The Man Who Was No. 16: A Tommy & Tuppence Story
Author: Agatha Christie
Date: 2013-08-27 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Mystery & Detective; Traditional; Historical; General; Short Stories (Single Author); Cozy; Thrillers; Crime
Description: Previously published in the print anthology Partners in Crime. The Beresfords finally come face to face with their secret adversary. In order to crack the case, they must ape the techniques of the great Hercule Poirot.
Publisher: Harper Collins
Rights: All rights reserved

Contents

The Man Who Was No. 16

About the Author

The Agatha Christie Collection

Copyright

About the Publisher

THE MAN WHO WAS NO. 16

Tommy and Tuppence were closeted with the Chief in his private room. His commendation had been warm and sincere.

“You have succeeded admirably. Thanks to you we have laid our hands on no less than five very interesting personages, and from them we have received much valuable information. Meanwhile I learn from a creditable source that headquarters in Moscow have taken alarm at the failure of their agents to report. I think that in spite of all our precautions they have begun to suspect that all is not well at what I may call the distributing centre—the office of Mr. Theodore Blunt—the International Detective Bureau.”

“Well,” said Tommy, “I suppose they were bound to tumble to it some time or other, sir.”

“As you say, it was only to be expected. But I am a little worried—about Mrs. Tommy.”

“I can look after her all right, sir,” said Tommy, at exactly the same minute as Tuppence said, “I can take care of myself.”

“H’m,” said Mr. Carter. “Excessive self-confidence was always a characteristic of you two. Whether your immunity is entirely due to your own superhuman cleverness, or whether a small percentage of luck creeps in, I’m not prepared to say. But luck changes, you know. However, I won’t argue the point. From my extensive knowledge of Mrs. Tommy, I suppose it’s quite useless to ask her to keep out of the limelight for the next week or two?”

Tuppence shook her head very energetically.

“Then all I can do is to give you all the information that I can. We have reason to believe that a special agent has been despatched from Moscow to this country. We don’t know what name he is travelling under, we don’t know when he will arrive. But we do know something about him. He is a man who gave us great trouble in the war, an ubiquitous kind of fellow who turned up all over the place where we least wanted him. He is a Russian by birth, and an accomplished linguist—so much so that he can pass as half a dozen other nationalities, including our own. He is also a past master in the art of disguise. And he has brains. It was he who devised the No. 16 code.

“When and how he will turn up, I do not know. But I am fairly certain that he will turn up. We do know this—he was not personally acquainted with the real Mr. Theodore Blunt. I think that he will turn up at your office, on the pretext of a case which he will wish you to take up, and will try you with the pass words. The first, as you know, is the mention of the number sixteen—which is replied to by a sentence containing the same number. The second, which we have only just learnt, is an inquiry as to whether you have ever crossed the Channel. The answer to that is: ‘I was in Berlin on the 13th of last month.’ As far as we know that is all. I would suggest that you reply correctly, and so endeavour to gain his confidence. Sustain the fiction if you possibly can. But even if he appears to be completely deceived, remain on your guard. Our friend is particularly astute, and can play a double game as well, or better, than you can. But in either case I hope to get him through you. From this day forward I am adopting special precautions. A dictaphone was installed last night in your office, so that one of my men in the room below will be able to hear everything that passes in your office. In this way I shall be immediately informed if anything arises, and can take the necessary steps to safeguard you and your wife whilst securing the man I am after.”

After a few more instructions, and a general discussion of tactics, the two young people departed and made their way as rapidly as possible to the offices of Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives.

“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 superspy by the heels, the great detectives intend to retire and take to beekeeping 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 endeavouring 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 today?”

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. 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 two leaves, those of Saturday and Sunday. His statement was presently supported, for whereas the two leaves torn off by Albert were found in the grate, the succeeding ones were lying neatly in the wastepaper 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 supercriminals. This is the man—but even more so, if I may 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 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 O.K. 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 sight the whole time. I’m not going to run any risks.”

Occasionally one of the Secret Service men came to report progress. The first time it was a waiter, who took their orders for cocktails, the second time it was a fashionable vacant-faced young man.

“They’re coming out,” said Mr. Carter. “We’ll retire behind this pillar in case they sit down here, but I fancy he’ll take her up to his suite. Ah, yes, I thought so.”

From their post of vantage, Tommy saw the Russian and Tuppence cross the hall and enter the lift.

The minutes passed, and Tommy began to fidget.

“Do you think, sir. I mean, alone in that suite—”

“One of my men’s inside—behind the sofa. Don’t worry, man.”

A waiter crossed the hall and came up to Mr. Carter.

“Got the signal they were coming up, sir—but they haven’t come. Is it all right?”

“What?” Mr. Carter spun round. “I saw them go into the lift myself. Just,” he glanced up at the clock—“four and a half minutes ago. And they haven’t shown up. . . .”

He hurried across to the lift which had just at that minute come down again, and spoke to the uniformed attendant.

“You took up a gentleman with a fair beard and a young lady a few minutes ago to the second floor.”

“Not the second floor, sir. Third floor the gentleman asked for.”

“Oh!” The Chief jumped in, motioning Tommy to accompany him. “Take us up to the third floor, please.”

“I don’t understand this,” he murmured in a low voice. “But keep calm. Every exit from the hotel is watched, and I’ve got a man on the third floor as well—on every floor, in fact. I was taking no chances.”

The lift door opened on the third floor and they sprang out, hurrying down the corridor. Half way along it, a man dressed as a waiter came to meet them.

“It’s all right, Chief. They’re in No. 318.”

Carter breathed a sigh of relief.

“That’s all right. No other exit?”

“It’s a suite, but there are only these two doors into the corridor, and to get out from any of these rooms, they’d have to pass us to get to the staircase or the lifts.”

“That’s all right then. Just telephone down and find out who is supposed to occupy this suite.”

The waiter returned in a minute or two.

“Mrs. Cortlandt Van Snyder of Detroit.”

Mr. Carter became very thoughtful.

“I wonder now. Is this Mrs. VanSnyder an accomplice, or is she—”

He left the sentence unfinished.

“Hear any noise from inside?” he asked abruptly.

“Not a thing. But the doors fit well. One couldn’t hope to hear much.”

Mr. Carter made up his mind suddenly.

“I don’t like this business. We’re going in. Got the master key?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Call up Evans and Clydesly.”

Reinforced by the other two men, they advanced towards the door of the suite. It opened noiselessly when the first man inserted his key.

They found themselves in a small hall. To the right was the open door of a bathroom, and in front of them was the sitting room. On the left was a closed door and from behind it a faint sound—rather like an asthmatic pug—could be heard. Mr. Carter pushed the door open and entered.

The room was a bedroom, with a big double bed, ornately covered with a bedspread of rose and gold. On it, bound hand and foot, with her mouth secured by a gag and her eyes almost starting out of her head with pain and rage, was a middle-aged fashionably-dressed woman.

On a brief order from Mr. Carter, the other men had covered the whole suite. Only Tommy and his Chief had entered the bedroom. As he leant over the bed and strove to unfasten the knots, Carter’s eyes went roving round the room in perplexity. Save for an immense quantity of truly American luggage, the room was empty. There was no sign of the Russian or Tuppence.

In another minute the waiter came hurrying in, and reported that the other rooms were also empty. Tommy went to the window, only to draw back and shake his head. There was no balcony—nothing but a sheer drop to the street below.

“Certain it was this room they entered?” asked Carter peremptorily.

“Sure. Besides—” The man indicated the woman on the bed.

With the aid of a pen-knife, Carter parted the scarf that was half choking her and it was at once clear that whatever her sufferings they had not deprived Mrs. Cortlandt Van Snyder of the use of her tongue.

When she had exhausted her first indignation, Mr. Carter spoke mildly.

“Would you mind telling me exactly what happened—from the beginning?”

“I guess I’ll sue the hotel for this. It’s a perfect outrage. I was just looking for my bottle of ‘Killagrippe,’ when a man sprung on me from behind and broke a little glass bottle right under my nose, and before I could get my breath I was all in. When I came to I was lying here, all trussed up, and goodness knows what’s happened to my jewels. He’s gotten the lot, I guess.”

“Your jewels are quite safe, I fancy,” said Mr. Carter drily. He wheeled round and picked up something from the floor. “You were standing just where I am when he sprang upon you?”

“That’s so,” assented Mrs. Van Snyder.

It was a fragment of thin glass that Mr. Carter had picked up. He sniffed it and handed it to Tommy.

“Ethyl chloride,” he murmured. “Instant anaesthetic. But it only keeps one under for a moment or two. Surely he must still have been in the room when you came to, Mrs. Van Snyder?”

“Isn’t that just what I’m telling you? Oh! it drove me half crazy to see him getting away and me not able to move or do anything at all.”

“Getting away?” said Mr. Carter sharply. “Which way?”

“Through that door.” She pointed to one in the opposite wall. “He had a girl with him, but she seemed kind of limp as though she’d had a dose of the same dope.”

Carter looked a question at his henchman.

“Leads into the next suite, sir. But double doors—supposed to be bolted on each side.”

Mr. Carter examined the door carefully. Then he straightened himself up and turned towards the bed.

“Mrs. Van Snyder,” he said quietly, “do you still persist in your assertion that the man went out this way?”

“Why, certainly he did. Why shouldn’t he?”

“Because the door happens to be bolted on this side,” said Mr. Carter dryly. He rattled the handle as he spoke.

A look of the utmost astonishment spread over Mrs. Van Snyder’s face.

“Unless someone bolted the door behind him,” said Mr. Carter, “he cannot have gone out that way.”

He turned to Evans, who had just entered the room.

“Sure they’re not anywhere in this suite? Any other communicating doors?”

“No, sir, and I’m quite sure.”

Carter turned his gaze this way and that about the room. He opened the big hanging wardrobe, looked under the bed, up the chimney and behind all the curtains. Finally, struck by a sudden idea, and disregarding Mrs. Van Snyder’s shrill protests, he opened the large wardrobe trunk and rummaged swiftly in the interior.

Suddenly Tommy, who had been examining the communicating door, gave an exclamation.

“Come here, sir, look at this. They did go this way.”

The bolt had been very cleverly filed through, so close to the socket that the join was hardly perceptible.

“The door won’t open because it’s locked on the other side,” explained Tommy.

In another minute they were out in the corridor again and the waiter was opening the door of the adjoining suite with his pass key. This suite was untenanted. When they came to the communicating door, they saw that the same plan had been adopted. The bolt had been filed through, and the door was locked, the key having been removed. But nowhere in the suite was there any sign of Tuppence or the fair-bearded Russian and there was no other communicating door, only the one on the corridor.

“But I’d have seen them come out,” protested the waiter. “I couldn’t have helped seeing them. I can take my oath they never did.”

“Damn it all,” cried Tommy. “They can’t have vanished into thin air!”

Carter was calm again now, his keen brain working.

“Telephone down and find out who had this suite last and when.”

Evans who had come with them, leaving Clydesly on guard in the other suite, obeyed. Presently he raised his head from the telephone.

“An invalid French lad, M. Paul de Vareze. He had a hospital nurse with him. They left this morning.”

An exclamation burst from the other Secret Service man, the waiter. He had gone deathly pale.

“The invalid boy—the hospital nurse,” he stammered. “I—they passed me in the passage. I never dreamed—I had seen them so often before.”

“Are you sure they were the same?” cried Mr. Carter. “Are you sure, man? You looked at them well?”

The man shook his head.

“I hardly glanced at them. I was waiting, you understand, on the alert for the others, the man with the fair beard and the girl.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Carter, with a groan. “They counted on that.”

With a sudden exclamation, Tommy stooped down and pulled something from under the sofa. It was a small rolled-up bundle of black. Tommy unrolled it and several articles fell out. The outside wrapper was the long black coat Tuppence had worn that day. Inside was her walking dress, her hat and a long fair beard.”

“It’s clear enough now,” he said bitterly. “They’ve got her—got Tuppence. That Russian devil has given us the slip. The hospital nurse and the boy were accomplices. They stayed here for a day or two to get the hotel people accustomed to their presence. The man must have realised at lunch that he was trapped and proceeded to carry out his plan. Probably he counted on the room next door being empty since it was when he fixed the bolts. Anyway he managed to silence both the woman next door and Tuppence, brought her in here, dressed her in boy’s clothes, altered his own appearance, and walked out bold as brass. The clothes must have been hidden ready. But I don’t quite see how he managed Tuppence’s acquiescence.”

“I can see,” said Mr. Carter. He picked up a little shining piece of steel from the carpet. “That’s a fragment of a hypodermic needle. She was doped.”

“My God!” groaned Tommy. “And he’s got clear away.”

“We don’t know that,” said Carter quickly. “Remember every exit is watched.”

“For a man and a girl. Not for a hospital nurse and an invalid boy. They’ll have left the hotel by now.”

Such, on inquiry, proved to be the case. The nurse and her patient had driven away in a taxi some five minutes earlier.

“Look here, Beresford,” said Mr. Carter, “for God’s sake pull yourself together. You know that I won’t leave a stone unturned to find that girl. I’m going back to my office at once and in less than five minutes every resource of the department will be at work. We’ll get them yet.”

“Will you, sir? He’s a clever devil, that Russian. Look at the cunning of this coup of his. But I know you’ll do your best. Only—pray God it’s not too late. They’ve got it in for us badly.”

He left the Blitz Hotel and walked blindly along the street, hardly knowing where he was going. He felt completely paralysed. Where to search? What to do?

He went into the Green Park, and dropped down upon a seat. He hardly noticed when someone else sat down at the opposite end, and was quite startled to hear a well-known voice.

“If you please, sir, if I might make so bold—”

Tommy looked up.

“Hullo, Albert,” he said dully.

“I know all about it, sir—but don’t take on so.”

“Don’t take on—” He gave a short laugh. “Easily said, isn’t it?”

“Ah, but think, sir. Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives! Never beaten. And if you’ll excuse my saying so I happened to overhear what you and the Missus was ragging about this morning. Mr. Poirot, and his little grey cells. Well, sir, why not use your little grey cells, and see what you can do.”

“It’s easier to use your little grey cells in fiction than it is in fact, my boy.”

“Well,” said Albert stoutly, “I don’t believe anybody could put the Missus out, for good and all. You know what she is, sir, just like one of those rubber bones you buy for little dorgs—guaranteed indestructible.”

“Albert,” said Tommy, “you cheer me.”

“Then what about using your little grey cells, sir?”

“You’re a persistent lad, Albert. Playing the fool has served us pretty well up to now. We’ll try it again. Let us arrange our facts neatly, and with method. At ten minutes past two exactly, our quarry enters the lift. Five minutes later we speak to the lift man, and having heard what he says we also go up to the third floor. At say, nineteen minutes past two we enter the suite of Mrs. Van Snyder. And now, what significant fact strikes us?”

There was a pause, no significant fact striking either of them.

“There wasn’t such a thing as a trunk in the room, was there?” asked Albert, his eyes lighting suddenly.

“Mon ami,” said Tommy, “you do not understand the psychology of an American woman who has just returned from Paris. There were, I should say, about nineteen trunks in the room.”

“What I meantersay is, a trunk’s a handy thing if you’ve got a dead body about you want to get rid of—not that she is dead, for a minute.”

“We searched the only two there were big enough to contain a body. What is the next fact in chronological order?”

“You’ve missed one out—when the Missus and the bloke dressed up as a hospital nurse passed the waiter in the passage.”

“It must have been just before we came up in the lift,” said Tommy. “They must have had a narrow escape of meeting us face to face. Pretty quick work, that. I—”

He stopped.

“What is it, sir?”

“Be silent, mon ami. I have the kind of little idea—colossal, stupendous—that always comes sooner or later to Hercule Poirot. But if so—if that’s it—Oh, Lord, I hope I’m in time.”

He raced out of the Park, Albert hard on his heels, inquiring breathlessly as he ran, “What’s up, sir? I don’t understand.”

“That’s all right,” said Tommy. “You’re not supposed to. Hastings never did. If your grey cells weren’t of a very inferior order to mine, what fun do you think I should get out of this game? I’m talking damned rot—but I can’t help it. You’re a good lad, Albert. You know what Tuppence is worth—she’s worth a dozen of you and me.”

Thus talking breathlessly as he ran, Tommy reentered the portals of the Blitz. He caught sight of Evans, and drew him aside with a few hurried words. The two men entered the lift, Albert with them.

“Third floor,” said Tommy.

At the door of No. 318 they paused. Evans had a pass key, and used it forthwith. Without a word of warning, they walked straight into Mrs. Van Snyder’s bedroom. The lady was still lying on the bed, but was now arrayed in a becoming negligee. She stared at them in surprise.

“Pardon my failure to knock,” said Tommy pleasantly. “But I want my wife. Do you mind getting off that bed?”

“I guess you’ve gone plumb crazy,” cried Mrs. Van Snyder.

Tommy surveyed her thoughtfully, his head on one side.

“Very artistic,” he pronounced, “but it won’t do. We looked under the bed—but not in it. I remember using that hiding place myself when young. Horizontally across the bed, underneath the bolster. And that nice wardrobe trunk all ready to take away the body in later. But we were a bit too quick for you just now. You’d had time to dope Tuppence, put her under the bolster, and be gagged and bound by your accomplices next door, and I’ll admit we swallowed your story all right for the moment. But when one came to think it out—with order and method—impossible to drug a girl, dress her in boys’ clothes, gag and bind another woman, and change one’s own appearance—all in five minutes. Simply a physical impossibility. The hospital nurse and the boy were to be a decoy. We were to follow that trail, and Mrs. Van Snyder was to be pitied as a victim. Just help the lady off the bed, will you, Evans? You have your automatic? Good.”

Protesting shrilly, Mrs. Van Snyder was hauled from her place of repose. Tommy tore off the coverings and the bolster.

There, lying horizontally across the top of the bed was Tuppence, her eyes closed, and her face waxen. For a moment Tommy felt a sudden dread, then he saw the slight rise and fall of her breast. She was drugged—not dead.

He turned to Albert and Evans.

“And now, Messieurs,” he said dramatically, “the final coup!”

With a swift, unexpected gesture he seized Mrs. Van Snyder by her elaborately dressed hair. It came off in his hand.

“As I thought,” said Tommy. “No. 16!”

II

It was about half an hour later when Tuppence opened her eyes and found a doctor and Tommy bending over her.

Over the events of the next quarter of an hour a decent veil had better be drawn, but after that period the doctor departed with the assurance that all was now well.

“Mon ami, Hastings,” said Tommy fondly. “How I rejoice that you are still alive.”

“Have we got No. 16?”

“Once more I have crushed him like an eggshell—in other words, Carter’s got him. The little grey cells! By the way, I’m raising Albert’s wages.”

“Tell me all about it.”

Tommy gave her a spirited narrative, with certain omissions.

“Weren’t you half frantic about me?” asked Tuppence faintly.

“Not particularly. One must keep calm, you know.”

“Liar!” said Tuppence. “You look quite haggard still.”

“Well, perhaps, I was just a little worried, darling. I say—we’re going to give it up now, aren’t we?”

“Certainly we are.”

Tommy gave a sigh of relief.

“I hoped you’d be sensible. After a shock like this—”

“It’s not the shock. You know I never mind shocks.”

“A rubber bone—indestructible,” murmured Tommy.

“I’ve got something better to do,” continued Tuppence. “Something ever so much more exciting. Something I’ve never done before.”

Tommy looked at her with lively apprehension.

“I forbid it, Tuppence.”

“You can’t,” said Tuppence. “It’s a law of nature.”

“What are you talking about, Tuppence?”

“I’m talking,” said Tuppence, “of Our Baby. Wives don’t whisper nowadays. They shout. OUR BABY! Tommy, isn’t everything marvellous?”

About the Author

AGATHA CHRISTIE is the most widely published author of all time, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She died in 1976.

www.AgathaChristie.com

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Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star Over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set and Other Stories

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirot’s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Under Dog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGinty’s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Man’s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Hallowe’en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertram’s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Memoirs

An Autobiography

Come, Tell Me How You Live

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

AGATHA CHRISTIE® TOMMY AND TUPPENCE™ PARTNERS IN CRIME™ are registered trademarks of Agatha Christie Limited in the UK and elsewhere. All rights reserved.

“The Man Who Was No. 16” was previously published as part of Partners in Crime short story collection, copyright © 1929 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition SEPTEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780062300607

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