Partners in Crime

"It's late," said Tommy, looking at his watch. "Just on twelve o'clock. We've been a long time with the Chief. I hope we haven't missed a particularly spicy case."

"On the whole," said Tuppence, "we've not done badly. I was tabulating results the other day. We've solved four baffling murder mysteries, rounded up a gang of counterfeiters, ditto gang of smugglers-"

"Actually two gangs," interpolated Tommy. "So we have! I'm glad of that. 'Gangs' sounds so professional."

Tuppence continued, ticking off the items on her fingers.

"One jewel robbery, two escapes from violent death, one case of missing lady reducing her figure, one young girl befriended, an alibi successfully exploded, and alas! one case where we made utter fools of ourselves. On the whole, jolly good! We're very clever, I think."

"You would think so," said Tommy. "You always do. Now I have a secret feeling that once or twice we've been rather lucky."

"Nonsense," said Tuppence. "All done by the little grey cells."

"Well, I was damned lucky once," said Tommy. "The day that Albert did his lasso act! But you speak, Tuppence, as though it was all over?"

"So it is," said Tuppence. She lowered her voice impressively. "This is our last case. When they have laid the super spy by the heels, the great detectives intend to retire and take to bee keeping or vegetable-marrow growing. It's always done."

"Tired of it, eh?"

"Ye-es, I think I am. Besides, we're so successful now- the luck might change."

"Who's talking about luck now?" asked Tommy triumphantly.

At that moment they turned in at the doorway of the block of buildings in which the International Detective Bureau had its offices, and Tuppence did not reply.

Albert was on duty in the outer office, employing his leisure in balancing, or endeavoring to balance, the office ruler upon his nose.

With a stern frown of reproof, the great Mr. Blunt passed into his own private office. Divesting himself of his overcoat and hat, he opened the cupboard, on the shelves of which reposed his classic library of the great detectives of fiction.

"The choice narrows," murmured Tommy. "On whom shall I model myself to-day?"

Tuppence's voice, with an unusual note in it, made him turn sharply.

"Tommy," she said. "What day of the month is it?"

"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. To-day 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 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, man 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.