The Complete Tommy & Tuppence Collection by Agatha Christie

but there’s no one left to sleuth.”
    â€œNo, that’s why we’ll have to start all over again. Lend me that bit of pencil. Thanks. Wait a minute—don’t interrupt. There!” Tuppence handed back the pencil, and surveyed the piece of paper on which she had written with a satisfied eye.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œAdvertisement.”
    â€œYou’re not going to put that thing in after all?”
    â€œNo, it’s a different one.” She handed him the slip of paper.
    Tommy read the words on it aloud:
    â€œWanted, any information respecting Jane Finn. Apply Y. A.”

Four
    W HO IS J ANE F INN ?
    T he next day passed slowly. It was necessary to curtail expenditure. Carefully husbanded, forty pounds will last a long time. Luckily the weather was fine, and “walking is cheap,” dictated Tuppence. An outlying picture house provided them with recreation for the evening.
    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.
    â€œWell?”
    â€œWell,” returned Mr. Beresford provokingly. “Which is your favourite picture?”
    â€œDon’t be a wretch. Aren’t there any answers?”
    Tommy shook his head with a deep and somewhat overacted melancholy.
    â€œI 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!”
    â€œTommy, you devil!” almost screamed Tuppence. “Give them to me. How could you be so mean!”
    â€œYour luggage, Tuppence, your luggage! 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—”
    â€œI ought to be on the stage!” finished Tuppence with a snap.
    â€œThat 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.
    â€œThick paper, this one. It looks rich. We’ll keep it to the last and open the other first.”
    â€œRight 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
    â€œ27 Carshalton Terrace,” said Tuppence, referring to the address. “That’s Gloucester Road way. Plenty of time to get there if we Tube.”
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œDon’t be absurd, Tommy. Now for the other letter. Oh,