Книга - Paul Temple Intervenes

Paul Temple Intervenes
Francis Durbridge


Sir Graham Forbes of Scotland Yard often calls upon Paul Temple to help with his latest unfathomable case…In a small country lane, the well-known American, Myron Harwood, is found dead. The murder heralds the start of a spate of celebrity deaths – and each time the victim is found with a small white piece of cardboard, bearing the inscription ‘The Marquis’.When a woman is pulled from the river with the same note attached to her dress, Paul Temple sends a note to Sir Graham Forbes. His message reads: ‘is it true what they say about Rita?’ Rita Cartwright was a private detective hired to investigate the Marquis murders – and now she is the eighth victim. The police are baffled and the Home Secretary is calling for Paul Temple to intervene…








FRANCIS DURBRIDGE




Paul Temple Intervenes













An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by

LONG 1944

Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1944

All rights reserved

Francis Durbridge has asserted his right under the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover image © Shutterstock.com

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, 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.

Source ISBN: 978-0-00-812562-2

Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 978-0-00-812563-9

Version: 2015-06-05


Contents

Cover (#u416bc29b-62f9-5466-b2e6-aab0d38935ee)

Title Page (#u4707b367-f241-5261-b903-1014dfa1ac18)

Copyright (#ue7668105-0ba1-5015-b03d-5e4c595000c9)

CHAPTER I: On the Air (#u662c55ea-f62e-56dc-8387-f2085a55e596)

CHAPTER II: River Patrol (#u96b2a73a-a657-5e6c-8ae1-7e55ade2592f)

CHAPTER III: Crisis at Scotland Yard (#u02033a6f-1dde-5608-b81e-4d41315a999a)



CHAPTER IV: The Girl Who Knew Too Much (#u224aced1-e364-5534-9da3-d4c76ede7c11)



CHAPTER V: No Beer for Sammy Wren (#ue383159e-8b18-586f-9f08-80822816a19e)



CHAPTER VI: Roger Storey Explains (#u4d90fa07-a7b5-5942-946f-9ae12716ec1f)



CHAPTER VII: Death Stalks Forard Glen (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER VIII: Sir Felix Entertains (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER IX: Kellaway Manor (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER X: The Marquis Sends a Warning (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER XI: Greensea House (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER XII: Accidental Death? (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER XIII: Paul Temple Keeps an Appointment (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER XIV: ‘The Clockwise’ (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER XV: Above Suspicion (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER XVI: Superintendent Bradley Goes to The Pictures (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER XVII: Concerning Inspector Ross (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER XVIII: The October Hotel (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER XIX: Introducing The Marquis! (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)



Also in This Series (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER I (#u735d95a2-348a-5f86-8751-11a5ee37ab2d)

On the Air (#u735d95a2-348a-5f86-8751-11a5ee37ab2d)


PAUL TEMPLE never failed to extract the utmost enjoyment from a trip to America; the inconceivable vastness of the continent with its astonishing gamut of civilisations appealed to his sensitive imagination. He was forever planning a novel of some considerable length dealing with the adventures of an Englishman in search of the hidden powers behind American life. So far, it was just an idea, just recognisable in the half-dozen random jottings in the notebook he invariably carried. And at the moment there did not seem to be much possibility of its materialisation into any substantial form. For Paul Temple was very busy indeed on his present trip to the United States.

It had started with an abrupt summons from Colonel Randall at the Ministry of Information. The Colonel had informed Temple that a few selected lecturers were being sent to the States in an effort to render that nation rather more ‘Britain conscious.’ It was essential that these lecturers should be known to the American public, and the M.O.I. had apparently been to some trouble to discover that the sale of Paul Temple’s novels in the States had long since passed six figures. Furthermore, a batch of newspaper cuttings had convinced them that the novelist-detective was also a man of action, who could be relied upon to use his initiative in any unorthodox situation.

So Paul Temple went to America. This time he took his wife with him, and when the lecture agency who made Temple’s arrangements discovered that Steve was also an author – of ‘The Front Page Men,’ which had enjoyed enormous popularity in the States, following the sensational reports of the activities of this gang of criminals in England – then Steve’s services were also very much in demand, and she was booked for a long series of lectures to women’s organisations of every description. So strange, indeed, were some of them that Steve felt that the association in question should be lecturing her on its peculiar origin.

However, Paul Temple and Steve ultimately arrived at Chicago. They marvelled at its luxury hotels, eyed its stockyards somewhat dubiously, walked the full length of the celebrated waterfront, and finally reached the luxurious portals of Station GSKZ, where Paul Temple was due to be interviewed on the air that evening by Cranmer Guest, whose reputation as radio’s ace interviewer conjured a thousand dollars from the pockets of his sponsors every time his programme went on the air.

This was the first time Temple had visited an American broadcasting station, though he had been on the air several times from the stately building that dominates Langham Place. Station GSKZ was a very different proposition however from the somewhat austere atmosphere of Broadcasting House.

It was five minutes to seven o’clock, and Paul Temple and Steve found themselves enveloped in the crowd which was surging through the foyer of the studios; it reminded the novelist of fighting for admission to a Hollywood premiere. There was apparently a theatre on the ground floor level, and a large notice near the door informed the visitors that the ‘Laughing Cavalier’ programme was to be broadcast from this particular auditorium at seven o’clock. Temple and Steve had some difficulty in avoiding being swept in with the mass of people who were presenting yellow tickets to the page-boy at the door. However, they eventually extricated themselves and headed for a desk in an opposite corner of the foyer which was marked ‘Information.’

The blonde in charge could best be described as ‘snappy’ in the more pleasant sense of the word.

‘Laughing Cavalier programme in the auditorium,’ she announced, mechanically before Temple could make any inquiry.

Temple smiled.

‘I’m sure the Laughing Cavalier is quite a delightful person to meet,’ he replied, urbanely, ‘but I doubt if we’d have much time for each other at the moment.’ The blonde raised her eyebrows almost imperceptibly and favoured him with a noncommittal stare.

‘Were you wanting to see someone?’ she asked.

‘Yes – a Mr. Cranmer Guest,’ replied Temple, casually.

‘Cranmer Guest? Oh, you can’t see him. He’s busy with his programme – goes on the air at nine,’ she quickly informed him.

‘I’m afraid Mr. Guest won’t go on the air at nine, unless I happen to be present,’ said Temple suavely. The receptionist took a quick glance at her copy of the programme schedule.

‘Say – you wouldn’t be Paul Temple?’

‘I usually manage to keep my appointments,’ he smiled.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Temple,’ she apologised, pushing in a plug on the nearby switchboard. ‘I’ll tell Mr. Guest right away.’

She spoke into the receiver, and presently announced: ‘Mr. Guest will be right down.’

As Temple was turning away she reached for a pale blue envelope that lay in a pigeon-hole at her side.

‘Mr. Temple, this message came for you over short-wave from London. It’s been sent on from New York.’

Temple scrutinised the envelope, then thrust it into his pocket. He was just moving away when he turned and asked the girl: ‘Supposing there’s an answer to this – can I send it from here?’

‘Sure thing,’ she smiled. ‘We’ve got a special short-wave service here for priority stuff; it’s working day and night.’

‘Whatever can it be, darling?’ Steve asked as they sat down on a settee near the information desk.

‘I expect it’s in code – it’ll have to wait till after the broadcast,’ he replied, as a thickset man with a very large head, slightly crooked nose and a mobile mouth came towards them.

He exchanged a glance with the receptionist, then addressed Temple.

‘Welcome to GSKZ, Mr. Temple.’

Temple rose and shook hands, then introduced Steve.

‘This is a pleasure,’ said Cranmer Guest with a disarming smile. ‘Shall we go up to my office?’

‘Would you like me to wait here?’ interposed Steve.

Guest waved aside the idea.

‘Certainly not, Mrs. Temple. We have a comfortable lounge and restaurant upstairs. Come along with us – and after the broadcast I’ll show you round.’

He led the way to the elevator, past the doors of the auditorium, now closed, through which came the very faint strains of a popular dance tune.

The elevator stopped on the fourth floor, and Guest led them down a broad corridor containing numerous signs: Studio 4A, Control, Studio 4B, Artistes’ Room, Announcers, News Room, Lounge and Restaurant. They saw Steve settled with a magazine and a cup of coffee, then went into Guest’s office, which had his name painted on the door in small black letters.

‘This is Miss Wharton, my secretary – Mr. Temple,’ announced Guest as they entered the room, and a dark, intelligent girl looked up from her typewriter. ‘Now Lesley, here’s another rush job. Take down Mr. Temple’s answers to my questions and let’s have your copies right away. We’re on the air in’ – he looked at the wall clock – ‘less than two hours.’

Without any further ado, Guest began to fire questions at his visitor. They were chiefly concerning Temple’s crime experiences. The questions were shrewd and, in an indirect manner, displayed a considerable knowledge of the subject. But Guest was not interested in airing his own knowledge. He let Temple go on talking as long as he wished; then after about half-an-hour’s conversation, during which the secretary had busily filled several pages of her notebook, Guest sighed in some relief.

‘There, I think that’s about all, Mr. Temple. I think this should make just about the best interview I’ve tackled this year. Glad the network’s taking it.’ He paused, then added as an afterthought: ‘Oh, just one more question. Do you know anything about this person who calls himself The Marquis?’

Temple shook his head.

‘Only what I’ve read in the papers. His – er – activities seem to have come to light since I sailed.’

‘H’m,’ murmured Guest, ‘the police over there don’t seem to be making much headway. The fellow just commits one murder after another and, so far as I can make out, gets away with it. You ought to see the headlines in a batch of English papers I received yesterday.’ He paused, then added curiously: ‘I suppose Scotland Yard haven’t sent for you by any chance?’

Temple smiled. ‘Not to my knowledge,’ he replied, in some amusement.

‘Oh well,’ shrugged Guest, turning to his secretary. ‘That last question’s off the record, Lesley.’

As quickly as Miss Wharton typed out the contents of her notebook, Guest and Temple went through them, deleting a sentence here and there, adding an occasional explanatory phrase, sometimes re-writing a whole paragraph. When they had finished, Guest read through the final version with a stopwatch in his hand, and discovered that they would over-run by two minutes. So another question and answer were cut out. The final result was passed back to Miss Wharton to make a final draft.

Guest stood up and stretched himself.

‘Twenty-five minutes before we’re due on the air. Time for a cup of coffee with Mrs. Temple,’ he announced, offering Temple a cigarette.

In the lounge, a loudspeaker, turned right down, was playing dance music which was being broadcast at that moment on a network programme from New York. Just as they had joined Steve, a breathless young man in an open shirt came up to Guest.

‘Same layout, Cran?’ he asked.

Guest nodded.

‘Twelve minutes,’ he replied. ‘One minute commercial to start and finish, and the introduction for Mr. Temple I gave you this morning.’

The young man smiled at Temple.

‘This is Harvey Lane, one of our announcers – Mr. and Mrs. Temple,’ Guest introduced them briefly. Lane chatted pleasantly for a minute, then made a hurried departure.

‘Never a minute to breathe, poor devils,’ commented Guest, stirring his coffee. ‘Oh well, we’ve all had to go through it – station breaks, forenoon plugs, lunchtime commercials – it’s all in the game.’

Temple and Steve exchanged a smile.

‘How’s it going, darling?’ she asked.

‘I shan’t be sorry to see the clock pointing to nine-fifteen,’ he admitted, dryly.

‘Perhaps Mrs. Temple would like to come in the studio,’ suggested Guest.

Steve shook her head. ‘I’d much sooner listen in here,’ she declared.

At ten minutes to nine, Guest led the way into a small studio, where the main object of furniture was a flat-top desk with two microphones on it. There was a chair in front of each microphone, and on the opposite wall was a large clock with a red second hand slowly moving round the dial. Under the clock stood a large window commanding a view of the control room, complete with its gramophone turntables and banks of meters.

At one minute to nine, after Temple and Guest had settled themselves comfortably in their chairs, Miss Wharton rushed in with the completed scripts.

Guest began glancing through his copy. ‘Plenty of time to look through it,’ he told Temple, as the announcer came in and took his stand in front of a microphone.

The engineer behind the glass panel held up his hand. Ten seconds to go. Temple had always found these last few seconds before a broadcast completely awe-inspiring. One hardly dared to breathe. It was as if some world-shattering event, like the downfall of an empire, was due to take place at the split second of nine o’clock.

There was the sound of a distant fanfare of trumpets – played on a record in the Control Room – and the engineer dropped his hand. Harvey Lane faced the microphone squarely.

‘The Pan-American Fruit Combine brings you the Cranmer Guest programme!’ he announced impressively …

They finished promptly at nine-fourteen, and following a significant jerk of Guest’s head, Temple rose and joined him outside the studio.

Steve rose to meet them as they came through the door.

‘I’d no idea I had married such an accomplished actor,’ she smiled. ‘You both sounded extremely professional.’

‘Forget it!’ said Temple laconically, and Cranmer Guest laughed. ‘Care to take a look round while you’re here?’ he offered, and proceeded to conduct them over the large building, where Steve was particularly impressed by the News Rooms with their tape machines ticking busily and sub-editors frowning beneath gaily coloured eye-shades.

When they stood in the foyer once again amid a crowd queuing up for the ‘Southern Skies’ programme, billed to take place at ten-fifteen, the Temples shook hands with Guest and bade him good night.

‘Where to now?’ asked Steve as Temple summoned a taxi.

‘A little speakeasy I used to know in Prohibition days,’ he told her. ‘Rather a cosy little place – they used to call it Maisie’s Craze.’

He gave this name to the taxi-driver who shook his head.

‘Maisie don’t live there any more, brother. They call it the Appenine Club these days.’

‘All right,’ agreed Temple. ‘Take us there.’

But the Appenine Club proved disappointing, at any rate to Temple.

‘It isn’t the same without Maisie,’ he sighed regretfully, as they sat eating an indifferently cooked supper. He turned to the waiter who was uncorking a bottle of wine.

‘What’s happened to Maisie?’ he asked.

The waiter shrugged. ‘Last time I heard of her she was in New York, singing at the Three-Fifty.’

‘Who is this Maisie, anyway?’ asked Steve.

‘Oh, just a friend of mine,’ replied her husband, with an indifference that would have intrigued any woman.

‘Did you know her very well?’ persisted Steve.

‘Quite well! She was a very human sort of person. We had a lot of fun together in the old days.’ Steve noted the distant light in his eyes, and was more curious than ever. But she managed to restrain her curiosity, and after witnessing a very second-rate cabaret act, they returned to their hotel. It was not until he was taking off his coat to put on a dressing-gown that Temple remembered the blue envelope he had thrust in his pocket. He took it out and examined it, then carefully slit open the flap. Inside, there was a piece of blue paper headed ‘Station GSKZ. Special Short-Wave Message transmitted from London, England.’ The message itself, though short, was in code.

Temple picked up his keys and unlocked his travelling trunk. He pressed one of the studs on the outside and a part of the side of the trunk snapped back. From the half-dozen miscellaneous articles Temple chose a tiny notebook. With the book’s help he decoded the message in rather less than two minutes. It ran:

*

‘Request immediate return to assist investigation of the Marquis murders. Cartmell. Home Secretary’s Office.’

Temple was just returning the code book to the trunk when the bedside telephone buzzed.

‘This is Jefferson, Programme Supervisor, GSKZ,’ said a strange voice when Temple had spoken. ‘Mr. Temple, we all liked your little talk tonight. I was dining with J. C. Marriman – he was very much impressed and asked me to invite you to take part in his company’s “Grand Parade” programme tomorrow at eight.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Temple definitely.

‘But look here, Mr. Temple, if it’s a question of money, I know J.C. will be quite willing to—’

‘No, no,’ interposed Temple. ‘I’d have been glad to help you, Mr. Jefferson, but it just isn’t possible. I have other plans.’

The Programme Supervisor pleaded for some minutes, but Temple remained firm, and finally he rang off. As he replaced the receiver, Steve asked: ‘Darling, what are your other plans?’

Temple flung himself into an armchair and lighted a cigarette.

‘I’m afraid this is very sudden – upsets our trip. But it just can’t be helped.’

‘Is it something to do with that message you’ve just read?’ she inquired. He nodded.

‘By Timothy, that reminds me, I must send a reply.’ He went to retrieve his code book, then hesitated. ‘No,’ he decided, ‘I’ll do it in the morning before we start.’

‘Start? Where to?’

He blew a cloud of smoke into the air. ‘Back to England, Steve,’ he announced calmly.

*

It was fortunate that Steve’s experience as a reporter had accustomed her to acting swiftly, and she was up before six-thirty the next morning packing and sending telegrams to secretaries and organisers who were expecting them to lecture at their various gatherings.

At ten o’clock Temple left her still busily occupied, and, having translated his message into code, strolled round to the broadcasting station, to find that the blonde at the information desk had been replaced by a red-head who was even smarter on the uptake.

‘Oh Mr. Temple, it’s a real thrill to meet you in person,’ she blithely informed him. ‘I heard you on the air last night. Say, I do like your voice – it’s so English.’

Temple smiled his acknowledgment, then stated his errand.

‘I understand I can send a code message from here on the short-wave to England.’

‘That’s right,’ she agreed. ‘But talking of code messages, there’s one waiting here for you.’

‘I got it last night, thanks,’ he replied, politely.

‘Oh no you didn’t,’ she insisted. ‘It only came through this morning just after I signed on.’

Without further ado, she handed him another blue envelope. Temple surveyed it in some bewilderment.

‘I think I’d better postpone sending my message until I find out what’s in this,’ he decided at last, and, bidding the receptionist a pleasant good morning, returned to his hotel.

Steve was just putting the finishing touches to their packing when she noticed him puzzling over the flimsy.

‘What’s the trouble, Paul?’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t make this out,’ he admitted. ‘The message is in the secret Home Office code: yet it comes from a complete stranger.’

‘Does it make sense?’

He passed over the slip of paper, and Steve read:

I’ll be expecting you, Mr. Temple – The Marquis.




CHAPTER II (#u735d95a2-348a-5f86-8751-11a5ee37ab2d)

River Patrol (#u735d95a2-348a-5f86-8751-11a5ee37ab2d)


SERGEANT RUPERT JOSIAH CARRINGTON BRIGGS skilfully guided the narrow police launch through the churning wake of an overloaded tramp steamer and past the gaunt cranes and warehouses which were dimly silhouetted against the heavy night sky. There came the distant rumble of a storm somewhere beyond Greenwich, and a gust of wind rippled across the water, bringing a scurry of raindrops in its train.

Briggs had the heavy jowl of a typical Yorkshireman which gave the effect of an almost perpetual frown, particularly when he was steering the launch with the aid of a single heavily shielded headlamp.

He shivered and tightened the strap of his sou’wester.

‘If this is the Thames,’ he declared, in an embittered tone, ‘you can have it!’

A broad grin split the Cockney features of his companion, Sergeant Hanmer, who had been born within the sound of the river traffic, and had an extensive knowledge of the famous waterway in all its moods. No aspect of the river which carried such a strange assortment of cargoes ever seemed to disturb Hanmer. He began to fasten up his oilskins as he observed cheerfully: ‘I told you to look out for a bit of real life on the old river!’

An empty crate bumped into the side and vanished in their wake. Briggs cursed softly and changed the course a fraction.

‘A hell of a night!’ he shuddered, as the shower of rain developed into a sudden torrent.

‘Not fit for a dog! Have to slow her down.’

‘If you go much slower, we’ll get swept away by the tide,’ chuckled Hanmer, who seemed to be enjoying himself. They were making about four knots by this time, and the rush of rain had obscured all sounds save the steady beat of the engine and the occasional hoot of a tramp steamer’s siren. The darkness seemed to have reached its maximum intensity, and Hanmer prepared his electric lamp ready for any emergency. Together, they steered unblinkingly through the sheets of rain. Once or twice, Briggs sounded his hooter in a tentative fashion. After a few minutes, the rain almost stopped and the sky lightened a little until they could see very faintly the dim outline of the right bank.

Sergeant Briggs shook the raindrops from his sou’wester and ruminated feelingly on the topic that was always in his mind at such moments as these. Had he been wise to turn down that offer of a job from his wife’s father? A nice, steady, nine-till-five job, with an office to himself and a chance of a partnership later on. If only it had been something a bit more exciting than dealing in grate polish! Still, there was a lot to be said for regular hours, leisurely meals, and slippers waiting at the fireside. Sergeant Briggs sighed wistfully.

Hanmer suddenly shook himself like a terrier, and pushed his sou’wester on to the back of his head. Then he took a blackened pipe out of his pocket and thrust it unlighted between his teeth.

‘How long have you been in the Force?’ he asked presently, in a casual tone. It was Hanmer’s stock conversational gambit. He didn’t really want to know. What he did want was an opportunity to embark upon an account of his own varied career.

‘Me?’ muttered Briggs, straining his eyes in the direction of the dim outline of a Norwegian freighter. ‘Seventeen years.’

‘Blimey!’ ejaculated the other, in some surprise. ‘You’ve got longer whiskers than I ’ave!’

Briggs nodded solemnly. ‘I joined in August, 1925. I was with the L.C.C. before that.’

‘Salvage?’ queried Hanmer, the twinkle in his eyes going unseen.

‘Not ruddy likely! I was a Grade One clerk,’ snapped Briggs. Then he heaved a sigh. ‘All the same, it was very tedious. I reckon I must have filled in best part of a million forms of one sort or another in the four years I was there.’

Hanmer laughed.

‘Talk about tediousness, you want this job reg’lar. Up and down the ole river night after night.’

He sucked at his pipe reflectively.

‘Before this I had a nice little beat in Hampstead. Not much doing, but plenty of good grub in one or two kitchens I could mention. I remember once when I—’

He broke off abruptly and leaned over the side of the boat, gazing intently at a grey object which was only just visible. His electric lamp flashed, startling Briggs.

‘Swing her round, mate,’ said Hanmer, softly. Briggs immediately shut off his engine, and the boat nosed its way silently towards the grey object which Hanmer kept focused in a circle of light from his torch. Retaining a cautious hand on the wheel, Briggs leaned forward.

‘Good God, it’s a woman!’ he exclaimed as they came within easy reach.

‘Not much more’n a kid, I reckon,’ grunted Hanmer, focusing his light on the face and hair. As they came alongside, Hanmer leaned over and managed to bring the girl’s head and shoulders almost into the boat. ‘Give us a hand,’ he gasped, and Briggs left the wheel to take care of itself for a moment.

Within a few seconds, they had laid the dripping figure of the girl along the well of the motor boat. Hanmer pushed back the sodden hair and whistled softly to himself.

‘Another of ’em. She’s a goner all right. Looks like she’s been in the river for hours.’

‘What about trying artificial—’ Briggs was starting to suggest, but the other cut him short.

‘She’s been dead hours. I know the signs. Not a bad looking kid,’ he decided. ‘We ain’t pulled out a real good looker since that houseboat murder – she was an actress – not that she looked much when we got her out.’

Briggs was paying no attention, but had stooped and unfastened the blue mackintosh that clung to the girl’s figure. His start of surprise distracted Hanmer who was busy extricating a bulky notebook from an inner pocket.

‘What is it? What’ve you got there?’

With clumsy cold fingers, Briggs was unfastening a small square of white cardboard which was pinned to the girl’s dress. Hanmer picked up his electric lamp, and together they examined the sodden pasteboard. Two words were carelessly scrawled in Indian ink. ‘Good God!’ whistled Hanmer. ‘The Marquis!’ It must be recorded that Sergeant Rupert Josiah Carrington Briggs experienced an extremely unpleasant sensation in the pit of the stomach.




CHAPTER III (#u735d95a2-348a-5f86-8751-11a5ee37ab2d)

Crisis at Scotland Yard (#u735d95a2-348a-5f86-8751-11a5ee37ab2d)


SIR GRAHAM FORBES, Chief Commissioner at New Scotland Yard, was a firm believer in method – and an even greater believer in his own method. And his severest critics amongst the younger members of his staff had to admit that the Chief Commissioner’s methods, evolved over a period of many years’ experience, usually proved successful. They might provide a number of minor irritants; they might even appear to retard the incidence of Justice, but in the end they were invariably effective. Comparative strangers might deride his absorption in minor routine, but Forbes went his way entirely undeterred. His system had stood so many tests, that he had the utmost confidence in its efficiency.

True, he had encountered one or two setbacks recently in the case of The Marquis murders which were being accorded such extravagant publicity by the press. But Forbes was inclined to make allowances for the press-men. After all, they had to give their readers something lively to read over their breakfast tables and on their tedious journeys to and from work.

That his faith in his system was quite undiminished was demonstrated this fine autumn morning by the presence on his desk of seven folders of varying colours.

There was something reassuring about those folders. They contained every scrap of evidence so far retained in connection with The Marquis murders. It was merely a question of sifting facts in the light of new evidence, Forbes told himself as he listened rather vaguely to the argument which was developing amongst his subordinates. Each of them appeared to have his own theories and plans for substantiating them.

At length, Forbes tapped his desk with his paper-knife.

‘Gentlemen, when you’ve quite finished your little brawl, perhaps we can manage to document one or two more facts. Now Bradley, let’s hear what you have to say first. I don’t think you’ve given us a complete statement lately.’

Superintendent Bradley, a sandy-haired, dour individual in the late thirties, shrugged his shoulders impatiently. There was no more reliable man in a tight corner, but he was always inclined to take the law into his own hands, and was notoriously incapable of appreciating the law-breaker’s outlook on life.

‘There seem to have been too many statements made just lately, Sir Graham, if you want my opinion,’ he began, bluntly, indicating the folders. ‘You’ve got a packet of ’em there.’

The others smiled. They knew that Bradley’s favourite method was to seize his man and hammer the truth out of him.

‘What we want is action!’ announced Bradley, decisively. ‘And by God we want it now, before it’s too late!’

‘Look here, Bradley,’ snapped Chief Inspector Street, a dark, lanky individual with keen eyes and a sensitive mouth. ‘It’s all very well for you to talk about action, but you don’t seem to realise the devilish cunning of this man we’re dealing with.’

‘What I realise, Street,’ retorted Bradley, the colour mounting at the back of his neck, ‘what I realise is that seven people have been murdered – one for each of the Chief’s pretty folders. And if it goes on at this rate we shall soon exhaust all the colours of the spectrum.’

Street was about to make an angry reply, but the buzz of the telephone cut him short, and with an impatient gesture Sir Graham lifted the receiver.

‘Hullo? I told you not to interrupt Dickson unless—’ he paused and his expression hardened. The lines on his face deepened as he listened intently to the message. After a moment, he picked up his Eversharp pencil and made one or two notes on a pad at his elbow. Finally, he replaced the receiver and amid an expectant silence slowly opened a drawer and extracted a magenta folder. As he did so, he turned to Bradley with a grim smile.

‘You seem to be a thought-reader, Bradley. We’ve got another murder on our hands, just as you predicted.’ He tore the note from his pad and clipped it neatly inside the folder.

‘Who is it this time?’ It was Street who spoke.

‘A young girl. They picked her out of the river last night,’ announced Sir Graham, wearily.

Even Bradley seemed taken aback.

‘You mean it’s The Marquis?’

The Chief Commissioner nodded. ‘They found the usual small square of white cardboard pinned to her dress,’ he said.

Inspector Ross, a middle-aged sharp-featured individual, who had spoken very little so far, leaned forward in his chair.

‘The man’s conceited, Sir Graham,’ he pronounced, definitely, ‘or he wouldn’t go in for all this card business. It sounds to me like Con Landon. We haven’t heard anything of Con since he was released six months back.’

Forbes shook his head.

He deplored Ross’s weakness of associating known criminals with unsolved crimes. Sometimes it worked, but it was very risky and might mean the loss of a considerable amount of time.

For a few seconds there was silence. Street stood at the window looking gloomily at the traffic rushing along the embankment. At last he turned to ask: ‘Have they identified the girl?’

‘Not yet,’ replied Forbes.

Bradley seemed surprised. ‘That’s damned odd, isn’t it?’ he demanded.

‘Give the boys a chance,’ snapped Ross. ‘They only picked the girl out of the river last night.’

Bradley strode excitedly over to Forbes’ desk.

‘Don’t you see what I’m driving at, sir?’ he said, forcefully.

‘Perhaps you’ll enlighten us, Bradley,’ replied Forbes, in a patient tone.

‘But it’s as plain as the nose on your face. All the other victims of The Marquis were well-known people, celebrities in fact. They were identified almost immediately. Myron Harwood! Sir Denis Frinton! Carlton Rodgers! Lady Alice Mapleton! Their death was bound to get into the headlines.’

Sir Graham pondered upon this for a few moments.

‘There’s something in what you say, Bradley,’ he agreed, at length. ‘Maybe we’ll be able to work on this angle.’ Bradley was about to enlarge upon his theory when he was interrupted by the arrival of a sergeant who brought the Chief Commissioner a note marked Urgent and Strictly Confidential. Forbes read it carefully, then let it fall on his desk. He passed a weary hand over his forehead.

‘Anything wrong, sir?’ asked Bradley.

‘No,’ answered Forbes. ‘Just a note from Paul Temple.’

‘Paul Temple!’ Both Ross and Bradley spoke at once.

‘I thought he was in America,’ said Street.

The Chief Commissioner’s announcement had obviously aroused some interest. ‘Perhaps I’d better read you the note,’ he suggested, picking up the paper again. ‘It may convey more to you than it does to me.’

He read:

Dear Sir Graham,

Steve and I have just returned from the States. Why not dine with us tomorrow evening. Shall look forward to seeing you.

Kindest regards,

Paul Temple.

‘Sounds innocent though,’ sniffed Bradley.

‘Just a minute,’ said Forbes slowly. ‘There’s something else here.’ After a pause, he read:

‘P.S. Is it true what they say about Rita?’

Ross looked across at Street in obvious bewilderment.

‘Is it true what they say about Rita?’ Bradley repeated.

‘Who the devil’s Rita?’ asked Ross, in puzzled tones.

‘Why has Temple come back, anyway?’ Street wanted to know. ‘D’you think the Home Secretary has cabled him?’

Any further speculations were cut short by the ringing of the telephone. After a brief conversation, consisting mainly on his part of a series of ejaculations, Forbes swung round in his chair and declared: ‘They’ve identified the girl.’

‘Good work,’ approved Street. ‘Who is she, sir?’

‘Her name,’ said the Chief Commissioner deliberately, ‘was Cartwright. Rita Cartwright.’




CHAPTER IV (#ulink_d99999a7-22fb-539f-9429-288f3855a2ca)

The Girl Who Knew Too Much (#ulink_d99999a7-22fb-539f-9429-288f3855a2ca)


WHEN Steve heard Temple direct the taxi-driver to the nearest airport, she could not repress a start of surprise.

‘I had no idea we were going to fly back,’ she said, as they settled inside the taxi. ‘When did you decide that, Paul?’

‘As soon as I received that second message,’ he replied, calmly. ‘A criminal who is sufficiently on the inside to know that the Home Office had cabled me, and furthermore who has a copy of the secret code, is a man who is going to take some catching. So it seems to me that there’s no time to be lost.’

At the aerodrome, they were fortunate enough to secure the last two available seats in a plane which was due to start for New York in just under an hour. When they had partaken of a light meal in the aeroplane, Temple settled down to compose a message to the Home Office, then decided to defer sending it as his code book was not easily accessible. Eventually, he telephoned London just after they landed, and was agreeably surprised to learn that if he applied to the commanding officer of a certain military aerodrome, there would be transport facilities supplied for himself and Steve in the next Liberator to be ferried over.

They found themselves in London four days later.

Pryce welcomed them as inscrutably as ever. Temple had telephoned him from the aerodrome. They were busily unpacking one or two essentials when the man-servant remarked: ‘I forgot to mention, sir, that there’s a young lady who’s rung up several times. A most persistent young person by the name of Cartwright.’

Steve and Temple looked at each other in perplexity and shook their heads almost simultaneously.

‘I can’t think who it would be,’ said Temple.

‘Oh, she said you wouldn’t know her, sir, but apparently she knows you. And she said it was most urgent that you should get into touch with her as soon as you returned. I made a note of the telephone number on the pad.’

When Temple telephoned Euston 6347 half-an-hour later, a charming feminine voice answered him.

‘Thank goodness you’re back, Mr. Temple. How soon could I see you? It really is most urgent!’

‘Where d’you suggest as a rendezvous?’ asked Temple.

The girl hesitated for a moment.

‘Do you happen to know a public house off Holborn called The Last Man?’ she asked. ‘They have a quiet little room at the back. If you could meet me there in half-an-hour, it would be on my way to rather an important appointment I must keep at eight o’clock.’

‘I know the place quite well,’ Temple assured her, for he was pretty well acquainted with every detail of the district. ‘I’ll be there in half-an-hour from now.’

When Temple arrived, The Last Man was almost empty. Rita Cartwright was sitting alone in the little room at the back of the saloon bar. Temple was rather taken aback at her extreme youth; judging by the voice on the telephone he had expected someone a great deal older. The girl only seemed to be about twenty: though she was by no means becomingly dressed in a dark mackintosh and a worn green beret. Temple noted that she was drinking neat rum.

‘Trying to summon up some Dutch courage,’ she explained with a wry smile, after she had introduced herself. ‘I’ve a ticklish job this evening – I’ve an idea I may have taken on more than I can tackle.’ As she spoke the girl shrugged her shoulders and smiled disarmingly.

‘Well, I’d better begin at the beginning and tell you I’m a private detective of sorts, and my big job at the moment is investigating the murder of Lady Alice Mapleton. I don’t mind admitting that this is my first murder case! And it’s certainly some case, Mr. Temple,’ she added, with a smile.

‘Wasn’t that one of The Marquis murders?’ asked Temple.

The girl nodded. ‘The first. As far as I know, the police are still completely in the dark about it, and if I pull this off it’ll be a feather in my cap.’

Temple could not repress a slight smile at her youthful enthusiasm.

‘You’ll pardon my making such a trite observation,’ he said, pleasantly, ‘but you’re extremely young to be tampering with dangerous criminals.’

She took a gulp at her rum.

‘Young I may be – I’m twenty-four to be exact – but I seem to have hit upon clues that so far have evaded the police. But I haven’t kept to my story. I’d been established in my present job just under a year when Lady Alice Mapleton was murdered. I had just recovered a diamond bracelet for the Honourable May Bennerton – rather a tricky job which pleased her a lot. Well, she paid my fee, and I’d almost forgotten the case when she arrived at the office one day with a very superior Society person whom she introduced as the Duchess of Mapleton, the mother of Lady Alice Mapleton. The Honourable May introduced us and then discreetly left us together.’

‘Very gratifying,’ smiled Temple, offering her a cigarette and lighting it for her. ‘And then I presume the Duchess placed her cards on the table?’

Rita Cartwright nodded.

‘Like all members of ancient families, she was scared stiff of scandal. But she told me everything she knew: beginning with the fact that Lady Alice was a cocaine addict.’

Temple whistled, thoughtfully.

‘That would explain quite a number of things,’ he murmured.

‘It was obvious that the Duchess was devoted to Alice – she was her only child,’ continued Rita. ‘And she wasn’t at all satisfied by the results the police were getting. But she was afraid to help Scotland Yard by telling them everything she knew because of the unpleasant publicity which might be involved. Her idea then was that with all the extra help she could give me, I could possibly track down the murderer without the full story becoming public. She seemed quite positive that the murderer had some connection with the dope business, and on the face of it I was inclined to agree with her.’

‘The theory certainly has possibilities,’ Temple agreed.

‘And I’ve explored them thoroughly. The Duchess left me a valuable piece of evidence in the shape of Lady Alice’s diary. On the last page there was a pencilled note: Limehouse 7068 – ask for Sammy!’

Temple smiled. ‘So you got in touch with my old friend, Sammy Wren,’ he said. The girl laughed.

‘Right first time. I asked him if he could get me some of the dope, and he fell for it. I went along to an address in Bombay Road and collected the stuff. I’ve been there several times since, and it’s put me in touch with quite a number of the gang. However, up till now, they’ve always been subordinates, referring to the head man in awed whispers. I could never get the merest inkling about him, until this week I decided to force their hand.’

‘You appear to be a very daring young woman,’ said Temple, admiringly. ‘Exactly how did you force their hand?’ Rita stubbed out her cigarette.

‘I told them I had an order for about five times the usual quantity, but it was essential that I should see the Chief to make certain arrangements for the distribution of it. One of them went into the next room and made a telephone call: when he came back he said I could see the Chief at eight o’clock tonight.’

Temple flicked the ash from his cigarette and looked at the clock. It was ten-past seven.

‘And you’ve conducted all these investigations entirely on your own?’ he asked.

‘Practically. In the course of making them, I’ve run across a young fellow named Roger Storey, who was engaged to Lady Alice, and seems to have some vague idea of exacting a terrible revenge for her death. He’s one of those innocuous young men with plenty of money and unlimited time on his hands. We’ve met several times and discussed many theories about the murder. He helped me to follow up some investigations about a man named Sir Felix Reybourn.’

Temple looked up, quickly.

‘The Egyptologist? What about him?’

‘Nothing really definite, apart from the fact that he was, as far as we can trace, the last person to see The Marquis victims alive.’

‘That’s very remarkable,’ said Temple with a thoughtful frown. ‘Are you quite sure about it?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m still working on that angle of the case – of course, if Sir Felix turns up to our appointment tonight, then it’ll be quite straightforward. All the same, keep it under your hat for the time being.’

Temple pressed the bell and ordered more drinks.

‘I really must congratulate you on a smart piece of work,’ he said. ‘There’s one aspect of the business really puzzles me though.’

‘What’s that?’ she asked.

Temple placed her drink in front of her and added soda to his whisky.

‘What puzzles me is the reason why you are so anxious to tell me all this?’

The girl smiled.

‘The Duchess of Mapleton has several influential friends at the Home Office. Last week, she told me that you were being called in on the case. She was rather worried because she thought you’d be sure to get on to the dope business. So I suggested that I should take you into our confidence and leave the rest to your discretion. I said that according to Who’s Who, you had been educated at Winchester and Oxford, and that seemed to pacify the old dear.’

Temple laughed.

‘I’m sure I couldn’t wish for a more intelligent partner,’ he declared, sincerely. ‘But I really think you should allow me to come with you tonight.’ The girl shook her head most emphatically.

‘No, no—that would ruin everything. I’m not aiming at a showdown in the Bombay Road. I just want to discover the identity of the leader. After that, it ought to be plain sailing.’

‘As a precaution, Miss Cartwright, would you mind telling me the number of the house in Bombay Road?’

‘Why, of course, it’s 79A. But promise you won’t interfere in any way. If I can pull this off myself, it’ll be a feather in my cap.’

‘It’ll be a complete head-dress,’ Temple assured her, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘But I would like to add a word of warning.’

‘Well?’ she smiled.

‘Don’t be too certain about the plain sailing. My own experiences have always lain amongst some very rough seas.’

Rita picked up her handbag and tucked it under her arm.

‘I’ve been lucky so far,’ she said, lightly. ‘Maybe my luck will hold.’

But there was a look in her pale blue eyes which seemed to doubt her words.

Sir Graham Forbes stirred his coffee and reflected that Paul Temple and Steve had changed very little since the days when they had joined him in the relentless pursuit of the Front Page Men. If anything, Temple was perhaps a trifle more sunburnt and had possibly lost a little in weight.

During dinner they had talked mainly of Paul Temple’s visit to the United States, and Forbes had many questions to ask concerning the F.B.I, and other officials whom he knew out there. It was not until he had half-drained his cup of coffee that Forbes suddenly demanded: ‘What did you mean exactly by that postscript?’

Temple knocked the ash off his cigar and frowned thoughtfully. At length, he said:

‘Out in the States, Sir Graham, I was attached to the “C” branch of the M.O.I.’

‘I gathered you were up to something of that sort from what Colonel Randall told me,’ nodded Forbes.

‘While we were there,’ Temple continued, ‘the newspapers started spreading their front pages with a story about this fellow called The Marquis. At first, I thought the whole business was grossly exaggerated, but one evening about a week ago I received a special radio message from the Home Secretary’s office that rather changed my ideas, and I knew then …’ He hesitated.

‘You knew then that, to put it mildly, things were getting pretty serious.’

Paul Temple smiled in some relief as he realised that Forbes knew rather more than he had anticipated. ‘I didn’t particularly want to leave the States, Sir Graham. It was interesting work out there – always something moving, and I was beginning to show some results. But I could hardly ignore that message.’

Sir Graham placed his cup on the table and leaned forward.

‘The Home Secretary had a very good reason for sending for you, Temple,’ he declared quietly. ‘I realised a month ago that you were the only man for certain aspects of this job. We need your help, Temple, that’s the long and short of it. We need your help pretty badly.’

Temple and Steve exchanged an understanding glance.

Temple said: ‘I’m very relieved to hear all this from you, Sir Graham. You know I’ve never had any desire to intervene in any of your cases, and I’ve no intention of doing so now if—’

‘Don’t talk nonsense, darling,’ interrupted Steve, refilling Sir Graham’s cup. ‘You know perfectly well that you have every intention of intervening. And you still haven’t answered Sir Graham’s question about Rita Cartwright.’

‘Yes,’ said Forbes, ‘I want to hear more about that young lady.’

Temple scratched a match and applied it to his cigar.

‘I’ve only a few sketchy sort of facts, Sir Graham, but I gather that Rita Cartwright is a girl who always wanted a career that was “different.” So, heaven help her, she became a sort of private inquiry agent. She’s had a certain amount of luck, including a commission to inquire into one of The Marquis murders. The next time I see her however, I intend to advise the—’

‘There’ll be no next time,’ put in Forbes gloomily. ‘The body of Rita Cartwright was picked out of the Thames last night. A few hours later, it was identified by a young fellow named Roger Storey.’

Temple wrinkled his forehead. ‘That name’s familiar.’

‘Yes, he’s Lady Alice Mapleton’s fiancé. Rather an interfering young devil, but we let him down lightly as a rule. The poor fellow’s had a bad time. They were to have been married in a few months.’

‘There’s one thing I haven’t mentioned about Rita Cartwright,’ said Temple, slowly. ‘When she left me last night, she was going to keep an appointment with the leader of a dope-running organisation …’

Sir Graham looked up quickly. ‘Eh? Where?’

‘At 79A Bombay Road. I’m given to understand that she has been going there for several weeks.’

Sir Graham was plainly impressed, and going over to the telephone, dialled a number and gave some rapid instructions.

‘I’m afraid your men won’t find very much there,’ said Temple, as Sir Graham replaced the receiver.

‘Oh – why?’

‘Isn’t it obvious that Rita Cartwright met The Marquis last night? And I have an idea he’s much too clever to leave any clues behind.’

‘M’m, maybe you’re right,’ murmured Forbes, biting hard on the stem of his favourite pipe. For a few minutes they smoked in silence, each busy with his thoughts. Steve went into the dining-room to make up the fire. After a while, Forbes said: ‘There are certain aspects of this case which remind me of the Carson blackmail affair! And talking of the Carson business, what’s happened to Sammy Wren? He was pretty deeply concerned in that set-up.’

‘Oh yes,’ agreed Temple, ‘I remember Sammy Wren.’

‘I’ve been thinking quite a lot about him just lately,’ continued Forbes. ‘As a matter of fact, I told Bradley to pick him up about a fortnight ago, thought he might be able to give us a line on this case. But he doesn’t seem to be around his old spots. Sam’s a queer little devil, but he covers a lot of ground. Seems to know everybody and everything. Probably knew Bradley was after him, and thought we’d caught up on him over some job or other.’ He paused as he noticed Temple was smiling, and asked, ‘Have I said anything funny?’

‘I’m sorry,’ apologised Temple, ‘I was just thinking about The Golden Cage.’

Forbes was obviously mystified. ‘The Golden Cage?’

‘Yes, it’s a public house near the Elephant and Castle. D’you know it, Sir Graham?’

‘No, I can’t say I do.’

‘It’s in one of those narrow back streets,’ Temple explained. ‘You’ll find it’s frequented by quite an old friend of yours.’

Forbes removed his pipe and slowly smiled. He realised that Paul Temple was referring to the illusive Sammy Wren.




CHAPTER V (#ulink_b7f2c820-6006-51b3-8258-8518a405d9b0)

No Beer for Sammy Wren (#ulink_b7f2c820-6006-51b3-8258-8518a405d9b0)


UNLESS you knew the district fairly well, you could easily pass The Golden Cage without noticing that it was a licensed house. True, there was a sort of drab signboard over the front door, but the paint had long since faded and the lettering was quite indistinct. However, this in no way deterred the supporters of this little hostelry, who were emphatic in their insistence that no better beer was to be found south of the river.

Paul Temple agreed with their verdict. He had discovered The Golden Cage years ago when seeking material for his second novel. Someone had told him that it was a popular rendezvous for members of the criminal fraternity. He had discovered that this was an exaggeration, but, by way of compensation, he also discovered that the Extra Special home-brewed beer which was so much in demand actually tasted of hops. Temple had never forgotten the tang of that rich brown beverage.

‘So this is where you used to spend your leisure moments, Mr. Temple,’ said Steve, jokingly as they settled in a murky corner of the Smoke Room. The room was crowded with that strange mixture of humanity peculiar to the Elephant and Castle neighbourhood. There were only two other women present, but the regulars did not seem to notice Steve, who was wearing, especially for the occasion, an inconspicuous costume and a somewhat shapeless felt hat.

Temple laughed at his wife’s remark, lighted a cigarette, and retorted: ‘Don’t be silly, darling. All my leisure moments were spent with an exotic blonde from Pimlico. Didn’t I confess all that before you married me?’

‘It must have slipped your memory, darling!’

‘In that case, I’d better buy you a drink. What would you like?’

‘A dry Martini,’ decided Steve, promptly.

‘Not here, it isn’t done,’ he reproved her. ‘We’ll begin with two pints of their Extra Special.’

‘One and a half – in case I don’t like it.’

He beckoned to the barmaid, who was standing with her back to Steve, engaged in lively repartee with a group of young men. As she swung into view, he recognised her at once.

‘God bless my soul, if it isn’t Dolly Fraser!’ he exclaimed.

The girl’s heavily made-up features showed the merest trace of fear before they resumed their former brazen expression.

‘The name’s Smith – Betty Smith,’ she answered, sullenly.

Temple smiled whimsically.

‘Not one of the Shropshire Smiths?’ he demanded, with the merest flicker of an eyelid in Steve’s direction.

‘And what if I am one of the Shropshire Smiths?’ challenged the girl, with a toss of her coppery hair.

‘Would it, in that case, be too much to ask you to bring us a tankard and a glass of your Extra Special?’ demanded Temple, politely.

‘Special’s off – been finished months ago,’ replied the girl, brusquely, pushing back a lock of hair. ‘I’ll bring you some Old Ale if you like. That’s the best we’ve got.’

‘Thank you, that would do nicely,’ said Temple, suavely. With an insolent lift of the shoulder, the barmaid vanished. When she was out of earshot, Steve asked: ‘Do you know that girl, or was that merely a sample of your sales talk?’

Temple grinned.

‘I know her all right. Her name is Fraser – Dolly Fraser. She was one of the shining lights of the Reagan crowd a few years ago. One of the most useful decoys in the game – she’s quite an actress in her way.’

He spoke in a carefully modulated tone, but apparently he was overheard by a tall, thin man who could not find a seat, and was leaning against a partition nearby.

‘That’s quite right, Mr. Temple,’ confirmed the stranger. ‘Her name is Fraser, and she was with the Reagan mob about two years ago when they pulled off the Charteris kidnapping.’

Temple and Steve swung round. The newcomer suddenly found a high stool and perched himself on it, apparently quite at ease.

‘Forgive me if I am intruding, but I couldn’t help overhearing your remark, Mr. Temple. My name is Ross – Inspector Ross of the C.I.D. I think we met just before you sailed for America.’

‘Why of course, Inspector! I’m afraid I didn’t recognise you,’ said Temple, pleasantly. ‘Have you met my wife?’ When the introductions were complete, Temple invited the Inspector to join them in a drink, but he shook his head regretfully.

‘No thanks, Mr. Temple. I’ve had my allowance. I really ought to have been home hours ago. This is an off-duty visit.’

‘All the more reason for a little relaxation,’ urged Temple, but Ross would not be persuaded to change his mind, and eventually bade them good night. ‘I’m keeping an eye on Dolly Fraser,’ he assured Temple in an undertone just before he turned to go.

‘Is he one of the new people at the Yard?’ asked Steve, when the lanky form had disappeared.

‘No. He’s been there for longer than I care to remember. He used to be attached to the Fingerprint Department till Bradley took over. I don’t think they get on very well together. Anyhow, Forbes decided to transfer Ross; gave him a sort of roving commission, and he’s turned up trumps several times. He has the reputation of being a pretty shrewd sort of fellow.’

By this time, Dolly Fraser had returned, and was placing their beer on the table. As Temple fumbled for half-a-crown, she seemed about to speak, hesitated, then finally ventured:

‘I’m sorry I was rude just now, Mr. Temple. It was that Ross – he’s always hanging round here – gets on my nerves. Why can’t he leave me alone?’

‘Take it easy, Dolly. No harm done,’ smiled Temple.

‘It was silly of me to say my name’s Smith. I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of,’ she added with a touch of defiance.

‘Of course you haven’t.’

‘I knew you’d spotted me the moment you came in,’ she continued, rather nervously. ‘And what with Ross being there as well – it sort of got under my skin.’

‘You thought we’d come to get you for adulterating the Extra Special,’ suggested Temple, and Dolly laughed. Then her eyes narrowed slightly, and she could not suppress the curious tone in her voice.

‘This is the first time you’ve been here for ages, Mr. Temple. I suppose you wouldn’t be looking for somebody special?’

Temple eyed her, disarmingly.

‘Why of course, Dolly. I’m waiting for an old friend of mine. You remember Sammy Wren.’

‘Sammy Wren!’ she echoed, thoughtfully. ‘I haven’t set eyes on him for ages.’ She paused, then added, significantly: ‘Nothin’ wrong, I hope?’

‘Nothing at all,’ he assured her. ‘Just a small matter of business. Now, how about having a drink with us?’

‘Well, I think a pink gin would calm me down a bit,’ Dolly admitted, now much more at ease. She returned almost immediately with the drink and Temple’s change. Then she fulfilled two more orders and presently drifted over to their table once more.

‘So you haven’t seen Sammy Wren lately,’ said Temple.

‘Not for a week or two, maybe more. He used to be in ’ere every day at one time.’

‘Is that so? With alcohol taxed as it is, Sammy must be doing pretty well.’

‘Maybe,’ she replied, indifferently. ‘He never tells me his business, and I’m sure I’ve no wish to know.’

Temple accepted the rebuke. ‘You look fairly prosperous yourself, Dolly,’ he said, meaningly.

Some of her former uneasiness returned.

‘I’m all right,’ she retorted, with a trace of her old defiance. ‘The boss ’ere is very good. Quite the gent, if you know what I mean. Only last week, ’e give me a rise. That’s the third in eighteen months.’

‘That’s splendid!’

Dolly relaxed once more. ‘Let me get you a gin and tonic, Mrs. Temple,’ she suggested, noticing that Steve was not making much impression on the Old Ale. ‘We’ve had a few bottles of real good gin come in this morning.’

As she picked up Steve’s glass, Temple suddenly looked up at her and asked: ‘Ever heard of this fellow who calls himself The Marquis?’

Dolly almost spilled the beer in the glass, as she dropped it a few inches back on to the table.

‘I only know what I read in the papers, and I don’t always believe that,’ she snapped, glaring down at him. ‘Why the ’ell should I know anything about this man? What are you gettin’ at?’

‘I was only making conversation, Dolly,’ apologised Temple, quite meekly.

‘Is this a game or what?’ she demanded, challengingly. ‘You’re the second bloke this week who’s asked me if I know the ruddy Marquis.’

Temple straightened in his chair.

‘Oh? Who was the other fellow?’

She sniffed. ‘A young chap called Roger Storey. He’s been snooping round here for days asking all sorts of questions. I wouldn’t stand for it only, well, he’s got a way with ’im, and ’e’s lousy with money.’ She smiled reminiscently.

‘Roger Storey,’ repeated Steve. ‘That was the young man who identified Rita Cartwright when—’

She stopped speaking as the Smoke Room door swung open vigorously to admit a flashily-dressed little man, who would have looked far more comfortable in a cap and scarf. Sammy Wren came jauntily over to them. From the points of his yellow-brown shoes to the crown of his tilted derby hat, Sammy Wren exuded an air of reckless opulence.

‘Hello Mr. Temple, sorry to ’ave kept you waiting.’ His was the perkiest brand of Cockney. ‘Didn’t get your message till late last night.’

Then he caught sight of Dolly and dug her in the ribs.

‘How’s tricks, old gel?’ he demanded in a hoarse whisper. She slapped his hand and turned her back on him to take an order from another customer.

Temple introduced Sammy to Steve, who rung her hand fervently.

‘Glad to meet your good lady, Mr. Temple. Privilege, I’m sure! I hope you keeps an eye on ’im, Mrs. Temple, and see ’e don’t get mixed up in no funny business.’ He winked, knowingly.

‘Suppose we go into the back parlour,’ suggested Temple. ‘It’s a little more private.’

Sammy consulted an expensive wrist-watch.

‘Look ’ere, Mr. Temple, I’m supposed to meet a bloke up West at eight, and it’s gone that now. Mebbe you and me could get together tomorrer for a bit of a chat?’

Temple hesitated.

‘Where you meeting your friend?’ he asked.

‘Percy’s Snack Bar, just off the Haymarket.’

‘Then I’ll run you up there in the car,’ Temple decided. ‘We can talk on the way. Have a drink before we start?’

Sammy shook his head. He was obviously in a hurry, and seemed a little worried. ‘Have to be gettin’ on, Mr. Temple, if you don’t mind,’ he decided, and after wishing Dolly good night, they made their way to Temple’s car which was parked at the corner of the street. Sammy clambered into the front with Temple, while Steve got into the back seat.

As he settled down at the wheel, Temple reviewed in his mind the salient facts about his companion. Sammy Wren was considered somewhat unique in the underworld, in so far as he did not specialise in any one particular type of crime. Yet he was successful not only in his evasion of the police, but also in the financial reward he derived from his various enterprises. Temple knew that he had tried his hand at blackmail, dope smuggling, passing ‘slush,’ and forgery. So far, he had only served two short terms of imprisonment, having been able to convince the judge on each occasion that he was a mere accessory to some other unfortunate. There were no flies on Sammy Wren.

As they were heading for the Waterloo Road, Sammy asked: ‘What was it you wanted to see me about, Mr. Temple?’

Temple changed gear and passed a large lorry.

‘Can’t you guess?’ he parried.

‘Search me,’ said Sammy. ‘Soon as I got your note, I says to myself: “Allo, something’s in the wind, or ’e wouldn’t be writin’ to a blinkin’ tea-leaf like Sammy Wren.”’

Temple deftly extracted a cigarette from his case and lighted it with his left hand.

‘First of all, Sammy, tell me what happened to Rita Cartwright,’ he demanded.

‘Cartwright?’ repeated Sammy, in genuine bewilderment. ‘I don’t know anybody o’ that name.’ Temple gave him a suspicious look out of the corner of his eye.

‘I hate to call you a liar, Sammy,’ said Temple mildly, ‘but I have first-hand information that you made an appointment for her last night at 79A Bombay Road.’

Sammy stiffened in his seat.

‘Oh, that little so-and-so,’ he muttered. ‘I didn’t know that was her name.’

‘Then you do remember?’

Sammy licked his lips.

‘Yes,’ he admitted, at last, ‘I remember.’

‘No doubt the boss was very annoyed with you, Sammy, when he found out she was a private detective?’

‘So that’s what he wants to see me about,’ breathed Sammy, in some dismay.

‘Oh – so you have an appointment with him up West, eh?’

‘’Ere, what’s this, third degree?’ demanded Sammy, truculently.

Temple slowed down to avoid a tram.

‘You knew, of course, that Rita Cartwright’s body was picked out of the Thames last night,’ he said in a casual tone.

‘No, I didn’t – straight, I didn’t!’ Sammy protested, hoarsely, and indeed it did appear as if the news surprised him. ‘I ain’t ’ad nothin’ to do with that. You know me, Mr. Temple. I draw the line at murder …’

‘All right, Sammy,’ said Temple, softly. ‘If you don’t know anything about Rita Cartwright’s death, perhaps you can enlighten us about The Marquis.’

In the faint blue light from the dashboard, Sammy’s features were distorted with doubt and fear.

‘The Marquis?’ he repeated. ‘I don’t know nothin’ about ’im. I don’t want to know nothin’ about ’im. And if you takes my tip—’

Temple snatched at the wheel as they lurched dangerously towards a bus that was running down from Waterloo Bridge.

‘Do be careful!’ cried Steve, in considerable alarm.

‘This steering seems to be playing tricks,’ murmured Temple, gently easing the wheel. ‘Ah, that’s better …’ The car was now proceeding quite normally across the bridge.

‘What were you saying, Sammy?’

‘I was saying I don’t know a thing about this ’ere Marquis – and that’s the truth.’

‘The whole truth and nothing but?’

‘You know me, Mr. Temple. I wouldn’t ’old out on you; not for all the bloomin’ gold in America.’

‘I’ll take your word for it, Sammy,’ replied Temple, a trifle puzzled nevertheless.

‘Funny you should ask me about The Marquis,’ mused Sammy. ‘I bumped into a bloke at the Black Swan only a week ago, who asked me the same question. Smart lookin’ young feller, took him for a “con” man at first, but I was wrong.’

‘He didn’t tell you his name?’

‘Yes, an’ I got it on the tip of me tongue! – Storey! – that’s it – Roger Storey.’ A new thought seemed to cross Sammy’s mind.

‘Look here, Mr. Temple, he wouldn’t be a rozzer, would he? Because if he is, I’ll—’

‘Paul!’ interposed Steve, urgently. ‘Pull over for that lorry.’ They were rushing along the embankment at thirty miles an hour, but the lorry was rapidly overhauling them. Temple accelerated a trifle, and they drew away.

‘This boss of yours, Sammy,’ he said. ‘Who is he?’

‘I don’t know, Mr. Temple – honest, I don’t. Never set eyes on ‘im before. I just got me orders from a feller named Dukes …’

‘Then you don’t know that 79A Bombay Road was raided?’

‘Raided?’ Sammy was patently scared.

‘It’s all right, Sammy – the police didn’t find a thing to incriminate you. All the same, I’m coming along to take a look at this boss of yours. Just in case it’s—’

‘The Marquis?’ queried Sammy, with a gulp. ‘But I tell yer it can’t be, Mr. Temple. The Marquis has got—’ He broke off and clutched Temple’s arm. ‘Look out, sir, or that three-tonner’ll bounce us right into the river!’

Temple tugged at the wheel, but the steering seemed to be completely out of action. As the lorry came level, he snatched at the handbrake, but the front wheels of the overtaking vehicle suddenly swung into the car. To the accompaniment of breaking glass, screaming brakes, and the crash of metal they smashed into the wall of the embankment. Sammy Wren was thrown hard against the windscreen, which immediately collapsed, precipitating him between the embankment wall and the bonnet of the car. The driving wheel saved Temple from a similar fate, though the sudden blow in the chest winded him for some time.

Just before the crash, Steve had flung herself on the floor at the back, and so escaped with a shaking.

‘Paul!’ she cried. ‘Are you all right?’

For a minute he was too breathless to reply. Then he wiped the blood from a cut on his cheek, felt his limbs carefully and shook bits of glass from his clothes.

‘I’m O.K., Steve,’ he announced, eventually. ‘How about you?’

When she had reassured him, he suddenly realised that Sammy had vanished. Leaping out of the car, he quickly discovered the little man. By now, the lorry had backed on to the road again, two policemen had arrived on the scene, and a crowd was gathering, avid for details of the accident.

Someone caught Temple’s arm, and swinging round he saw, by the limited light from the headlamps, a breathless young man in dark grey flannels.

‘I say, are you all right?’ demanded the newcomer.

‘Help me to move the car,’ urged Temple, indicating the spread-eagled form of Sammy Wren.

‘Why yes – yes, of course,’ agreed the young man. They were joined by the two constables, who assisted them to extricate the unfortunate Sammy Wren, now unconscious and bleeding from a gash at the back of the head. Neither of the constables had a first-aid outfit, but the young man proved surprisingly efficient in contriving a temporary bandage with the help of a couple of handkerchiefs.

When at last the ambulance arrived, and the inert form of Sammy Wren was carried away, Temple turned to the young man.

‘Thanks for helping us out,’ he said.

The other smiled, a very pleasant, engaging smile, and pushed a strand of fair wavy hair back from his forehead.

‘Not at all, I was only too glad to help. I hope the poor devil will be all right. It must have been a shock for you. Your wife, too.’ He switched his infectious smile in Steve’s direction.

‘If you’ll excuse me, sir,’ he continued, politely, ‘your face seems familiar. Aren’t you Paul Temple?’

‘Yes.’

The young man smote his right fist into the palm of his left hand.

‘What an amazing coincidence! I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all the evening.’

‘Indeed?’ said Temple, somewhat surprised.

‘It’s quite providential we should meet like this,’ went on the young man exuberantly, reminding Temple rather of an excited undergraduate. ‘If you will permit me to introduce myself …’ He paused to get his breath, then said: ‘My name is Storey—Roger Storey.’




CHAPTER VI (#ulink_f42d526f-a83f-5ac8-9ac8-5d23b1da08d9)

Roger Storey Explains (#ulink_f42d526f-a83f-5ac8-9ac8-5d23b1da08d9)


As SOON as Sammy Wren had been safely extricated, Temple’s next objective had been to discover the driver of the lorry. But the intervention of Roger Storey had temporarily diverted him, and it was Storey himself who gave him a reminder.

‘I say, where the devil is the fellow who drove the lorry? I haven’t seen him, have you?’ Storey spoke in a public school accent that was as unmistakable as his old Harrovian tie.

Temple’s brows contracted.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘And I have a hunch we shan’t.’

‘But surely the fellow can’t run away and leave his lorry. I mean to say it could be traced to his boss and—’

‘It’s just an idea of mine,’ put in Temple, gently, ‘that the lorry was stolen. However, we can soon check up on that.’ He indicated a police sergeant who was approaching them from the other side of the lorry.

‘Nasty smash, sir. Anyone else hurt?’

‘Just the one case, sergeant. Pretty hopeless, I’m afraid.’

The sergeant nodded. ‘I’ll have to make one or two enquiries, sir, if you don’t mind,’ he continued.

‘Yes. I’m rather anxious to make some myself,’ said Temple. ‘If you’ll flash your torch, I’ll show you my identity card.’

The sergeant complied, and even before he read the name, was duly impressed by the special card.

‘Sorry I didn’t recognise you, sir, in this confounded blackout,’ the sergeant apologised.

‘That’s all right. I don’t suppose I look exactly presentable with this blood all over my face. Is there a hotel anywhere near?’

‘Yes, sir, the Regency. Fifty yards up this turning on the right-hand side. You can’t miss it.’

Temple turned to the other two.

‘Would you mind taking my wife along to the Regency, Mr. Storey?’ he asked. ‘She’s a little upset by the accident.’

‘Why of course,’ agreed Storey, taking Steve’s arm. ‘I know the Regency – we’ll be in the front lounge if you should want us, Sergeant. Though I expect Mr. Temple will be able to give you all the details.’

The sergeant grinned knowingly.

‘I shan’t be long, darling,’ Temple told his wife. ‘Just one or two small matters to clear up.’

‘Don’t forget, we’ll be in the lounge,’ called Roger over his shoulder as they disappeared into the night. ‘Now, what you want, Mrs. Temple, is a jolly good double brandy. Pre-war strength, if they’ve got it. And by gad, I could do with one myself …’

Temple smiled as the voices slowly faded. Then he turned to the sergeant, who was peering round the car with the help of a torch.

‘Now Sergeant,’ said Temple, ‘what about this lorry driver?’

‘That’s just the mystery, sir. Neither of my men saw him. First of all, they were busy helping with your friend, and by the time they’d finished the man seems to have vanished. Funny business, if you ask me.’

He directed his torch on the steering column of Temple’s car, jerked the wheel from side to side, and finally pulled the steering rod out of the socket. At the base of the rod were the unmistakable scratches made by a heavy file.

‘Funny sort of accident, this, Mr. Temple,’ murmured the sergeant. ‘I don’t like the look of it.’

‘I’m not exactly delighted myself,’ said Temple, dryly. ‘But I haven’t time to investigate now. If you have any questions to ask, sergeant, perhaps you’ll come with me …’ He signalled a passing taxi. ‘I have an urgent appointment.’ The sergeant entered the taxi and Temple paused to give the address.

‘Percy’s Snack Bar, just off the Haymarket.’

By the time the sergeant had taken down the routine details concerning the accident, they had arrived at their destination. Percy’s Snack Bar seemed to have a similar decor to the old-time coffee houses, which had no doubt been the inspiration of its designer.

‘I’d be glad if you’d come in with me, sergeant, and see if you recognise anybody,’ said Temple.

It was evidently a slack time of the evening for no one was sitting at the small tables, although a few people occupied the high stools at the counter.

There was a shabby middle-aged woman moodily consuming a milk-shake, two coltish girls vying for the attentions of a youth, a very old man was noisily drinking soup, and a slim, well-dressed man in the late thirties looked up at them over the top of the evening paper he was reading.

‘D’you know that man?’ asked Temple of the sergeant.

‘Why of course, sir,’ replied the latter in some surprise. ‘It’s Inspector Street! He’s one of the new men at the Yard.’

Street leisurely got down from his stool and joined them at the door.

‘What’s the trouble, Sergeant?’ he asked.

‘Blessed if I know, sir. Better ask Mr. Temple, here.’

‘Oh – so you’re Paul Temple,’ said Street, eyeing him shrewdly. ‘I’m Street – came to the Yard while you were in America.’ He spoke in a guarded whisper.

‘I can only conclude we’re here on the same errand, Inspector,’ said Temple quietly. ‘How did you get your information?’

‘We managed to tap a ’phone call to Sammy Wren.’

‘H’m.’ Temple looked round the room once more, noting that the clock behind the counter pointed to eight-thirty.

‘Any luck yet?’ he asked.

Street shook his head. ‘Sammy must have got wind of us. He hasn’t put in an appearance.’

Temple told him about the accident.

‘Then it looks as if this rendezvous is a washout,’ decided Street, folding his paper.

‘You haven’t seen anyone you recognise?’ queried Temple.

‘Not a soul, except …’ he hesitated. ‘I did know one old josser – it seems he often comes in here for a snack. He left about ten minutes ago. Quite well-known in his own line, though I can’t say I know much about that sort of thing.

‘And what is his line?’ asked Temple.

‘He’s an Egyptologist named Reybourn, Sir Felix Reybourn.’

When Temple came into the bright lights of the Regency lounge twenty minutes later, Roger Storey at once noticed the cut on his cheek, and insisted on fixing on it a scrap of adhesive plaster, which he extracted from his wallet. As Steve sipped her brandy and ginger ale, she reflected thankfully that her husband’s cut cheek was the only outward sign of the accident as far as they were concerned.

When the glasses were half-empty and the flow of small-talk seemed to be slackening, Temple turned to Roger Storey.

‘I should be very interested to hear why you’ve been looking for me this evening,’ he murmured.

Storey took a gulp at his brandy.

‘Well, I’m dashed if I know quite where to begin,’ he confessed.

Temple gave him a searching glance.

‘Supposing you take your time,’ he suggested, ‘and begin at the beginning.’

Storey frowned thoughtfully as if deciding how to approach his subject. Finally, he turned to Steve.

‘I think you knew Alice Mapleton, Mrs. Temple.’

Steve thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes, the name comes back to me. We were at school together, but she was junior to me, and I never saw very much of her. And now I think of it, we met again at a party about two years ago. She was a willowy brunette – quite attractive.’

‘And Lady Alice Mapleton was, of course, the first girl to be murdered by The Marquis,’ put in Temple.

Storey nodded, hesitated for a moment, then said: ‘Yes, her body was found on the bank of a stream about four miles from Richmond. She had been strangled.’

Steve shuddered.

‘I understand Lady Alice was a friend of yours,’ said Temple, quietly. The young man pushed the rather becoming lock of wavy hair from his forehead.

‘We were engaged,’ he replied simply, making a patent effort to conceal his emotion by lighting a cigarette. After a moment, he inhaled a large quantity of smoke, then slowly expelled it.

‘That was just over four months ago,’ he informed them. ‘Four months. It seems like four years whenever I think about it.’ He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose vigorously.

There was silence for some seconds, then Temple asked: ‘Was your fiancée worried at all?’

Storey shrugged impatiently. ‘Haven’t you read those awful reports of the inquest? God! It was on every front page!’ He seemed to recoil at the recollection.

‘We’ve only just returned from America,’ Steve reminded him, gently. He apologised, and continued: ‘Yes, Alice was worried. There’s no doubt about that. She was terribly worried. Though I admit that she was always a moody sort of girl, and we frequently had the most awful rows. Being engaged isn’t all honey, I can tell you.’

Steve smiled at the boyish confession.

‘Yes, we had our quarrels,’ he continued, ‘but we never stopped being in love with each other for a single minute. The night before it happened, we had one of our worst stack-ups. I can’t even remember what it was about, but poor Alice had been irritable and difficult to get on with that day. I realise now why she was like that.’

‘Please go on,’ said Temple.

Roger Storey stubbed out his cigarette with long, nervous fingers.

‘It was blackmail!’ he muttered in a tense voice.

Steve looked horrified and checked an exclamation.

‘You mean The Marquis?’ suggested Temple.

‘Yes.’

Storey’s eyes assumed a distant expression, and his lips narrowed into a thin line. With jerky movements he lighted another cigarette, then continued:

‘He’s a cunning sort of devil you know, Temple. He puts the pressure on his victims until they can stand it no longer, and then …’ his mouth twitched nervously as he seemed to visualise the consequences.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/francis-durbridge/paul-temple-intervenes/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.