Chapter Four.
The Incredible Theft.
England, 1924.

"MISTER BROWN. COME AT ONCE. YOU ARE NEEDED."

That was all the telegram said. And, apart from the fact that Sir Oscar Trevelyan of Mostyn Manor, in Surrey, was one of the best-known financial magnates in the City of London, that was all that Sexton Brown knew of the case when he left his rooms in Farringdon and drove to Victoria Railway Station. It was then half-past seven in the evening when Brown finally arrived in Surrey. An hour later he reached Mostyn Manor after Sir Oscar's personal motor car met him at the station. By a quarter to nine, he was at the Hall, a fine old Tudor mansion, surrounded by expansive gardens. Sir Oscar, pale and distracted, awaited him in the library.

"I thought you weren't coming!" he exclaimed, seizing the detective by the hand, and dragging him into the room.

Brown removed his overcoat to reveal his double-breasted grey suit. He looked dapper and confidant as he looked around the stately home.

"I've been robbed of a document worth a hundred thousand pounds! My secretary, who apparently surprised the thief, was knocked unconscious and is now recuperating. I have no faith in the rural police so I sent for you. Find the thief and recover the stolen document before it falls into the hands of old Picot, for he's at the bottom of the business, I'll swear."

"Pray calm yourself, begin at the beginning, and tell me what happened."

"Permit me, Sir Oscar. I would be honoured to relate the crime to Mister Brown."

Both men turned to the door to see a tall and slender redhead standing there. She looked elegant in her grey beaded evening gown that sparkled with hand-embellished beads and sequins. The scalloped hem and deep V-neck added to her allure, and several strings of pearls completed her glamorous look.

"Oh, Mister Brown. Allow me to introduce Mrs. Agatha Crowley. Her Father and I were the best of friends. She's just visiting whilst in the area."

"Delighted to make your acquaintance," she told Brown as she fitted a cigarette into her long holder. "Could you light me?"

The successful author of pulp fiction, notably crime stories, put one end of the holder to her mouth and pursed her scarlet lips. Brown took a box of matches from his hip pocket and lit one up. As he held up the match, Crowley clutched his hand with hers and didn't let go for several seconds. In her fashionable three-inch heels their heights matched well.

"Thank you."

It was not an overstatement to say that Crowley was rather well off. And she had made every penny by her acuteness of mind. She had dozens of stories that the British public lapped up and she had reaped the rewards gladly. She lived life to the full and was content with her lot. He watched her sit down in a plush armchair and cross her willowy legs. The swish of her silk stockings could be heard with his keen ears. He thought she had an extraordinary charisma, unlike any woman he had ever known. And she was perfectly aware of the deep impression she made on him. The intriguing woman with the bob haircut and straight fringe down to the brows blew a stream of blue smoke from her lips as she regarded the highly regarded private detective.

He was the classic tall, dark, handsome stranger—strong yet silent. Despite his rather pasty complexion, probably a result of skulking about after midnight, he did have bright blue eyes and groomed black hair. He exuded an aloof, cold, and distant demeanour that said to her he was the sort of man who could easily live without the close companionship of a female. He sat in the opposite armchair, and even when he sat down, he seemed tall and straight-backed.

"I must mention how much I enjoy your writing. Most of them are quite fantastical, mind you."

"You're too kind. Likewise, I should congratulate you on the way you handled that Cornish Coast conspiracy. Excellent work."

"That was a fine result, yes."

"Tell me, Mister Brown. Are you married?"

"Widowed. And you?"

Brown fished about in his pocket and produced a pipe with which he began to stuff tobacco from a small pouch.

"Divorced. My husband was a crashing bore. He wouldn't know a good time if it hit him in the face."

"Are you drinking?" asked Sir Oscar.

"Scotch, thanks."

Agatha looked directly at the detective and searched his chiselled face for a reaction to her unblushing order of hard booze.

"Same for me, Sir Oscar. Anyway. Please enlighten me of the events here."

"If I am to begin at the beginning," said Agatha, "I must tell you that Sir Oscar has large financial interests in South America. Another firm, with equally large interests in that country, is the well-known financial firm Picot of Paris. Between their firm and Sir Oscar's, there has been for many years the keenest commercial rivalry, amounting to him and Picot being involved in a bitter personal feud. About six months ago he sent an expert over to Peru to inspect and report on certain properties which were on offer. His confidential report, written in Spanish, reached London yesterday. I do not wish to weary you with details so I will simply say that if that report falls into the hands of Picot before the end of the week, the result will be a loss to Sir Oscar to the tune of at least a hundred thousand pounds."

Brown listened intently as he finished his pipe. During her monologue, Crowley had crossed her legs several times, and he was instantly attracted to the radiant thirty-year-old. It had been quite a while since he had been intimate with another despite his on/off secretary Maggie flirting unashamedly.

"I definitely locked it up in a small safe in my study and went to bed."

"Excuse my interrupting you," said Sexton Brown "How many persons knew you had brought the report home with you?"

"Two. My confidential clerk, in London, and my private secretary, a young fellow named Percival, who lives here. At six o'clock this morning I was roused by one of the servants with the startling news that the study window had been broken open during the night, the lock of the safe had been picked, and the unconscious form of my secretary had been found lying outside the study window. He had heard a suspicious noise in the study, had come down to investigate, had surprised the thief at work, and had jumped out of the window after him."

"On hearing the servant's news," continued Agatha, "Sir Oscar rushed down to the study. The lock of the safe had not been picked, as the servant had said. It had been opened using a duplicate key, which was still in the keyhole. And the only thing that was missing from the safe was the confidential report. Which proves, to my mind, that the thief was an agent of Picot's."

Brown shook his head, much to Crowley's chagrin.

"Oh? Is that right?"

"Your theory doesn't impress me at present," he said. "However, may I see the room in which the robbery was committed?"

"Tomorrow, old chap. We all need some rest. I have prepared two rooms for each of you, as well as Agatha's chauffeur."

"Then I shall bid you both a goodnight. Goodnight, Mrs. Crowley."

"Goodnight, Sir."

x

Brown took a welcome soak in the bath and eventually retired to bed at approximately one in the morning. Not a half hour later he heard muffled sounds from down the corridor. Being a curious sort by profession, he donned his dressing gown over his pajamas and went to investigate. As the sounds of more than one person could be detected from Agatha's room, he feared something was amiss. As he drew closer to the door of her room, the sound of moaning was evident. He turned the handle and opened the door a few inches. He cocked his head and strained his ears. Shadows danced in the dimly lit room and it took him a few seconds for his vision to adjust.

"Good lord!"

Brown could make out Agatha on her back on the bed in the nude and with her legs up in the air. A broad-shouldered chap was on top of her with his big hands wandering all over her svelte frame. Her perky nipples were crushed by his sculpted chest as they wriggled about together. With her head up against the headboard all he could see was her pale legs wrapped tightly around him, and his muscular back being raked by her scarlet nails. His enormous plums were large and visible as he humped her merrily.

The atmosphere in the room was incredibly erotic and for reasons he did not yet fathom, Brown burned with jealousy at the sight of them in each other's arms and wished it was he with the wanton redhead. The fellow, presumably Crowley's driver pulled out of her and Brown got his first proper view of her sweat-dappled ginger bush. The man then dived down and his face smacked against her wet snatch which made her gasp aloud. His darting tongue protruded and slipped into her vertical smile which made her mouth open and close in silent gratification. His right hand held her slender thigh wide as he lapped and slobbered on her with his lips.

Under the lamps, Brown could just make out a trail of saliva trickle downwards and into her bum crack. His hand made its own way to his groin and he began to massage his aching dick which had risen to the occasion. The naked Crowley knelt up then and held his stiff cock upright, directly in the detective's line of view. She eagerly made sweeping licks up and down on the glistening shaft of the buff young fellow. Every inch of his organ was smeared with her spit which made it somewhat easier for her when she swallowed his thick length and slid down on him further and further until she had his entire cock in her mouth.

"Goodness me! I have never seen the like!" Sexton Brown muttered as he fished out his erection and jerked it in his sweat-soaked palm.

His hand became a blur as he put his weight on one foot and backed up against the wall. Agatha's mouth managed to consume his entire shaft, accomplished by letting the head of his cock rest in the very back of her throat. Closing her eyes, she swallowed, creating a vacuum-tight seal around his cock with her lips. She began sucking him as fast and as hard as she could. Her tongue never stayed still as she danced around the head. All of the fast sucking created a great deal of saliva and Brown thought it the most incredible display of fellatio imaginable. The detective marvelled at how talented the redhead was, as she gagged audibly on the big cock. She came up for air and her eyes streamed as she smiled.

"Come on, lover. Let's join giblets."

The man rose up and leaned on his knees between the splayed legs of Agatha. He rubbed his stiff cock on her slit several times until he finally relented and pushed his rock-hard length inside her. She widened her legs in lewd invitation and pulled him in with her feet. Was that his imagination or did Brown actually hear his cock penetrate her wetness with a soft sucking sound?

"Be still my beating heart!"

The eminent crime writer pushed her hips up to get all of his steel-hard prick inside her and he gave her intense and firm strokes that brought forth loud moans from the grateful female. Brown's vision was filled with the sight of his big backside rising and falling on her with his balls jiggling. The mesmerised detective was under no illusion that he was buried inside the shrieking blonde as the chauffeur pounded her again and again.

"Oh...my...word!" she screamed as her cunt was stabbed over and over.

Each home thrust made him grunt like an animal in heat as his body weight pinned the slender redhead to the bed. Brown could only imagine the intense pleasure she was enjoying from the hot fuck. Green with envy he cursed as he witnessed the man pull out of her momentarily and lift her quivering legs up onto his broad shoulders. Then she yelled out and he saw her tremble as he surmised that she was having an orgasm. He could not hear any words but the chap whispered in her ear as he stopped fucking her and they both turned sideways to look in his direction!

"Alright, Mister Brown? Getting a good eyeful?"

Sexton stopped wanking and inhaled sharply. They knew of his eavesdropping! He retreated from the threshold of the room, feeling decidedly sheepish.

x

Agatha Crowley lit a cigarette and put it into the end of her black holder. She picked at a dish of kippers and buttered eggs. She leered at Sexton Brown who sat opposite her. He avoided her gaze as he ate his shredded wheat. Thompson, Crowley's chauffeur stood with a straight back in his uniform by the door. He was a fine specimen of masculinity and looked to be about twenty-six. A rugged type, he was an inch under six foot, with a broad chest. He had a thick head of dark hair, and deep, chocolate-brown eyes to match. Brown caught his eye and swore the man gave him a smug grin.

"Sleep well, Mister Brown?"

"I tossed for a bit, Mrs. Crowley."

"I bet you did, Sex-ton."

The unrepentant flapper emphasised the sex in his first name and took a gulp of sweet black coffee and scoffed.

"I have no regrets about my 'unladylike' behaviour. I love sex and find intercourse helps stimulate the little grey cells."

She tapped her temple to make her point.

"Since the turn of the decade, women have embraced the age and liberated themselves from the shackles of marriage for the sake of it. I enjoy free love with whomever I choose and feel no guilt. I never turn down an invitation to a party, and I like to drink and smoke. Do I shock you?"

Very much so, he thought. She was one of the most extraordinary women he had ever met.

"Not at all," he said instead.

This seemed to placate the redhead. She noted the brooding detective had the same grey suit on from the previous evening. She supposed that he didn't earn much in his profession. Since the successful publication of her stories, Crowley had reaped the rewards and was reasonably well off. She loved to shop for clothes, and on this very morning had a plaid buttoned-up shirt and oversized corduroy trousers. She wore a headband around her head which emphasised her vivacious bob.

"Good morning, dear people. Are you fed and watered? Then let us begin."

Sir Oscar conducted them both to the study, which was on the ground floor and overlooked the grounds. The window had been opened by the well-known device of scratching a circle with a diamond on the outside of one of the panes, sticking a lump of putty in the centre of the circle, and pulling out the disc of glass. A hand had then apparently been thrust through the opening, and the catch had been forced back.

Sexton examined the safe and the duplicate key, and then he opened the window. On the ground outside was the disc of glass which had been cut out of the pane, and which had been overlooked by the servants and the village constable. The putty was still adhering to it, and on one side of the putty was a beautifully clear impression of a thumb, whilst on the other was an equally clear impression of a finger.

"These fingerprints may prove of incalculable help in identifying the thief."

He opened the window, climbed out, and examined the ground outside, where the secretary had been found. Suddenly he uttered a low whistle of astonishment, and, to Sir Oscar's surprise, he began to walk slowly away from the house with his eyes fixed on the ground.

"Where are you going?"

The detective made no reply. With his eyes still fixed on the ground and followed by Agatha, he walked across the lawn, round the end of the shrubbery, and pulled up at a small rustic gate, which opened into a deserted lane. Just outside the gate were the prints of a horse's hoofs and several cigarette ends.

"A man on horseback rode up to this gate, either last night or early this morning. He waited, judging by the number of hoof-prints. He waited a considerable time. Observe."

He picked up and counted the cigarette ends. There were five of them.

"Turkish," he said. "Evidently not a poor man. Allowing a quarter of an hour for each cigarette, that means he waited here for upwards of an hour."

Suddenly his eyes fell on a yew tree, which grew beside the gate. Several of the fresh young shoots had been recently torn off. On one of the branches were the marks of teeth.

"Splendid! The man whiled away his time whilst he was waiting here by smoking Turkish cigarettes. The horse amused himself by munching the leaves of this yew tree. And now I'd like to see your private secretary."

They returned to the house. Percival, the secretary, had been carried up to his bedroom and put to bed. Brown picked up the piece of putty, which he had brought upstairs with him, and compared the impressions on each side with the finger and thumb of the man's right hand.

"Mr. Brown. You don't suggest that Percival had something to do with it?"

"I do," said Sexton. "Come downstairs, and I'll tell you."

They retraced their steps to the library.

"When I examined the ground outside the study window, I discovered a double track of bare feet, leading away from and back to the window. I traced them to that rustic gate, and found, as you know, that a man and a horse had been standing there for an hour at least. That gave me my first inkling of the truth. I returned to the house, examined your secretary's wound, and his finger and thumb, and then I knew my theory was correct."

"And what is your theory?" asked the unimpressed Crowley.

"It was the secretary who opened the safe and took out the report. The duplicate key had probably been in his possession for months, and he cut the piece out of the window to make it appear that the house had been broken into from the outside. After he had secured the report, he climbed out through the window and walked to that gate, where he handed the report to a confederate. He had arrived on horseback and had been waiting there for more than an hour. He then walked back to the house pretending to have been struck."

"And to think I trusted him!" Sir Oscar said in a hollow voice.

"Who do you think was his confederate?"

"That's just what I'm going to find out," said Sexton, rising to his feet. "May I borrow the car? It's still outside, I see."

"Certainly, but where are you going?"

"To find your secretary's confederate, of course, and to compel him to disgorge his booty."

"Never mind that we'll take mine and I will accompany you," said Agatha quickly, not wanting to miss out.

"By Jove, Mrs. Crowley. You've got pluck."

"More than you could ever imagine, my dear fellow."

x

Sexton and Agatha sat in the back of her Rolls Royce motor car as Thompson drove them to the village. Crowley smiled to herself whenever the car made a jolt and their thighs touched. Brown, although not the shrinking violet type, visibly cringed. Surely he wasn't a queer. On the way, Brown observed the door of the Veterinary Surgeon. It was to this house that he now directed Thompson.

"Here?" wondered Agatha.

"Precisely. Come."

They both hurried inside where they were greeted by the vet, Deacon.

"Welcome, welcome. How may I be of service? I see you have no pets. Is it a larger animal in distress?"

"We seek information, my good man. You attend most of the horses hereabouts when they are ill, I suppose."

"All of them, I think."

"Have you one on your list at present suffering from the effects of yew poisoning?"

"Why, yes!" replied the vet, in evident surprise. "I was called out early this morning to see one. Belonging to a Major Brett. That's his portrait on the wall. He is a sponsor of the surgery.

"Taken ill this morning?"

"Yes; quite suddenly."

"And you do not doubt that the horses' illness has been caused by eating yew leaves?"

"Not the slightest, though it's a mystery where the beast found the leaves, as there are no yew trees in the Major's grounds. But why do you ask?"

"It is a trifling matter. Where does Major Brett live?"

"Brett Lodge, about three miles from here."

"One more thing. Do you happen to know if he's a friend of Mr. Percival, Sir Oscar Trevelyan's private secretary?"

"He is. In fact, Brett and Percival have been as thick as thieves for the past few weeks."

Brown scrutinised the portrait of the Major one more time.

"Thank you for your information."

"But hold, Sir. It is futile going to the Lodge, for the Major has gone away this very morning."

"Gone away?" echoed Sexton.

"Yes. He left by the 8.30 for London. I drove him to the station in my trap after I had seen the horse. He's off to Paris by the 11.05 train from Victoria. He told me so himself."

A concerned Sexton turned to Agatha.

"Can we get from here to London in time to reach Victoria by eleven?"

The renowned author consulted her gold wristwatch and shook her head. It was a quarter to ten.

"I'm afraid you can't," she said. "The 9.25 will have gone now. The next train doesn't leave till 10.10, and isn't due to reach London until 11.25."

The detective groaned audibly.

"But we have the Rolls. Victoria is only twenty-five miles away, and we have an hour and a quarter. Thompson can drive like the wind if he has to."

They ran back outside and piled in the back.

"Victoria Station, Thompson! As fast as you can."

x

Seventy minutes later they drew up at the railway station. They raced to catch the train which sped to the coast. Agatha and Sexton found a compartment and collapsed in the seats. At Dover, all doubt was set at rest as to whether Major Brett was in the train when the pair of sleuths saw him alight, Blake recognising him by the photograph he had seen in the vet's consulting room. They crossed the Channel aboard the steamer. Once on French soil, they continued from Calais by train to Paris, arriving at a quarter to seven in the evening. They took haste in pursuit of their target to the Hotel Paris in the Rue Caumartin.

"Now what?" asked Crowley.

Brown shushed her and sidled up to the reception desk. He tilted his head as the Major checked in.

"I sent a wire to you from London this morning to reserve a private room," he heard the Major say to the manager of the hotel.

"Under what name, Monsieur?" asked the manager.

"Major Brett."

The manager consulted his book and beckoned to the hall porter.

"Very good, Monsieur. Your room and en suite are on the third floor. Dinner will be ready at half-past seven."

"Also, I'm expecting a gentleman to call to see me at eight o'clock in the morning. Monsieur Picot is his name. Will you please show him up to my room as soon as he arrives?"

The manager promised that he would, and the Major followed the hall porter to the lift. Brown returned to Agatha and they hit the bar and ordered mint juleps.

"So, Sir Oscar was right," murmured Sexton. "Picot IS at the bottom of this. And yet that doesn't follow."

The redhead lit up and sipped her drink.

"Why not?"

"Percival and Brett may have concocted this plot between them, and Brett may have wired to Paris this morning, asking Picot to meet him at the hotel at eight. In any case, whether Picot knew of the plot beforehand or not, he doubtless knows by now that Brett has the report and is willing to sell it. Even if Brett only wired to him this morning, he would be sure to tell him. Unless we can prevent it, Sir Oscar is depending on us."

"How?"

Brown shrugged.

"I have an idea, come on."

They went back to the reception desk and composed themselves.

"May we book two rooms?" she asked of the manager in fluent French.

"Alas, Madam we 'ave only the one room left."

"We'll take it."

Brown raised an eyebrow in response.

"In what name?"

"Mister and Mrs. Smith."

x

The room was small with just the double bed, minimal furniture, and with wooden floors, and visible wooden beams in the ceiling.

"I must look a fright. All those hours traveling and with no planning."

Sexton sat on the bed and contemplated the situation. They would have to spend the night before surprising Brett in the morning. Agatha spoke from the bathroom as she bathed.

"But with no luggage. No change of clothes," he yelled back at her.

"I know. I love Paris. Tomorrow, we shall go shopping."

Brown removed his shoes and jacket and yelled back through the closed door.

"And what do we do until then?"

The door opened and Agatha stood there in a short bathrobe that finished at mid-thigh. She padded barefoot to the bed and spread her hands.

"We improvise. Now go and bathe. I left the tub with hot water in it."

Brown got in the tub and returned with just a white towel around his waist. Agatha was under the sheet on the right side of the bed. He looked around the sparse room and saw no convenient sofa or other much-needed comforts.

"So, we're sharing the bed."

"Not much choice, dear chap."

He saw her robe that had been discarded on the carpet and his dick twitched under the towel.

"Are you...?"

The grinning redhead drew back the sheet to reveal her nudity.

"I'm not sleeping in my clothes. And neither are you. Now lose the towel and get into bed."

Brown turned out the lights and draped the towel over the back of a wooden chair. He got to the left side of the bed and got in. He felt her body heat under the sheet, causing a rush of excitement to go straight to his genitals.

"Would you prefer it if I face you or away?"

"Best face away, Mrs. Crowley."

"Do call me Agatha. I'm not some stuffy old lady living in a little village dressed neatly in tweed and often seen knitting or pulling weeds in the garden."

She stole a glance at the naked chap and she was pleasantly surprised by how erect he was. With her back to the obviously virile man, she contemplated the problem and her hand went all by itself to her sex.

"Are you ill?" asked Sexton as he saw her back arch and her backside wiggle.

"I am perfectly fine, thank you."

Agatha rocked her hips as she strummed her clit in deep thought.

"I like to pleasure myself as I use the little grey cells. I have found out that sexual stimulation helps clear my head so I can extrapolate the facts at hand."

"I see."

Unable to ignore the attractive and very horny female not three inches from him, Brown positioned himself so that he could bump hips with her.

"You appear rather frisky, Sexton. When did you last have intercourse?"

"1922. Just before I lost my wife to influenza."

Agatha pushed back and she sighed as his full-blown erection found the crevice between her nether cheeks.

"What you say, handsome. Feel like making up for lost time? Go ahead."

Brown put his hand on her hip as he explored her slit and pushed. As he filled her with cock, they both groaned from the delight of penetration. As he began to move in and out, so Agatha started rocking her hips, relishing the sublime thrusting in and out motion. Although the detective was not comparable to her gigolo Thompson, his dick did have some substantial girth.

"Just to be clear, Sexton. This does not mean that we are getting involved romantically. We are having sex as a means to figure out how to conclude this affair. This is purely a physical relationship between the two of us, understand?"

Brown muttered an affirmative as he took hold of her by her hips and pulled himself out of her, save for the head of his cock. He turned her so that she was on her knees while he mounted her from behind. He thrust his cock fully into her cunt and she moaned and bucked. She put one hand on the brass headboard to steady herself.

"So, Brett is to meet Picot at eight in the morning. We have no idea if the two have ever met, so we can't use you as an imposter posing as the devious businessman.

Maybe, just maybe. Keep it up, my good man. I'm trying to think."

It seemed that no matter how hard Brown fucked the amorous writer and amateur sleuth, she kept urging him to fuck her even harder. Her moans became louder as her cunt gripped his cock harder. She was so wet that he was able to effortlessly slide in and out of her repeatedly.

"We will turn up at the desk at a quarter to eight and inform the clerk that we have appeared on behalf of Monsieur Picot who has been otherwise detained. We will take the Major into our confidence and take possession of the stolen document. Good lord!"

Sexton Brown's thrusting was so fast and intense that he managed to bring about Agatha's orgasm. In response to climaxing, her pussy tightened around his cock like a vice, but it did nothing to slow him down, in fact, it increased his pleasure and drove him to thrust his hips at a speed he didn't know he was capable of.

"Change up."

Agatha climbed on top of him, placing her knees on either side of his body and onto the mattress. She his cock inside her once more and started to fuck him at her leisure. Brown grabbed her hips and helped slide the wanton hussy up and down his cock.

"But, we don't have any money. How are we to make him hand over the papers?"

Crowley leaned forward so that her breasts pressed against his face while her hands held the top of the headboard in a firm grip. She thrust her hips while pushing and pulling in his lap. She bounced up and down on his raging pecker fast as she could.

"We, we'll come to...to that prob...problem in the mmm...moment. Oh, my word!"

The detective had never been fucked as savagely in all of his life. Most women would lie back and let him do all the work, but Crowley was fucking HIM, not he her. Brown thrust up with his own hips, forcing her up and down on his cock as if she weighed nothing. The energetic rut was all the impetus she needed to drive her to another orgasm.

"You're going to make me cum!" she cried out as her body shuddered with pleasure.

As she began to slow down, so he sped up and released his load inside her. She wasn't worried about him coming inside of her as she had her Dutch Cap. As she let herself rest her body on his, she kissed him on the cheek and smiled at him. She slowly raised herself off of his cock and stood in front of him.

"I'll just rinse myself off. Get some sleep. I have a plan to retrieve the document."

x

It was barely a quarter to eight when they left the room and approached the reception. Both were dressed in the same clothes they had arrived in. Brown stayed back and watched the plucky redhead play out her plan.

"An English gentleman is staying here named Major Brett," said Agatha to the manager in faultless French. "We wish to see him."

"Ah, I see the Major has an appointment with Monsieur Picot at eight."

"Oui. Unfortunately, he has been delayed in transit. He sent me along as a replacement."

The manager seemed to suspect nothing. He called one of the porters and instructed him to conduct the woman to Brett's room. The crime writer composed herself and smiled as the Major answered the door.

"I hope you speak English, Madam." said the major, somewhat anxiously.

"Very well. I am English. Miss Jane Smith."

She extended her hand and he ushered her inside. Agatha lingered by the door and kept it unlocked. Again a look of relief crossed the bold flapper. The stolen report was written in Spanish. If English was the only language Brett knew, he could not have read the report, and, therefore, would not be able to tell Monsieur Picot what it contained.

"Picot sends his apologies. I am his personal secretary. He asks that you hand the papers to me."

"An unexpected development. English, you say? You're probably wondering how I wrote that telegram if I didn't know French?"

"Certainly the telegram was in French," said Crowley, making a blind shot.

"Of course it was, but it wasn't written by me. It was written by a gentleman whom you might know. Mr. Percival, Sir Oscar Trevelyan's private secretary. He wrote it out for me on that night, and I sent it off from London this morning."

Agatha nodded and consulted her gold watch. It was now ten minutes to eight, and Monsieur Picot was due at eight.

"And now to business, Major. You have brought the report?"

"Naturally, and you the money?

Agatha gazed at him in undisguised astonishment.

"You're one for jumping to conclusions!" he said. "How on earth do I know the report is genuine?"

This was decidedly awkward, but the redhead kept her cool.

"Ah, I see Monsieur Picot has trained you well. You understand Spanish too?"

"Si, Signor. Muy bien."

Brett shrugged and retrieved the creased documents from a briefcase. Agatha smiled and pretended to read.

"But, these are not the desired articles, Major. This is a shopping list!"

"What! You lie!"

"Here. Look. A pound of bacon. A pound of butter. One cabbage. Five pounds of sugar, and a dozen eggs."

He grabbed the sheets of paper and scratched his head.

"Can this be true? Why, the beggar!" said Brett. "Fancy Percival deceiving me like that! He must have the genuine documents in his possession still. No doubt biding his time to sell to others."

It was five minutes to eight. Agatha calmly backed up to the door and tapped it lightly with her heel. A paper was shoved in under the door and she transferred the real document back out.

"Why do you waste our time? Let us agree to call this affair null and void. Take this worthless paper and I shall bid you good day."

Agatha slipped out of the room where she joined Sexton, who had pocketed the genuine article. At that moment, a grey-haired chap brushed past them and knocked on the door of the Major.

"Best make ourselves scarce, Mrs. Crowley. And quick."

From the top of the stairs, they saw the Frenchman greet Brett.

"Major Brett? I am Monsieur Picot. I believe we 'ave business?"

"What? You're Picot? But I just saw your secretary."

"My secretary? But I 'ave none. Where is the merchandise? I 'ave five thousand Francs in my pocket."

Brett blanched and slumped against the door.

"I think that I have just been had."

x

Agatha and Sexton stood side by side on the deck of the cross Channel steamer the Maid of Orleans.

"Sir Oscar will be heartily pleased by this turn of events and no mistake. We have the papers back safely. We shall wire the local constabulary first chance we get hand have Percival arrested and charged."

"Excellent, my good man. We made quite a team, don't you think?"

"For the most part."

"Oh, was there something amiss?"

Sexton took the ravishing flapper in his burly arms and kissed her hard on the mouth.

"I was just thinking we should have a replay of that night in the hotel. Just to see if you really can stimulate the brain by lovemaking."

Agatha smiled and returned the kiss.

"Any time, Sexton. Any time."

END