"I see you have heard of him. Did you know he lived near here?"
Simon shook his head. He knew that Sir Joseph Whipplethwaite had acquired the recently-created portfolio of the Minister of International Trade, and had gathered from broadcast utterances that Sir Joseph considered Whipplethwaite an ideal man for the job, but he had not felt moved to investigate the matter further. His energetic life was far too full to allow him time to trace the career of every pinhead who exercised his jaw in the Houses of Parliament at the long-suffering taxpayer's expense.
"His house is only about a mile away — a big modern place with four or five acres of garden. And whatever you like to think about him yourself, the fact remains that he has fairly important work to do. Things go through his office that it's sometimes important to keep absolutely secret until the proper time comes to publish them."
Simon Templar had never been called slow. "Good Lord, Teal — is this a stolen treaty business?"
The detective nodded slowly. "That sounds a little sensational, but it's about the truth of it. The draft of our commercial agreement with the Argentine is going before the House tomorrow, and Whipplethwaite brought it down here on Saturday night late to work on it — he has the pleasure of introducing it for the Government. I don't know much about it myself, except that it's to do with tariffs, and some people could make a lot of money out of knowing the text of it in advance."
"And it's been stolen?"
"On Sunday afternoon."
Simon reached thoughtfully for his cigarette-case. "Teal, why are you telling me this?"
"I don't really know," said the detective, looking at him sombrely.
"When you walked in and found me here, I suppose you thought I was the man."