The Secret Adversary

The day of disillusionment had been a Wednesday. On Thursday the advertisement had duly appeared. On Friday letters might be expected to arrive at Tommy’s rooms.

He had been bound by an honourable promise not to open any such letters if they did arrive, but to repair to the National Gallery, where his colleague would meet him at ten o’clock.

Tuppence was first at the rendezvous. She ensconced herself on a red velvet seat, and gazed at the Turners with unseeing eyes until she saw the familiar figure enter the room.

‘Well?’

‘Well,’ returned Mr Beresford provokingly. ‘Which is your favourite picture?’

‘Don’t be a wretch. Aren’t there any answers?’

Tommy shook his head with a deep and somewhat overacted melancholy.

‘I didn’t want to disappoint you, old thing, by telling you right off. It’s too bad. Good money wasted.’ He sighed. ‘Still, there it is. The advertisement has appeared, and—there are only two answers!’

‘Tommy, you devil!’ almost screamed Tuppence. ‘Give them to me. How could you be so mean!’

‘Your language, Tuppence, your language! They’re very particular at the National Gallery. Government show, you know. And do remember, as I have pointed out to you before, that as a clergyman’s daughter—’

‘I ought to be on the stage!’ finished Tuppence with a snap.

‘That is not what I intended to say. But if you are sure that you have enjoyed to the full the reaction of joy after despair with which I have kindly provided you free of charge, let us get down to our mail, as the saying goes.’

Tuppence snatched the two precious envelopes from him unceremoniously, and scrutinized them carefully.

‘Thick paper, this one. It looks rich. We’ll keep it to the last and open the other first.’

‘Right you are. One, two, three, go!’

Tuppence’s little thumb ripped open the envelope, and she extracted the contents.

Dear Sir,

Referring to your advertisement in this morning’s paper, I may be able to be of some use to you. Perhaps you could call and see me at the above address at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.

Yours truly,

A. Carter

‘27 Carshalton Terrace,’ said Tuppence, referring to the address. ‘That’s Gloucester Road way. Plenty of time to get there if we Tube.’

‘The following,’ said Tommy, ‘is the plan of campaign. It is my turn to assume the offensive. Ushered into the presence of Mr Carter, he and I wish each other good morning as is customary. He then says: “Please take a seat, Mr—er?” To which I reply promptly and significantly: “Edward Whittington!” whereupon Mr Carter turns purple in the face and gasps out: “How much?” Pocketing the usual fee of fifty pounds, I rejoin you in the road outside, and we proceed to the next address and repeat the performance.’

‘Don’t be absurd, Tommy. Now for the other letter. Oh, this is from the Ritz!’

‘A hundred pounds instead of fifty!’

‘I’ll read it:

‘Dear Sir,

‘Re your advertisement, I should be glad if you would call round somewhere about lunch-time.

‘Yours truly,

‘Julius P. Hersheimmer.’

*

‘Ha!’ said Tommy. ‘Do I smell a Boche? Or only an American millionaire of unfortunate ancestry? At all events we’ll call at lunch-time. It’s a good time—frequently leads to free food for two.’

Tuppence nodded assent.

‘Now for Carter. We’ll have to hurry.’

Carshalton Terrace proved to be an unimpeachable row of what Tuppence called ‘ladylike looking houses.’ They rang the bell at No. 27, and a neat maid answered the door. She looked so respectable that Tuppence’s heart sank. Upon Tommy’s request for Mr Carter, she showed them into a small study on the ground floor, where she left them. Hardly a minute elapsed, however, before the door opened, and a tall man with a lean hawklike face and a tired manner entered the room.

‘Mr Y.A.?’ he said, and smiled. His smile was distinctly attractive. ‘Do sit down, both of you.’

They obeyed. He himself took a chair opposite to Tuppence and smiled at her encouragingly. There was something in the quality of his smile that made the girl’s usual readiness desert her.

As he did not seem inclined to open the conversation, Tuppence was forced to begin.

‘We wanted to know—that is, would you be so kind as to tell us anything you know about Jane Finn?’

‘Jane Finn? Ah!’ Mr Carter appeared to reflect. ‘Well, the question is, what do you know about her?’

Tuppence drew herself up.

‘I don’t see that that’s got anything to do with it.’

‘No? But it has, you know, really it has.’ He smiled again in his tired way, and continued reflectively. ‘So that brings us down to it again. What do you know about Jane Finn?

‘Come now,’ he continued, as Tuppence remained silent. ‘You must know something to have advertised as you did?’ He leaned forward a little, his weary voice held a hint of persuasiveness. ‘Suppose you tell me…’

There was something very magnetic about Mr Carter’s personality. Tuppence seemed to shake herself free of it with an effort, as she said:

‘We couldn’t do that, could we, Tommy?’

But to her surprise, her companion did not back her up. His eyes were fixed on Mr Carter, and his tone when he spoke held an unusual note of deference.

‘I dare say the little we know won’t be any good to you, sir. But such as it is, you’re welcome to it.’

‘Tommy!’ cried out Tuppence in surprise.

Mr Carter slewed round in his chair. His eyes asked a question.

Tommy nodded.

‘Yes, sir, I recognized you at once. Saw you in France when I was with the Intelligence. As soon as you came into the room, I knew—’

Mr Carter held up his hand.

‘No names, please. I’m known as Mr Carter here. It’s my cousin’s house, by the way. She’s willing to lend it to me sometimes when it’s a case of working on strictly unofficial lines. Well, now,’—he looked from one to the other—‘who’s going to tell me the story?’

‘Fire ahead, Tuppence,’ directed Tommy. ‘It’s your yarn.’

‘Yes, little lady, out with it.’

And obediently Tuppence did out with it, telling the whole story from the forming of the Young Adventurers, Ltd., downwards.

Mr Carter listened in silence with a resumption of his tired manner. Now and then he passed his hand across his lips as though to hide a smile. When she had finished he nodded gravely.

‘Not much. But suggestive. Quite suggestive. If you’ll excuse me saying so, you’re a curious young couple. I don’t know—you might succeed where others have failed… I believe in luck, you know—always have…’

He paused a moment and then went on.

‘Well, how about it? You’re out for adventure. How would you like to work for me? All quite unofficial, you know. Expenses paid, and a moderate screw?’

Tuppence gazed at him, her lips parted, her eyes growing wider and wider.

‘What should we have to do?’ she breathed.

Mr Carter smiled.

‘Just go on with what you’re doing now. Find Jane Finn.’

‘Yes, but—who is Jane Finn?’

Mr Carter nodded gravely.

‘Yes, you’re entitled to know that, I think.’

He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, brought the tips of his fingers together, and began in a low monotone:

‘Secret diplomacy (which, by the way, is nearly always bad policy!) does not concern you. It will be sufficient to say that in the early days of 1915 a certain document came into being. It was the draft of a secret agreement—treaty—call it what you like. It was drawn up ready for signature by the various representatives, and drawn up in America—at that time a neutral country. It was dispatched to England by a special messenger selected for that purpose, a young fellow called Danvers. It was hoped that the whole affair had been kept so secret that nothing would have leaked out. That kind of hope is usually disappointed. Somebody always talks!

‘Danvers sailed for England on the Lusitania. He carried the precious papers in an oilskin packet which he wore next his skin. It was on that particular voyage that the Lusitania was torpedoed and sunk. Danvers was among the list of those missing. Eventually his body was washed ashore, and identified beyond any possible doubt. But the oilskin packet was missing!

‘The question was, had it been taken from him, or had he himself passed it on into another’s keeping? There were a few incidents that strengthened the possibility of the latter theory. After the torpedo struck the ship, in the few moments during the launching of the boats, Danvers was seen speaking to a young American girl. No one actually saw him pass anything to her, but he might have done so. It seems to me quite likely that he entrusted the papers to this girl, believing that she, as a woman, had a greater chance of bringing them safely to shore.

‘But if so, where was the girl, and what had she done with the papers? By later advice from America it seemed likely that Danvers had been closely shadowed on the way over. Was this girl in league with his enemies? Or had she, in her turn, been shadowed and either tricked or forced into handing over the precious packet?

‘We set to work to trace her out. It proved unexpectedly difficult. Her name was Jane Finn, and it duly appeared among the list of the survivors, but the girl herself seemed to have vanished completely. Inquiries into her antecedents did little to help us. She was an orphan, and had been what we should call over here a pupil teacher in a small school out West. Her passport had been made out for Paris, where she was going to join the staff of a hospital. She had offered her services voluntarily, and after some correspondence they had been accepted. Having seen her name in the list of the saved from the Lusitania, the staff of the hospital were naturally very surprised at her not arriving to take up her billet, and at not hearing from her in any way.

‘Well, every effort was made to trace the young lady—but all in vain. We tracked her across Ireland, but nothing could be heard of her after she set foot in England. No use was made of the draft treaty—as might very easily have been done—and we therefore came to the conclusion that Danvers had, after all, destroyed it. The war entered on another phase, the diplomatic aspect changed accordingly, and the treaty was never redrafted. Rumours as to its existence were emphatically denied. The disappearance of Jane Finn was forgotten and the whole affair was lost in oblivion.’

Mr Carter paused, and Tuppence broke in impatiently:

‘But why has it all cropped up again? The war’s over.’

A hint of alertness came into Mr Carter’s manner.

‘Because it seemed that the papers were not destroyed after all, and that they might be resurrected today with a new and deadly significance.’

Tuppence stared. Mr Carter nodded.

‘Yes, five years ago, that draft treaty was a weapon in our hands; today it is a weapon against us. It was a gigantic blunder. If its terms were made public, it would mean disaster… It might possibly bring about another war—not with Germany this time! That is an extreme possibility, and I do not believe in its likelihood myself, but that document undoubtedly implicates a number of our statesmen whom we cannot afford to have discredited in any way at the present moment. As a party cry for Labour it would be irresistible, and a Labour Government at this juncture would, in my opinion, be a grave disability for British trade, but that is a mere nothing to the real danger.’

He paused, and then said quietly:

‘You may perhaps have heard or read that there is Bolshevist influence at work behind the present labour unrest?’

Tuppence nodded.

‘That is the truth, Bolshevist gold is pouring into this country for the specific purpose of procuring a Revolution. And there is a certain man, a man whose real name is unknown to us, who is working in the dark for his own ends. The Bolshevists are behind the labour unrest—but this man is behind the Bolshevists. Who is he? We do not know. He is always spoken of by the unassuming title of “Mr Brown.” But one thing is certain, he is the master criminal of this age. He controls a marvellous organization. Most of the peace propaganda during the war was originated and financed by him. His spies are everywhere.’

‘A naturalized German?’ asked Tommy.

‘On the contrary, I have every reason to believe he is an Englishman. He was pro-German, as he would have been pro-Boer. What he seeks to attain we do not know—probably supreme power for himself, of a kind unique in history. We have no clue as to his real personality. It is reported that even his own followers are ignorant of it. Where we have come across his tracks, he has always played a secondary part. Somebody else assumes the chief rôle. But afterwards we always find that there had been some nonentity, a servant or a clerk, who had remained in the background unnoticed, and that the elusive Mr Brown has escaped us once more.’

‘Oh!’ Tuppence jumped. ‘I wonder—’

‘Yes?’

‘I remember in Mr Whittington’s office. The clerk—he called him Brown. You don’t think—’

Carter nodded thoughtfully.

‘Very likely. A curious point is that the name is usually mentioned. An idiosyncrasy of genius. Can you describe him at all?’

‘I really didn’t notice. He was quite ordinary—just like anyone else.’

Mr Carter sighed in his tired manner.

‘That is the invariable description of Mr Brown! Brought a telephone message to the man Whittington, did he? Notice a telephone in the outer office?’

Tuppence thought.

‘No, I don’t think I did.’

‘Exactly. That “message” was Mr Brown’s way of giving an order to his subordinate. He overheard the whole conversation of course. Was it after that that Whittington handed you over the money, and told you to come the following day?’

Tuppence nodded.

‘Yes, undoubtedly the hand of Mr Brown!’ Mr Carter paused. ‘Well, there it is, you see what you are pitting yourself against? Possibly the finest criminal brain of the age. I don’t quite like it, you know. You’re such young things, both of you. I shouldn’t like anything to happen to you.’

‘It won’t,’ Tuppence assured him positively.

‘I’ll look after her, sir,’ said Tommy.

‘And I’ll look after you,’ retorted Tuppence, resenting the manly assertion.

‘Well, then, look after each other,’ said Mr Carter, smiling. ‘Now let’s get back to business. There’s something mysterious about this draft treaty that we haven’t fathomed yet. We’ve been threatened with it—in plain and unmistakable terms. The Revolutionary elements as good as declared that it’s in their hands, and that they intend to produce it at a given moment. On the other hand, they are clearly at fault about many of its provisions. The Government consider it as mere bluff on their part, and, rightly or wrongly, have stuck to the policy of absolute denial. I’m not so sure. There have been hints, indiscreet allusions, that seem to indicate that the menace is a real one. The position is much as though they had got hold of an incriminating document, but couldn’t read it because it was in cipher—but we know that the draft treaty wasn’t in cipher—couldn’t be in the nature of things—so that won’t wash. But there’s something. Of course, Jane Finn may be dead for all we know—but I don’t think so. The curious thing is that they’re trying to get information about the girl from us.’

‘What?’

‘Yes. One or two little things have cropped up. And your story, little lady, confirms my idea. They know we’re looking for Jane Finn. Well, they’ll produce a Jane Finn of their own—say at a pensionnat in Paris.’ Tuppence gasped, and Mr Carter smiled. ‘No one knows in the least what she looks like, so that’s all right. She’s primed with a trumped-up tale, and her real business is to get as much information as possible out of us. See the idea?’

‘Then you think’—Tuppence paused to grasp the supposition fully—‘that it was as Jane Finn that they wanted me to go to Paris?’

Mr Carter smiled more wearily than ever.

‘I believe in coincidences, you know,’ he said.

CHAPTER 5

Mr Julius P. Hersheimmer

‘Well,’ said Tuppence, recovering herself, ‘it really seems as though it were meant to be.’

Carter nodded.

‘I know what you mean. I’m superstitious myself. Luck, and all that sort of thing. Fate seems to have chosen you out to be mixed up in this.’

Tommy indulged in a chuckle.

‘My word! I don’t wonder Whittington got the wind up when Tuppence plumped out that name! I should have myself. But look here, sir, we’re taking up an awful lot of your time. Have you any tips to give us before we clear out?’

‘I think not. My experts, working in stereotyped ways, have failed. You will bring imagination and an open mind to the task. Don’t be discouraged if that too does not succeed. For one thing there is a likelihood of the pace being forced.’

Tuppence frowned uncomprehendingly.

‘When you had that interview with Whittington, they had time before them. I have information that the big coup was planned for early in the new year. But the Government is contemplating legislative action which will deal effectually with the strike menace. They’ll get wind of it soon, if they haven’t already, and it’s possible that they may bring things to a head. I hope it will myself. The less time they have to mature their plans the better. I’m just warning you that you haven’t much time before you, and that you needn’t be cast down if you fail. It’s not an easy proposition anyway. That’s all.’

Tuppence rose.

‘I think we ought to be business-like. What exactly can we count upon you for, Mr Carter?’

Mr Carter’s lips twitched slightly, but he replied succinctly:

‘Funds within reason, detailed information on any point, and no official recognition. I mean that if you get yourselves into trouble with the police, I can’t officially help you out of it. You’re on your own.’

Tuppence nodded sagely.

‘I quite understand that. I’ll write out a list of the things I want to know when I’ve had time to think. Now—about money—’

‘Yes, Miss Tuppence. Do you want to say how much?’

‘Not exactly. We’ve got plenty to go on with for the present, but when we want more—’

‘It will be waiting for you.’

‘Yes, but—I’m sure I don’t want to be rude about the Government if you’ve got anything to do with it, but you know one really has the devil of a time getting anything out of it! And if we have to fill up a blue form and send it in, and then, after three months, they send us a green one, and so on—well, that won’t be much use, will it?’

Mr Carter laughed outright.

‘Don’t worry, Miss Tuppence. You will send a personal demand to me here, and the money, in notes, shall be sent by return of post. As to salary, shall we say at the rate of three hundred a year? And an equal sum for Mr Beresford, of course.’

Tuppence beamed upon him.

‘How lovely. You are kind. I do love money! I’ll keep beautiful accounts of our expenses—all debit and credit, and the balance on the right side, and a red line drawn sideways with the totals the same at the bottom. I really know how to do it when I think.’

‘I’m sure you do. Well, goodbye, and good luck to you both.’

He shook hands with them and in another minute they were descending the steps of 27 Carshalton Terrace with their heads in a whirl.

‘Tommy! Tell me at once, who is “Mr Carter”?’

Tommy murmured a name in her ear.

‘Oh!’ said Tuppence, impressed.

‘And I can tell you, old bean, he’s IT!’

‘Oh!’ said Tuppence again. Then she added reflectively: ‘I like him, don’t you? He looks so awfully tired and bored, and yet you feel that underneath he’s just like steel, all keen and flashing. Oh!’ She gave a skip. ‘Pinch me, Tommy, do pinch me. I can’t believe it’s real!’

Mr Beresford obliged.

‘Ow! That’s enough! Yes, we’re not dreaming. We’ve got a job!’

‘And what a job! The joint venture has really begun.’

‘It’s more respectable than I thought it would be,’ said Tuppence thoughtfully.

‘Luckily I haven’t got your craving for crime! What time is it? Let’s have lunch—oh!’

The same thought sprang to the minds of each. Tommy voiced it first.

‘Julius P. Hersheimmer!’

‘We never told Mr Carter about hearing from him.’

‘Well, there wasn’t much to tell—not till we’ve seen him. Come on, we’d better take a taxi.’

‘Now who’s being extravagant?’

‘All expenses paid, remember. Hop in.’

‘At any rate, we shall make a better effect arriving this way,’ said Tuppence, leaning back luxuriously. ‘I’m sure blackmailers never arrive in buses!’

‘We’ve ceased being blackmailers,’ Tommy pointed out.

‘I’m not sure I have,’ said Tuppence darkly.

On inquiring for Mr Hersheimmer, they were at once taken up to his suite. An impatient voice cried ‘Come in’ in answer to the page-boy’s knock, and the lad stood aside to let them pass in.

Mr Julius P. Hersheimmer was a great deal younger than either Tommy or Tuppence had pictured him. The girl put him down as thirty-five. He was of middle height, and squarely built to match his jaw. His face was pugnacious but pleasant. No one could have mistaken him for anything but an American, though he spoke with very little accent.

‘Get my note?’ Sit down and tell me right away all you know about my cousin.’

‘Your cousin?’

‘Sure thing. Jane Finn.’

‘Is she your cousin?’

‘My father and her mother were brother and sister,’ explained Mr Hersheimmer meticulously.

‘Oh!’ cried Tuppence. ‘Then you know where she is?’

‘No!’ Mr Hersheimmer brought down his fist with a bang on the table. ‘I’m darned if I do! Don’t you?’

‘We advertised to receive information, not to give it,’ said Tuppence severely.

‘I guess I know that. I can read. But I thought maybe it was her back history you were after, and that you’d know where she was now?’

‘Well, we wouldn’t mind hearing her back history,’ said Tuppence guardedly.

But Mr Hersheimmer seemed to grow suddenly suspicious.

‘See here,’ he declared. ‘This isn’t Sicily! No demanding ransom or threatening to crop her ears if I refuse. These are the British Isles, so quit the funny business, or I’ll just sing out for that beautiful big British policeman I see out there in Piccadilly.’

Tommy hastened to explain.

‘We haven’t kidnapped your cousin. On the contrary, we’re trying to find her. We’re employed to do so.’

Mr Hersheimmer leant back in his chair.

‘Put me wise,’ he said succinctly.

Tommy fell in with this demand in so far as he gave him a guarded version of the disappearance of Jane Finn, and of the possibility of her having been mixed up unawares in ‘some political show.’ He alluded to Tuppence and himself as ‘private inquiry agents’ commissioned to find her, and added that they would therefore be glad of any details Mr Hersheimmer could give them.

That gentleman nodded approval.

‘I guess that’s all right. I was just a mite hasty. But London gets my goat! I only know little old New York. Just trot out your questions and I’ll answer.’

For the moment this paralysed the Young Adventurers, but Tuppence, recovering herself, plunged boldly into the breach with a reminiscence culled from detective fiction.

‘When did you last see the dece—your cousin, I mean?’

‘Never seen her,’ responded Mr Hersheimmer.

‘What?’ demanded Tommy astonished.

Hersheimmer turned to him.

‘No, sir. As I said before, my father and her mother were brother and sister, just as you might be’—Tommy did not correct this view of their relationship—‘but they didn’t always get on together. And when my aunt made up her mind to marry Amos Finn, who was a poor school teacher out West, my father was just mad! Said if he made his pile, as he seemed in a fair way to do, she’d never see a cent of it. Well, the upshot was that Aunt Jane went out West and we never heard from her again.