’s odd. Albert must have torn off too many. Careless little devil.”
“I don’t believe he did,” said Tuppence. “But we’ll ask him.”
Albert, summoned and questioned, seemed very astonished. He swore he had only torn off one leaf—that of the day before. His statement was presently supported, for whereas the leaf torn off by Albert was found in the grate, the succeeding ones were lying neatly in the waste paper basket.
“A neat and methodical criminal,” said Tommy. “Who’s been here this morning, Albert? A client of any kind?”
“Just one, sir.”
“What was he like?”
“It was a she. A Hospital Nurse. Very upset and anxious to see you. Said she’d wait until you came. I put her in ‘Clerks’ because it was warmer.”
“And from there she could walk in here, of course, without your seeing her. How long has she been gone?”
“About half an hour, sir. Said she’d call again this afternoon. A nice motherly looking body.”
“A nice motherly—oh! get out, Albert.”
Albert withdrew, injured.
“Queer start, that,” said Tommy. “It seems a little purposeless. Puts us on our guard. I suppose there isn’t a bomb concealed in the fireplace or anything of that kind?”
He reassured himself on that point, then he seated himself at the desk and addressed Tuppence.
“Mon ami,” he said. “We are here faced with a matter of the utmost gravity. You recall, do you not, the man who was No. 4. Him whom I crushed like an egg shell in the Dolomites—with the aid of high explosives, bien entendu. But he was not really dead—ah! no, they are never really dead, these super criminals. This is the man—but even more so, if I may so put it. He is the 4 squared—in other words, he is now the No. 16. You comprehend, my friend?”
“Perfectly,” said Tuppence. “You are the great Hercule Poirot.”
“Exactly. No moustaches, but lots of grey cells.”
“I’ve a feeling,” said Tuppence, “that this particular adventure will be called the ‘Triumph of Hastings.’ ”
“Never,” said Tommy. “It isn’t done. Once the idiot friend, always the idiot friend. There’s an etiquette in these matters. By the way, mon ami, can you not part your hair in the middle instead of one side? The present effect is unsymmetrical and deplorable.”
The buzzer rang sharply on Tommy’s desk. He returned the signal and Albert appeared bearing a card.
“Prince Vladiroffsky,” read Tommy, in a low voice. He looked at Tuppence. “I wonder—Show him in, Albert.”
The man who entered was of middle height, graceful in bearing, with a fair beard, and apparently about thirty-five years of age.
“Mr. Blunt?” he inquired. His English was perfect. “You have been most highly recommended to me. Will you take up a case for me?”
“If you will give me the details—?”
“Certainly. It concerns the daughter of a friend of mine—a girl of sixteen. We are anxious for no scandal—you understand.”
“My dear sir,” said Tommy. “This business has been running successfully for sixteen years owing to our strict attention to that particular principle.”
He fancied he saw a sudden gleam in the other’s eye. If so, it passed as quickly as it came.
“You have branches, I believe, on the other side of the Channel?”
“Oh! yes. As a matter of fact,” he brought out the word with great deliberation, “I myself was in Berlin on the 13th of last month.”
“In that case,” said the stranger, “it is hardly necessary to keep up the little fiction. The daughter of my friend can be conveniently dismissed. You know who I am—at any rate I see you have had warning of my coming.”
He nodded towards the calendar on the wall.
“Quite so,” said Tommy.
“My friends—I have come over here to investigate matters. What has been happening?”
“Treachery,” said Tuppence, no longer able to remain quiescent.
The Russian shifted his attention to her, and raised his eyebrows.
“Ah ha, that is so, is it? I thought as much. Was it Sergius?”
“We think so,” said Tuppence unblushingly.
“It would not surprise me. But you yourselves, you are under no suspicion?”
“I do not think so. We handle a good deal of bona fide business, you see,” explained Tommy.
The Russian nodded.
“That is wise. All the same, I think it would be better if I did not come here again. For the moment, I am staying at the Blitz. I will take Marise—this is Marise, I suppose?”
Tuppence nodded.
“What is she known as here?”
“Oh! Miss Robinson.”
“Very well, Miss Robinson, you will return with me to the Blitz and lunch with me there. We will all meet at headquarters at three o’clock. Is that clear?” He looked at Tommy.
“Perfectly clear,” replied Tommy, wondering where on earth headquarters might be.
But he guessed that it was just those very headquarters that Mr. Carter was so anxious to discover.
Tuppence rose and slipped on her long black coat with its leopardskin collar. Then, demurely, she declared herself ready to accompany the Prince.
They went out together, and Tommy was left behind, a prey to conflicting emotions.
Supposing something had gone wrong with the dictaphone? Supposing the mysterious Hospital Nurse had somehow or other learnt of its installation, and had rendered it useless?
He seized the telephone and called a certain number. There was a moment’s delay, and then a well known voice spoke.
“Quite OK. Come round to the Blitz at once.”
Five minutes later Tommy and Mr. Carter met in the Palm Court of the Blitz. The latter was crisp and reassuring.
“You’ve done excellently. The Prince and the little lady are at lunch in the Restaurant. I’ve got two of my men in there as waiters. Whether he suspects, or whether he doesn’t—and I’m fairly sure he doesn’t—we’ve got him on toast. There are two men posted upstairs to watch his suite, and more outside ready to follow wherever they go. Don’t be worried about your wife. She’ll be kept in
