Johnny shook his head regretfully. “That’s just the trouble. I’m afraid he may have moved. All I’ve got is the place where he lived four years ago.”
“But mightn’t he still be there?” Peter asked anxiously.
Johnny shrugged. “I don’t know. You can try.”
“Well, where is it?”
Johnny wrote out an address that Peggy recognized as a place out in the suburbs beyond the city.
“That’s the best I can do,” Johnny said. “You can inquire there.”
“Great.” Peter took the paper and handed it over to Peggy. “That’s your job, Sherlock Holmes. Let’s hope you find him.”
“Wait a minute,” Peggy said, grabbing Peter by the arm. “I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“That’s easy,” Johnny said. “I’ve got a million photographs. Let me get you one. I’ll try to get the best likeness for you.” He disappeared down a narrow aisle of file cases. A moment later he was back, blowing the dust from a large glossy photo. “Here,” he said, holding it out. “That’s just about the way he looks today. It was taken during the war.”
The picture showed a rather ordinary-appearing man. At first glance there was nothing particularly unusual about Tom Agate. But a closer look revealed a quality of gentle, almost melancholy, humor that seemed to dominate his face. Peggy held it out at arm’s length. “He looks so sad,” she said. “Somehow I expected him to be gay.”