CHAPTER 4

       Who is Jane Finn?

      The 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.

      ‘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