Книга - Paul Temple and the Margo Mystery

Paul Temple and the Margo Mystery
Francis Durbridge


What could possibly connect expensive Margo ‘designer’ coats, an industrialist, a petrified celebrity, and a psychiatrist with a peculiar secretary?A potent murder plot is underway when a terrifying warning is received on the grounds of a funfair. It’s up to Paul to unravel a disturbing set of mysteries that turns this funhouse into a deadly death trap








FRANCIS DURBRIDGE




Paul Temple and the Margo Mystery













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

Hodder & Stoughton 1986

Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1986

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: 9780008125769

Ebook Edition © November 2015 ISBN: 9780008125776

Version: 2016-04-29


Contents

Cover (#uc5aa1daf-2bde-5297-8a07-4e055cdabbba)

Title Page (#uc2841c4d-3202-5cfb-82fd-a41572f20498)

Copyright (#ubdd5796e-e87a-55a0-b6ef-a5f797ac297e)

CHAPTER I: The Coat (#u1296e73a-a6cd-59c9-a4dc-593ea49ae2cc)

CHAPTER II: Dead Lucky (#ub533734c-5256-5d1c-aeb5-acaaa754fe74)

CHAPTER III: A Change of Mind (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER IV: Bill Fletcher’s Story (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER V: Breakwater House (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER VI: The Late Tony Wyman (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER VII: A Time to Worry (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER VIII: The Visitor (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also in This Series (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER I (#uc982a306-f805-51d3-814a-b020874f1507)

The Coat (#uc982a306-f805-51d3-814a-b020874f1507)


Thanks to a cab driver with the nerve of a Grand Prix racer Paul Temple caught the morning flight from New York to London by the skin of his teeth. As a Concorde passenger he received VIP treatment and was hustled through the departure formalities. Less than an hour after leaving his hotel on Fifth Avenue he was in his window seat watching John F. Kennedy Airport drop rapidly away as Concorde soared towards her cruising height. Some other passengers must have cut things even finer, for the seat beside him had remained empty.

He listened patiently to the stewardess going through the familiar demonstration of the emergency equipment, waiting for the illuminated sign to be switched off so that he could unfasten his safety belt. As the Captain finished his reassuring announcement he made his way forward to put through the telephone call to London which he had booked on boarding.

One of the stewardesses, who had put on her in-flight overall, stood aside to let him pass. Her smile was not purely automatic. It was a pleasure to see someone whose style matched that of the aircraft. Temple, with his well-cut clothes, tall build and clean-cut features looked as British as the Rolls-Royce engines that were driving them through the air faster than a bullet leaving a rifle.

Temple’s decision to return home had been made last thing the evening before and his wife Steve would need some warning that he would be arriving two days early.

When he returned to his seat he found that a youngish man had ensconced himself in the empty place. He smiled apologetically and swung his knees sideways to let Temple pass.

‘I hope you don’t mind. I saw that this seat was empty.’ The accent was American, but suggestive of Boston rather than the Bronx.

‘Not at all,’ Temple said, removing The New York Times from his seat before he sat down. ‘I thought someone must have missed the plane.’

‘Oh, I have a seat further back. I flew in from California overnight and had a couple of hours’ wait at Kennedy. Nice to think we’ll be in London just about the same time as we left New York. Your Concorde sure is a fantastic aircraft.’

‘Yes, and this new telephone link by satellite is a great advantage. I’ve just been talking to my wife.’

‘Mrs Temple doesn’t come on these trips with you?’ The man laughed when he saw Temple’s surprise. ‘You don’t remember me? My name’s Langdon. Mike Langdon. We met in Hollywood, Mr Temple.’

‘Did we?’ Temple turned to look at his neighbour more closely. He was wearing a lightweight suit and his confident manner was that of a hard-thrusting businessman who does not mind cutting a few corners to achieve his targets. His dark curly hair was cut close to his head and he must have found time to shave during his wait at Kennedy, for his cheeks were smooth. Temple could often tell as much about a person from his hands as from his facial features, but Langdon held his hands firmly folded in his lap as if determined to keep them strictly under control.

‘You don’t remember?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Langdon was holding his gaze. ‘I’ve met so many people during these past weeks—’

‘Yes, of course.’ Langdon smiled, remembering some scene that Temple had forgotten. ‘I was at that party the film people gave you – me and about two hundred others.’

‘Yes.’ Temple smiled in reply. ‘That was quite a party, wasn’t it?’

‘It sure was.’

‘Are you in the film business, Mr Langdon?’

‘No.’ Langdon glanced down to adjust the cuffs of his shirt, making sure that they protruded just one quarter of an inch. ‘I’m with a publishing firm in New York, Talbot and Ryder. It’s only a small outfit, but we do very nicely. I’m sorry we don’t have your books on our list, Mr Temple, but I guess we can’t afford the advances the big boys put up. How did the lecture tour go?’

‘Oh, very well, thank you, but it was a bit wearing at times.’

‘I’ll bet!’ Langdon agreed emphatically. ‘Our authors hate ’em. Still, they’re first-rate publicity.’

The conversation was interrupted as two stewardesses came along with the Concorde ration of vintage champagne. Langdon shook his head and insisted on a Scotch on the rocks.

‘Is this your first trip to Europe?’ Temple enquired, savouring his Veuve Clicquot. The aircraft had climbed through cloud and was now flying over a cotton-wool landscape under blue skies.

‘No. I’ve been over many times before. I was in Paris two weeks ago.’ Langdon turned sideways in his seat, swirling the ice round in his glass. Temple sensed that he was now about to learn why Langdon had wanted to sit beside him. ‘Mr Temple, have you heard of a young man called Tony Wyman?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Should I have done?’

‘Well, I understand he’s fairly well-known in your country. He’s a pop singer.’

‘Tony Wyman?’ Temple shook his head. ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

‘No.’ Langdon gave a short laugh. ‘And I doubt whether he’ll turn out to be one, either.’ He eased a little closer and leant his forearm on the armrest between them. ‘Mr Temple, I’ve got quite a problem on my hands and I’d sure like to talk about it. Is that okay by you?’

‘Why, yes.’ Temple, who was used to this kind of approach, smiled wryly. ‘Go ahead.’

‘About two years ago my firm was taken over by an Englishman called George Kelburn. If you don’t know Kelburn personally, you’ve probably read about him.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of Kelburn. He’s a north-country chap, reputed to be worth millions.’

‘That’s right. Well, when Kelburn took our firm over he made me the Number One boy. He’s a blunt, ruthless sort of guy, but we’ve always got on well together.’

Temple thought Langdon looked as if he was well able to handle a blunt, ruthless sort of guy.

‘He’d be a good deal older than you?’

‘Yes, he’s about sixty, maybe sixty-two or three. I’m not sure.’

Langdon screwed his eyes up against a sudden dazzle. As the plane banked the sunlight was reflected into the cabin off its gleaming wing.

‘Go on, Mr Langdon,’ Temple prompted.

‘Well, Kelburn’s first wife died some years ago and he married again – a woman a lot younger than himself. He has a daughter, Julia, by his first wife. Julia’s twenty-one – young, attractive and hopelessly spoilt.’

‘Not an unusual story,’ said Temple with a smile.

‘No, I suppose not, but – well, to cut a long story short, Julia’s got herself tangled up with this night-club singer, Tony Wyman, and she’s told her father that she intends to marry the guy.’

‘And Kelburn’s against it?’

‘Against it?’ Langdon looked deadly serious. ‘Kelburn’s going to stop that marriage if it’s the last thing he does.’

‘Yes, but – how do you fit into all this, Mr Langdon? If you’re just a business associate of Kelburn’s…’

‘That’s just the point,’ Langdon interrupted, with exasperation. ‘I don’t fit into it! But Kelburn sent me an SOS, and there was nothing I could do about it.’

‘You mean, he wants you to try and influence her to…’

‘Exactly! Julia and I have always got on well together, so he wants me to talk to the kid and try to persuade her to throw the boyfriend over.’

‘Do you think you’ve got much chance?’

‘None.’ Langdon shook his head morosely. ‘I’ve got no special influence with her, and according to all accounts she’s nuts about this Tony Wyman.’

‘You seem to be in quite a spot.’

‘You can say that again! Well, you’re used to other people’s troubles, Mr Temple! What would you do if you were in my shoes?’

Temple had warmed to Langdon, whose frank helplessness was rather disarming. The problem was a pleasantly banal one, after the murders and other vicious crimes which he was usually called on to solve. ‘Frankly, I don’t know what I’d do.’

‘If I refuse to help Kelburn he’ll put me on the spot businesswise – there’s no doubt about that, I know Kelburn. On the other hand, if I get mixed up in it and make a mess of things, which is more than likely, it isn’t going to do me any good either.’

A stewardess was moving back along the cabin, collecting the empty glasses. Temple finished his champagne and placed the glass on the folding table ready for her.

‘And how does Kelburn’s wife react to all this?’

‘Oh, Laura takes the point of view that Julia’s twenty-one and she’ll do what she likes, anyway.’

‘I see.’

‘This whole business has turned up at a very awkward moment, so far as I’m concerned. I’ve had a hectic time just lately – been in ten countries in two months, and right now I’m ready for a holiday, not a first-class family squabble.’

‘Well, there’s no point in anticipating trouble, Mr Langdon,’ Temple told him reassuringly. ‘Perhaps when you get to London you’ll find the situation has straightened itself out.’

‘I certainly hope so.’

‘Anyway, I’m in the ’phone book. If you feel I can help you at any time, give me a ring.’

‘Well, now, that’s very kind of you, Mr Temple.’ Obviously delighted, Langdon stretched out his free hand and insisted on shaking Temple’s. ‘I do appreciate it, sir. I certainly do!’

The stewardess leant across him to pick up Temple’s glass. ‘Will you be returning to your seat, sir?’ she enquired, ‘or remaining here? We shall shortly be serving lunch.’

‘Oh, I’d better get back to my own seat,’ Langdon said, rising. ‘And thanks again, Mr Temple. I may take you up on that offer.’

Steve returned to the flat at about two thirty after lunching in the West End. The flat always seemed so empty when Temple was away, and she began to wish she had accepted her friend’s invitation to go and see the new exhibition at the Hayward Gallery. She went into the bedroom and unpacked the new dress she had bought. She wanted to surprise Paul with something really smart when he came back from his lecture tour. As she held it against herself and studied the effect in the long mirror she decided that a new pair of shoes and a handbag were essential to match it. Rather than hide it away in the long cupboard, she hung it on the back of the door where she could see it and wandered aimlessly into the sitting-room.

The trees in Eaton Square were beginning to bud and the city birds had already started to prophesy spring. A couple of the early daffodils she had bought to brighten the place up had begun to wilt. She had picked them out of the vase and was throwing them into the waste-paper basket when Charlie came in. He was carrying a cup on a tray.

‘Thought you might like a cup of coffee.’

‘Oh, thank you, Charlie. Just put it down on the table.’

Charlie was the Temples’ driver, cook, odd-job man and watchdog. His familiarity sometimes verged on impertinence but he was loyal and faithful as a spaniel. The forty-year-old Cockney had been with them for more years than any of them cared to remember and had his own sitting-room and bedroom beyond a door whose threshold neither Paul nor Steve would have presumed to cross. The only disadvantage about Charlie was his unfortunate lack of dress sense. Steve tried not to show her disapproval of the lumberjack shirt and the too tight check trousers.

‘What time is it, Charlie?’

‘Just gone ’arf past two,’ said Charlie, setting the cup and saucer down on a low table. ‘Cream’s in it already but I didn’t put any sugar, like you said.’

‘Only half past two. How slowly the days go! I thought it was later than that. In New York it must be nine thirty.’

Charlie paused, knowing that she needed company. ‘Yes, I suppose it will. Five hours back. Do you think Mr Temple will have had breakfast yet?’

‘Well, I should hope so, Charlie. He promised to get through his schedule as quickly as possible.’

‘When are you expecting him back, Mrs Temple?’

‘Some time next week, if all goes well.’

Charlie stared sympathetically at her dejected face. ‘I’ll bet you’ll be glad.’

‘That’s the understatement of the year. It seems as if he’s been away for months.’

‘Four weeks and a day.’ Charlie saw the discarded daffodils in the waste-paper basket and went over to pick them up. ‘You know, I can’t understand why you didn’t go with him. You usually—’

‘Have you ever been to America on a lecture tour, Charlie?’

‘No,’ Charlie admitted, after a moment’s thought. ‘Can’t say as I ’ave.’

‘Twenty-two towns in four weeks. That’s not my idea of –’ She stopped as the telephone in the hall began to ring. ‘Oh, see who that is, Charlie, will you? If it’s those people who want to clean our carpets say I’m not in.’

She heard Charlie pick up the telephone and give the number. Almost at once he called: ‘Mrs Temple! Quick! It’s Mr Temple.’

Steve ran to seize the receiver from him. ‘Paul, darling! Where are you?’

‘About thirty thousand feet over the east coast of Canada. I’m on Concorde.’

‘But Paul, how on earth—? I didn’t know you could—’

‘Listen, Steve. How are you?’

‘I’m fine. Looking forward to next week.’

‘I’ve got news for you. I’ve finished my tour early and I’m on my way back. We’re due to land at London Airport at seven fifteen.’

‘Oh, that Concorde! But how are you able to ’phone me? The line’s so clear.’

‘Don’t worry about that. Now, you’ve got the message? I’ll be home tonight.’

‘Seven fifteen at London Airport. Bet your sweet life I’ll be there!’

‘There’s no need to meet me, darling. I can take a taxi.’

‘Just you try and stop me. What’s the flight number?’

‘Just ask for Concorde, Terminal Three. Goodbye, Steve. See you at Heathrow.’

Charlie was alone in the flat at a quarter to eight when the telephone rang. He came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on the faded blue and white housemaid’s apron he always wore when he was cooking.

‘Mr Temple’s residence.’

‘Is that you, Charlie?’

‘Mr Temple! Where are you?’

‘I’m at the airport. Is Mrs Temple with you?’

‘Why no! I thought she’d be with you, Mr Temple. She left here two hours ago.’

‘Did she take the car?’

‘Yes—the MG Metro.’

‘You’re sure she knew the time and place?’

‘Yes, she knew the time and place all right. She’s been talking about nothing else all afternoon.’

‘I see.’ Temple’s tone was worried. ‘Did she say whether she had any calls to make?’

‘No, but I don’t think she had.’ Charlie was certain that Steve had had no other thought in her mind except to meet her husband. ‘I hope there hasn’t been an accident…’

‘Yes, I hope so too, Charlie,’ Temple said gravely. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘Very good, sir.’ Unusually subdued, Charlie replaced the receiver.

The homecoming dinner prepared with such care by Charlie had proved to be wasted effort. On arriving back at the flat Temple had declared himself unable to swallow a mouthful after the meal he had eaten on Concorde, and five hours after she had left for the airport there was still neither sight nor sound of Steve. Charlie had salvaged what he could and stored it away in the deep-freeze for some future occasion. He was in his bed-sitter watching the TV commercials that preceded the ten o’clock news when there came a long ring on the doorbell followed by an authoritative rat-tat-tat on the knocker.

Charlie, divested of his apron and wearing a jacket which noticeably failed to match his trousers, went to open it. Of the two men standing on the landing outside he was already familiar with one. Sir Graham Forbes was the kind of Englishman who had been formed by the successive processes of school, university, military service and public office. With his broad shoulders, bristling grey moustache, bushy eyebrows and a certain aura of unshakable confidence he was still impressive enough to attract the glances of women.

‘Good evening, Charlie,’ he said, as one greeting an old friend.

‘Good evening, sir. Mr Temple’s expecting you.’

‘Any news?’ Sir Graham asked, as he stepped into the hall.

‘No, sir. I’m afraid not.’

The heavily built man with Forbes was at least fifteen years younger and of a very different type. He was soberly dressed with a plain tie and well-polished black shoes. Charlie, who was at heart a downright snob, could see at a glance that he had made his way in the world by his own unaided efforts, assisted by no advantages of family or money. Charlie was not endeared by the way those hard eyes swept over him, missing not a detail of his dress and physical features. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being checked against some rogues’ gallery that the police officer carried in a computer-like mind.

‘In here, Sir Graham,’ he said, fussing over the taller man and ignoring the other. ‘Mr Temple’s in the sitting-room.’

Temple, who had also been watching the ten o’clock ITV news, half expecting to hear that there had been some horrific pile-up on the M4 between London and Heathrow, switched the set off and came across the room to meet his visitors.

‘Come in, Sir Graham. It’s very kind of you to come at such short notice.’

‘My dear fellow, I’d have got here sooner only I was already half-way home from my club when your message came through. And when Steve is concerned—’

‘I understand there’s no news, Mr Temple,’ the police officer said, anxious to make the point that he too had forsaken hearth and home to accompany Sir Graham.

Temple turned towards him and the eyes of the two men met with mutual appraisal and respect. Raine, of course, had known Temple’s reputation as a criminologist as well as an author, even before the briefing Forbes had given him in the car.

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

‘This is Superintendent Raine, Temple.’ Forbes put a friendly hand on the Scotland Yard man’s shoulder. ‘I don’t think you’ve met before.’

‘No, I don’t think we have. Though I read about your handling of the Belgrave Square siege.’ The two men shook hands, still measuring each other with their eyes. Temple assessed Raine as thorough and methodical but perhaps a little unimaginative. ‘How do you do, Superintendent.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Temple.’

‘Sit down and I’ll get you a drink.’

‘No, no. Don’t worry about drinks.’ Forbes brushed the offer aside, to Raine’s evident disappointment. ‘Temple, tell me, have you checked the hospitals?’

‘I’ve checked every hospital within thirty miles of the airport,’ Temple said wearily. ‘It took me the whole evening.’

Raine had seated himself on the front edge of one of the easy chairs. ‘I understand you found Mrs Temple’s car?’

‘Yes, Superintendent. It was in the car park at the airport. The attendant remembered her arriving – about half an hour before my plane was due. She’d left her coat in the back of the car, so she couldn’t have intended to go much further than the lounge, or maybe the restaurant.’

‘I take it Mrs Temple didn’t leave a note for you, sir, or anything which might…’

‘No. I’ve been through the place pretty thoroughly, and apart from a telephone message there’s nothing – absolutely nothing.’

Forbes, who had taken up his customary position in front of the fireplace with legs astride, asked: ‘What was the telephone message?’

‘It was on the pad upstairs. It simply said: “Tell P.” – which is obviously me – “about L.”’

‘Who’s L, Temple?’

‘I don’t know. But I don’t think it’s important, Sir Graham. According to Charlie, the message was written several days ago.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, Mr Temple,’ Raine commented in his deliberate way, ‘but it looks as if we shall have to face the facts. The only explanation I can see is that your wife’s been waylaid by someone. Now the question is…’

He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone out in the hall. Temple exchanged a quick glance of hope with Forbes before he went out to pick the receiver up.

‘Hello?’

He could hear the bleep-bleep, indicating that the call was coming from a pay ’phone. There was a clunk as a coin was pushed into the slot. Then Temple heard a man’s voice, muffled but obviously in the same call-box.

‘All right. Go ahead. Talk to him now…’

‘Hello!’ Temple repeated impatiently. ‘Hello, who is that?’

There was a pause, and then: ‘Is that you, Paul?’ The woman’s voice was so weak that he hardly recognised it as Steve’s.

‘Steve! Is that you, Steve?’

‘Paul, can you hear me?’

He could tell from her voice that she was very frightened. ‘Steve, where are you?’

‘Don’t worry, dear.’ Scared though she was, she was trying to reassure him. ‘There’s nothing to worry about…’

‘Yes, but Steve,’ Temple cut in, unable to mask his impatience, ‘where are you speaking from?’

‘I’m…perfectly all right…’

‘Steve, listen!’ Temple was gripping the receiver. ‘There was a man on the ’phone, I heard his voice…Who was it?’

‘Paul, don’t try and…’ Steve’s voice was fading, as if someone were pulling the receiver away from her.

‘Darling, please tell me…Where are you?’

‘Oh, Paul…’ The cry was barely audible. Before Temple could speak again the maddening bleep-bleep had started once more.

‘Oh, my God!’

‘What’s happened?’

Temple looked round to find Raine at his shoulder. ‘The line’s gone dead.’

‘Replace the receiver, Mr Temple – in case she rings back.’

Temple realised that he was still trying to squeeze some response out of the telephone. With deliberate control he replaced it on the cradle.

Forbes had come to the doorway of the sitting-room to listen to Temple’s side of the brief conversation. ‘You said something about a man, Temple. Was there someone with Steve?’

‘Yes. I heard a voice just as I picked up the ’phone. It sounded as if someone was in the call-box with her and was forcing her to…’

The ’phone shrilled and Temple scooped it up with one quick movement.

‘Take it easy, Temple,’ Forbes cautioned.

Temple put a finger into his free ear. ‘Hello?’

‘Paul—’ Steve’s voice was a little stronger, but she was still tense.

‘Steve,’ Temple said, speaking slowly and deliberately but with all the urgency he could muster. ‘Where are you calling from?’

‘I don’t know the number.’

‘Darling,’ he told her very gently, ‘look at the dial.’

‘It’s a call-box.’

‘Well, where is it?’

‘Paul, I’m trying to concentrate,’ she was evidently dazed and confused, ‘but somehow I can’t—’

He asked: ‘Is there anyone with you?’

‘No. Not now, darling.’

‘Well,’ he tried again, still as if coaxing a frightened child, ‘where is the telephone box, Steve?’

‘It’s at Euston. Just inside the station.’ She was near to tears and her voice was beginning to break. ‘Please come and fetch me, darling. I’ll wait for you in the station near the bookstall.’

‘I’ll be there in ten minutes!’ This time Temple rammed the receiver down on the cradle. His face was grey as he turned to Forbes and Raine. ‘She’s at Euston Station.’

‘Right! Come on, Temple!’ Forbes was already heading for the front door. Raine started to follow, but the older man put a finger to stop him and nodded at the telephone.

‘Get through to the Yard. Warn all cars in the area but tell them to stay clear of the station. Follow as soon as you can. We’ll see you at Euston.’

Knowing that Raine would have no problem with transport, Forbes commandeered the police car waiting down in Eaton Square. The superintendent had chosen as his personal driver a young constable who had passed out of the Police Driving School at Hendon with a Class A. Authorised to use the blue light and siren he made his tyres squeal as he careered round Belgrave Square. The carousel of traffic at Hyde Park Corner yielded to the white police Rover as it squirmed between taxis, buses and private cars. On the Hyde Park ring road they touched a hundred miles an hour and the houses along Park Lane flashed past in a blur. An obstinate Daimler limousine blocked them for a long ten seconds at Marble Arch and received a horn-blasting that sent him rabbiting on to the pavement. As the Rover sped along the Marylebone Road, Forbes and Temple were thrown from side to side when their driver swerved round the slow-moving vehicles, sometimes cutting boldly across to the wrong side of the road and forcing the oncoming traffic to give way to him.

A quarter of a mile from Euston Forbes called out: ‘Cut the siren now, Newton.’

Temple glanced at his watch. He had automatically checked the time of Steve’s call. It looked as if he was going to keep his promise of being at the station within ten minutes. As if in confirmation the clock of the church across the road began to chime the quarters. Raine’s driver braked and swung in through the entrance reserved for buses, slowing behind a Number 14 as it circled the memorial to London and North Eastern Railway personnel killed in the 1914–18 war. Temple, all his senses at full stretch, noted the four statuesque figures guarding it, heads bent over, hands folded on their reversed rifles – an attitude of permanent mourning.

‘Well done,’ Forbes told the driver, as he deposited them at the kerb. ‘Wait for us here.’

Outpacing the passengers who had alighted from the bus, Forbes and Temple hurried across the broad, almost deserted forecourt, past the statue of Robert Stephenson and through the glass doors into the main hall. Both men were wary and watchful. There seemed no good reason why Steve should be kidnapped and then released after only five hours without some sort of pay-off. She could still be in grave danger. At this time of night the bookshop at the east side of the main hall was closed and only a lone vendor of newspapers was doing business.

Temple shook his head. ‘She’s not here.’

The loudspeakers boomed out some announcement about a train shortly due to depart for Edinburgh. The panels on the indicator-board flapped as a new set of departure times was rung up. From one of the platforms a posse of travellers just in from the North spilled out, dazedly lugging suitcases.

‘Is there another bookstall?’ Forbes was turning his head this way and that, searching for a slim woman in a blue suit. Charlie had told them what Steve was wearing when she’d set off for the airport.

‘There may be.’ Temple had started across the spacious hall, his eyes checking the entrances to the bars, restaurants, information desks. People were still crowding up and down the moving staircases leading to the Underground. Half a dozen skinheads were sitting disconsolately in front of the marble plaque commemorating the opening of the new station by Queen Elizabeth II on 14 October 1968. But no sign of Steve.

He stared at the flower-sellers packing up what was left of their stock. The bunches of spring daffodils reminded him vividly of her. So often he had bought her a huge bunch on his way home. Then suddenly, he knew what had happened.

‘Sir Graham, you wait here. It’s just a thought, but—’

Temple quickly located the sign pointing to the ladies cloakroom. Dazed and scared as she was, Steve would still have been thinking about her appearance. It would be just like her to believe she had time for a quick check-up in front of a mirror. He had entered the opening of the passageway that led to the toilets and was bracing himself to invade the women’s domain when he saw a figure in a blue suit coming out through the door. Three seconds later they were in each other’s arms.

‘Steve!’




‘Paul!’

She was almost sobbing with relief. He held her away from him for a moment.

‘Darling, you said by the bookstall.’

‘Yes, I know. But I knew my face looked awful and I never thought you’d get here so quickly.’

‘Well—’ Temple let out a long sigh. ‘Thank God we’ve found you.’

Forbes had come striding over from the flower stall. ‘Are you all right, Steve?’

‘Yes, Sir Graham.’ Steve managed a little smile. ‘I’m just – a little tired, that’s all.’

‘What happened?’ Temple asked. ‘How did you come to be here? Who was that man whose voice I heard?’

‘Paul, I’m confused…and frightened…I hardly know…’

‘Wait a moment, Temple,’ Forbes said in a low voice, his eyes on Steve’s trembling hands and nervously restless glance. ‘I think we’d better get her home and let a doctor see her before we start asking too many questions.’

‘You know, Temple, this really is an extraordinary affair.’ Sir Graham Forbes put the glass of whisky Temple had given him on the table beside his chair. ‘I’ve never come across a case quite like it before. No ransom – no mysterious notes – no threats – no blackmail. Nothing.’

‘And no motive either, sir,’ added Raine, who had opted for a glass of lager, ‘so far as we can see.’

The hands of the clock on the mantelpiece of the Temples’ sitting-room had moved round to twenty past eleven. More soberly than on the outward journey Raine’s driver had brought Steve, Forbes and Temple back to Eaton Square. Temple had been lucky to find the partner of their own doctor at home and he had come round at once. The three men were having a drink while they waited for him to pronounce her fit for questioning.

‘They must have had a motive!’ Temple exclaimed. He was pacing restlessly up and down the room. ‘Whoever they are, they must have had a reason for picking Steve up like that!’

‘I agree, Temple. But what was the reason? After all, it isn’t as if you’re mixed up in a case at the moment, or even helping us over…’

Forbes was interrupted by the door opening. Dr McCarthy put his head round it. ‘May I come in?’

He was a small, competent but slightly self-effacing man with a balding head and prominent ears. He wore rimless glasses and carried the regulation leather bag.

‘Yes, of course, Doctor. What’s the verdict?’

‘Nothing to worry about – nothing at all.’ The doctor ventured a little further into the room. ‘But there’s no doubt Mrs Temple has had quite a shock, and, in my opinion, she’s either been drugged or even possibly hypnotised.’

‘Hypnotised!’ Temple echoed incredulously.

‘However, the main thing is, there’s nothing for you to worry about, Mr Temple. What your wife needs now is rest, and plenty of it! I’ve given her a sedative; she’ll probably sleep most of tomorrow morning.’

‘Thank you, Doctor.’

‘I’ll look in during the afternoon, or give you a ring tomorrow evening.’

‘Thank you,’ Temple said again, and moved towards the door to see him out.

But Dr McCarthy had picked up the purposeful and expectant atmosphere in the room. He peered sternly at Raine through his small lenses. ‘And, Superintendent…’

‘Yes, Doctor?’

‘My patient can’t answer any questions – not at the moment, at any rate.’

Raine nodded, accepting the ban with resignation. ‘Very well, Doctor.’

‘So hold your horses until tomorrow.’ McCarthy turned to Temple, who was standing waiting by the door. ‘And that goes for you too, Mr Temple.’

When Steve woke she did not immediately open her eyes, afraid that she might see again the walls of the small room where she had been held prisoner. But the sound of music was reassuring and she dared to raise her eyelids. With relief she saw that she was in her own bedroom. Though it was darkened she could identify the familiar objects of everyday life.

‘Paul…What are you doing sitting over there?’

‘I’m listening to the radio and watching you, darling.’

‘Well, what time is it?’

‘What time do you think?’ Temple asked, smiling.

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Steve sat up in bed, stretched her arms and yawned. ‘The sun’s shining so it must be morning.’

‘It’s a quarter past five.’

‘A quarter past five? In the afternoon?’

‘Yes, darling. You’ve had quite a nice little nap.’

‘How long have I actually been…?’

‘Since eleven o’clock last night.’ Temple put the paper down and came over to the bed. ‘The doctor gave you a sedative.’

‘Good heavens! You shouldn’t have let me sleep like this! Oh, Paul – you look wonderful! How lovely to see you again!’ She reached out towards him as he bent down to kiss her. ‘Did you have a nice trip?’

‘Yes, I did. But it’s the last trip I’m making without you, Steve.’

‘You can say that again!’ She laughed and slid luxuriously back under the bedclothes. There was more colour in her cheeks than the night before but she had dark shadows under her eyes.

‘How do you feel?’

‘I’m perfectly all right now. There’s no need to look so anxious.’

He sat down on the edge of the bed. She put out a hand to grasp his. ‘Do you feel well enough to talk?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘What happened yesterday, Steve?’

‘Well, now – let me think…’ Her eyes clouded as she stared at the half-drawn curtains. ‘I’m not sure where to begin…’

‘Suppose we begin at the very beginning. You set out to meet me at the airport, just as you planned…’

‘Yes, that’s right. I arrived there with plenty of time to spare, and parked the car. A man in uniform, one of the airport officials, came up to me. He checked the number of my car, and asked if I was Mrs Temple. He told me your plane had arrived ahead of schedule and you were waiting for me in the Concorde Lounge.’

‘Would you recognise this man again?’

‘I doubt it.’ She shook her head. ‘He asked me to follow him to another car just outside the car park. I thought he was taking me to another building some distance away. In the back of the car was a woman wearing air hostess’s uniform. I sat beside her and the man climbed into the driving seat and we drove off. We’d been going for about a minute when the woman suddenly pushed a pad over my face and I felt a jab in my right arm. I’m afraid I don’t remember anything else – about the journey, I mean. When I came to I was in a darkened room. I felt absolutely awful. Everything was going round and I wanted to be sick. After a while a man came into the room and gave me a drink. I don’t know what it was, but it certainly made me feel better.’

‘Was this man the phoney airport official?’

‘I couldn’t see him very well, but I don’t think he was. For one thing, his voice sounded different.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said there was nothing to worry about – that I wasn’t in any danger and later on they’d be releasing me.’

‘Did you ask why they’d kidnapped you?’

‘Yes, and he said: “We did it as a warning, and to prove that it was possible, Mrs Temple.” ’

She felt his grip on her hand tighten, saw the line of his mouth harden.

‘Go on, Steve.’

‘Well, I was left alone for ages after that. It must have been two or three hours later before another man came into the room. I think this was the man at the airport; he was about the same height and he sounded rather like him.’

‘But you’re not sure?’ he said sharply.

‘No, Paul, I can’t be a hundred per cent sure. Anyway, this man also assured me that there was nothing to worry about and that they were going to send me home. About half an hour later they drove me down to Euston and allowed me to make the telephone call.’

‘But didn’t they give you any idea what this was all about – why they’d abducted you?’

‘Not the slightest. Don’t you know, Paul?’

‘I haven’t a clue. I’m not investigating a case at the moment. I’m not mixed up in anything – you know that, Steve.’

‘If only I could remember more details…What the people looked like…’

‘Don’t worry about it, darling.’ He released her hand and stood up. ‘You’re all right, that’s the main thing.’

‘Yes, well – you must have been pretty worried.’

‘Oh, not really, darling.’ He kept his expression dead-pan. ‘I just went berserk.’

Steve laughed, watching him affectionately as he moved towards the hanging cupboard that filled one whole wall.

‘By the way, I put your new coat in the wardrobe.’

‘My coat?’

‘Yes. We found it in the back of the car when we collected it from the airport.’

‘But I didn’t take a coat with me,’ Steve said, puzzled.

‘Yes, you did, darling. Here it is.’ Temple slid the white door back on its runners, reached inside and took out an overcoat on a hanger.

He held the coat up for her to see. It was in classic style, of fawn cashmere, with a tie-belt and sleeves trimmed with leather buttons. What surprised him was the weight of the material.

‘That’s not my coat!’ Steve exclaimed.

‘But it is, Steve! It was in the back of your—’

‘I don’t care where it was! It’s not my coat!’

Temple found it hard to understand why she was so vehement in repudiating this fashionable garment.

‘Are you sure, dear?’

‘I’m positive!’ More quietly she asked: ‘Is there anything in the pockets?’

He carefully checked both pockets. ‘No, nothing.’

Steve pointed a finger towards the top of the coat. ‘There should be a maker’s name on the back of the collar somewhere.’

‘Yes, I’m just looking for it.’ Temple took the coat off the hanger and looked inside the collar. ‘Ah, here we are!’

He turned the label towards the light to read the name. ‘Margo…’

Superintendent Raine took his mackintosh off and handed it to Charlie, who hung it up in the little cloakroom. Through the closed door of the sitting-room he could hear someone playing the piano – one of Chopin’s Nocturnes. Despite his air of businesslike efficiency Raine was a sensitive man and a lover of music. From the style of the playing he was able to recognise a woman’s touch.

The music stopped when Charlie knocked on the door and went in to announce the visitor. A moment later Temple himself appeared.

‘Hello, Superintendent!’ he welcomed Raine warmly. ‘Come along in!’

The Temples’ coffee cups had been put back on the silver tray and a brandy glass was on the table beside Paul’s chair. The book he had been reading had been placed on the arm, with the cover uppermost. It was the novel that had recently won the Booker McConnell prize.

Steve had come out from behind the baby grand piano.

‘Good evening, Mrs Temple.’ Raine gave her a courtly bow. ‘You look better than you did a week ago.’

‘Yes,’ Steve smiled. ‘I’m fine now, thank you very much.’

‘I just happened to be passing and I thought I’d drop in and have a word with you.’

‘Glad to see you.’ Temple indicated a chair. ‘Sit down. Can I get you a drink?’

‘No, thank you. I’m afraid my day’s work is not done yet.’ Raine sat down, as usual leaning slightly forward. ‘Well, we don’t seem to have got very far during the past week. We’ve made enquiries about the coat, but we’ve drawn a blank. We’ve failed to find the owner, or even the shop where it was bought.’

‘What about the makers?’

‘We can’t even locate the makers. According to all accounts, there isn’t a coat firm called Margo – not in this country, at any rate.’

‘I see.’ Steve and Paul exchanged a glance. ‘Did you check with the airport people?’

‘Yes, and we’ve had no luck there either, I’m afraid. I suppose you haven’t had any bright ideas, Mr Temple?’

‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t, except that…Well, I think the people who kidnapped Steve were labouring under the delusion that I was just about to investigate a case of some kind.’

‘And you think the Mrs Temple incident was a warning to keep out?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Well, that’s a possible explanation, I suppose,’ Raine conceded dubiously. ‘But what’s the case?’

‘You tell me.’ Temple tapped his pipe out and reached for the tobacco jar. ‘I never interfere in anything without an invitation. What’s your biggest headache at the moment?’

‘Oh, our biggest headache is The Fence – trying to find out who the devil he is. But we’ve had that headache for some time now. I doubt whether we’ll ever solve it.’

Steve had gone back to the piano stool and was leafing through some sheet music, obviously intending not to intrude on the conversation; but she was drawn into it in spite of herself.

‘What do you mean – The Fence?’

‘Well, you know what a fence is, Mrs Temple?’ Raine had to shift his position to face her.

‘Yes – a man who receives stolen property.’

‘That’s right. Well, during the past twelve months there’s been several robberies. I mean, really big stuff. The two jewellers in Leicester Square…the fur warehouse in Bond Street…’

‘Lord Renton’s place in Eaton Square,’ Temple put in, as Raine hesitated.

‘Yes, that’s right. Well, it’s our opinion that these particular jobs were all done…’

‘…by the same gang!’ Steve supplied, determined not to be outdone.

Raine laughed good-humouredly. ‘No, Mrs Temple. Nothing quite as simple as that. We think – in fact, we know that the various jobs have been done by different people. We feel pretty confident, however, that the stolen property was, in every case, handled by the same person.’

‘The Fence?’

‘Yes, Mrs Temple. So far we’ve failed to find out who this fence is – or where he operates from. But sooner or later we’ve got to find him, because, at the moment, he’s indirectly responsible for a great many of the robberies in this country.’

‘Then I can see why you’ve got to find him,’ Temple remarked drily.

‘Still, we’ve no reason for thinking – no proof, as it were that Mrs Temple’s experience had anything to do with The Fence.’

‘No, Superintendent,’ Temple said thoughtfully. ‘No proof.’

There was a short silence, but Raine made no move to go. ‘There was one thing I wanted to ask you. The day Mrs Temple disappeared you said something about a note – a telephone message – which was on the pad by the side of the bed.’

‘Yes, of course!’ Temple struck his brow with the flat of his hand. ‘I forgot all about that! There was a note, Steve. It said: “Tell P. about L.”’

‘Oh, that was Laura Stafford,’ Steve said dismissively. ‘She telephoned one morning and said she wanted to see you. She seemed awfully disappointed when I said you were in New York.’

‘Who’s Laura Stafford?’ Temple enquired.

‘She’s a journalist – or rather she was several years ago.’ Steve forsook the piano stool and moved over to the sofa. ‘We used to see quite a bit of each other when I worked in Fleet Street. Then she left and married a man called Kelburn.’

‘Kelburn?’ Temple echoed, with surprise. ‘George Kelburn?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Very wealthy. North country. She’s his second wife.’

‘That’s right.’ Steve leaned back and crossed her legs. Raine bent his head and dutifully studied his fingernails. ‘Anyway, when I said you were in New York she said she’d get in touch with you later. I thought nothing of it at the time, but a couple of days later I bumped into Laura in Freeman and Bentley’s and naturally, I mentioned the telephone call, and to my amazement she said she hadn’t ’phoned.’

Raine looked up sharply. ‘She said she hadn’t?’

‘That’s right, Superintendent. She said she certainly had no wish to consult Paul about anything.’ Steve turned to Temple, whose expression showed his scepticism. ‘Darling, why were you surprised when I mentioned the name Kelburn?’

‘Well, coming over on the ’plane a man called Langdon introduced himself to me. He works for George Kelburn. Apparently Kelburn’s having trouble with his daughter and he’s asked Langdon to try and sort it out.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of Miss Kelburn,’ Raine said meaningfully. ‘Julia, by name.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Always in the newspapers. She must be quite a handful, that young lady. I don’t envy Mr Langdon his assignment.’ He put his hands on his knees to push himself upright. ‘Well, I’ll be making a move. Glad you’re feeling better, Mrs Temple.’

Raine had been gone for an hour and Steve had announced her intention of going to bed early when the doorbell rang and they heard Charlie going to answer it. A few moments later his head came round the door.

‘What is it, Charlie?’

‘Are you in or out, Mr Temple?’

‘At a quick glance, I should say we’re in.’

‘Well, there’s a Mr Langdon would like to see you. Looks like a Yank to me.’

‘Yes – he is a Yank, as you so elegantly put it, Charlie. Show the gentleman in.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Langdon?’ Steve asked. ‘Is this the man you met on the ’plane?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you ask him to call?’

‘Not in so many words, but I said if I could be of use any time I’d be pleased to see him.’

Like Raine, Langdon refused the offer of a drink, but accepted a chair. Steve resigned herself to being a listener to another of Temple’s interviews. She always admired his capacity for making people feel that a visit from them was just what he had been hoping for and that he had all the time in the world to listen to their confidences.

‘I’ve already had more than my share of drink this evening,’ Langdon said with a sigh. ‘Which isn’t surprising – considering.’

‘Why, is the Kelburn business getting you down?’

‘It certainly is.’

‘You’ve seen Julia, I take it?’

‘Yes, half a dozen times. It’s hopeless – she has every intention of doing precisely what she wants.’

‘And what about the young man she’s keen on – Tony Wyman?’

‘I went to see Wyman last night.’ An expression of distaste crossed Langdon’s face. ‘At The Hide and Seek. He completely denied that he and Julia were engaged. He just laughed when I said that Kelburn would pay him twenty-five grand not to see her again. He became quite offensive. Said he wouldn’t marry the girl if she was the last piece on earth. So far as he was concerned Kelburn could keep his twenty-five grand and his daughter too!’ Langdon sighed again.

‘What a charming young man!’

‘You can say that again, Mrs Temple. I wasn’t exactly enthralled by Master Wyman!’

‘Do you think he was telling the truth?’

‘I don’t know, Temple. He sounded convincing and yet it just doesn’t add up. Everyone I’ve spoken to swears he’s got his eye on her. Temple, I know this is a bit of a cheek, but do you think you could make one or two enquiries for me?’

Steve shot Temple a warning look, but he seemed to be more interested in refilling his pipe.

‘All right, Langdon, we’ll get on the grapevine and see what we can do.’

‘That’s mighty kind of you,’ Langdon said effusively. ‘I appreciate it, I really do.’

‘Then how about changing your mind and having a drink?’

As Steve turned away to hide her exasperation at Temple’s excessive hospitality, Langdon put his head on one side. ‘There’s nothing I’d like better.’

Temple raised his head from the pillow at the third ring of the telephone, but no sooner was he properly awake than it stopped.

‘Probably realised they were dialling the wrong number,’ Steve said beside him. He could tell from her voice that she had been lying awake.

‘What time is it?’

‘Struck three a few minutes ago.’

‘Couldn’t you get to sleep?’

‘I keep thinking of Laura Kelburn. It must be awful having a daughter like Julia. Paul, do you think she was lying when she said she hadn’t telephoned me?’

‘I can’t see why she—’ Paul stopped as the ’phone started ringing again.’ Who could be telephoning us at this hour?’

‘Take your time, Paul. If they really want us they won’t ring off.’

Temple waited for a little while before switching the light on and picking up the ’phone.

‘Hello.’

‘Is that Paul Temple?’ A woman’s voice, speaking softly, as if she was afraid of being overheard.

‘Yes, speaking.’

‘This is Mrs Kelburn…’ There was a crackling on the line and he could hardly catch the name.

‘Who?’

‘Mrs Kelburn…Laura Kelburn…’

‘Oh, good evening – er – good morning, Mrs Kelburn.’

‘Mr Temple, I’m sorry to disturb you at this time of night, but – I’ve got to see you.’ There was desperation in her voice as she added: ‘It really is important.’

‘Well – what is it you want to see me about?’

‘About – about Julia. My stepdaughter.’

‘What about Julia?’ Temple asked, not trying very hard to conceal his impatience.

‘When can I see you, Mr Temple?’ She was still speaking so softly that he could hardly hear her. ‘Will nine o’clock be all right? I’ve got your address so…’

‘Look, Mrs Kelburn, I’m quite prepared to see you, but first of all I must know what this is all about.’

‘I’ve told you. It’s about my stepdaughter – Julia.’

‘Yes, I know, but what about Julia?’

There was a long pause, but no indication that she had rung off. Temple wondered whether someone had taken the receiver from her. Then suddenly she said very quickly but quite distinctly: ‘She’s going to be murdered.’

There came a click and Temple was left listening to the dialling tone.

‘Hello, Steve!’ Temple had finished his toast and marmalade and was pouring himself a second cup of coffee before his wife appeared for breakfast the next morning. ‘You’re nice and late this morning!’

‘Yes, I know,’ Steve admitted wryly. ‘I didn’t get to sleep until five o’clock.’

‘It’s not surprising. We didn’t stop talking until half past four. I’ll pour you some coffee.’

‘No, I don’t want any coffee, dear. I’ll just have the orange juice. What time is it, anyway?’

‘Twenty past nine.’

‘My word, we are late…’

‘Yes – and so’s your friend, Laura Kelburn. She said she’d be here by…‘He was stopped by a long peal on the doorbell. ‘This will be her now.’

‘Do you want me to stay?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Temple had time to pour an orange juice and put it down at Steve’s side of the table before Charlie opened the door.

‘Superintendent Raine would like to—’ Charlie broke off scandalised as the Superintendent pushed in past him. He had not even taken time to remove his overcoat.

‘Excuse me! Mr Temple, may I have a word with you?’

‘Yes, of course. All right, Charlie.’ Temple dismissed Charlie with a reassuring nod. ‘What is it, Raine? What’s happened?’

‘We picked a girl out of the river – about two hours ago. She’d been strangled. It was George Kelburn’s daughter.’

‘Julia Kelburn?’

‘Yes. But that isn’t everything.’ Raine paused for a moment. ‘The dead girl was wearing a coat. There was a name label stitched inside the collar. We’ve seen that name before, sir.’

Temple nodded. He was already ahead of Raine.

‘Margo?’




CHAPTER II (#uc982a306-f805-51d3-814a-b020874f1507)

Dead Lucky (#uc982a306-f805-51d3-814a-b020874f1507)


‘Well, there’s one person who won’t be surprised by the murder, Superintendent. That’s Julia’s stepmother – Laura Kelburn.’

Raine had accepted coffee and Charlie had deigned to bring an extra cup. The three were sitting round the breakfast table.

‘Why do you say that, Mrs Temple?’

It was Temple who answered. ‘Mrs Kelburn telephoned – at three o’clock this morning, mark you – and made an appointment to see me at nine o’clock. When I asked her why she wanted to see me she said it was about Julia – and that her stepdaughter was going to be murdered.’

‘This is extraordinary!’ Raine shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Quite extraordinary!’

‘I agree. When I picked up the ’phone and…’

‘No, you don’t understand,’ Raine cut in. ‘I’ve seen Mrs Kelburn – about an hour ago. I went to the house in the Boltons. She didn’t say anything about telephoning you – on the contrary she seemed staggered by the news of the murder. If anything, I think she was even more shaken by the news than her husband.’

‘She never mentioned the ’phone call?’

‘Not a word.’

‘How did Mr Kelburn react?’ Steve asked.

‘He was pretty badly shaken, of course, but I had the impression he’d been worried about his daughter for some time. She mixed with a pretty notorious crowd, you know, Mrs Temple.’

‘Yes. She was friendly with a man called Tony Wyman.’

‘I’m checking on Mr Wyman. I’ve got an appointment to see…’ Raine broke off. A receiver had been plugged in to the telephone socket in the dining-room and its bell had started to ring.

‘Excuse me.’ Temple swivelled round in his chair and reached for the instrument.

‘Paul Temple?’

‘Yes, speaking.’

‘This is Mike Langdon, Temple…’

‘Yes. I recognised your voice. Good morning, Langdon.’

‘Temple, I’ve got some terrible news…’

‘We’ve heard about Julia Kelburn.’ Temple cut the agitated recital short. ‘The Superintendent’s with me now.’

‘Then I expect he’s told you all the details?’

‘Well, yes. It’s a pretty awful business.’ Then, more sympathetically: ‘It must have been a shock for you, Langdon.’

‘Yes, it was – a terrible shock. I never realised the poor kid was so mixed up…But look, Temple – I want to ask you a favour.’ Paul met Steve’s eyes. Langdon’s voice was audible throughout the room. ‘Kelburn’s determined that the person responsible for this shan’t escape. He’s anxious to make the fullest possible investigation – expense no object.’

‘Well?’ Temple prompted non-committally.

‘He’d like to see you, Temple. He’d like you to call round this morning, if possible. They live in the Boltons, the house is called “Northdown”.’

‘I see.’ Temple raised his eyebrows enquiringly at Steve, who nodded. ‘Does that go for Mrs Kelburn, too?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Does Mrs Kelburn want me to call round?’

‘Why, yes, of course.’ Langdon was puzzled by the question. ‘I imagine so. She hasn’t said otherwise.’

Temple calculated for a moment, then said: ‘Tell Mr Kelburn I’ll be there at twelve o’clock.’

‘Right! Thanks a lot. I appreciate it…’

Temple put the receiver down, cutting off Langdon’s protestations of gratitude.

‘Excuse my asking, Mr Temple,’ Raine said, ‘but who’s this fellow Langdon?’

‘He’s one of Kelburn’s right-hand men. I met him on the ’plane coming over from New York. Kelburn sent for him. He apparently thought Langdon might be able to reform his daughter. I understand he’d got her out of one or two little scrapes in New York.’

‘All the way from New York because Kelburn couldn’t cope with his own daughter?’ Raine grinned at Steve. ‘Sounds a bit far-fetched.’

‘I don’t know,’ Temple said. ‘We never knew Julia Kelburn. We don’t even know what her father was up against. However, Langdon’s main job was to try and buy off Tony Wyman.’

‘That’s interesting. What happened?’

‘Wyman told Langdon he couldn’t care less about Julia – in no uncertain terms.’

‘Mm.’ Raine had brought a notebook out of his pocket and opened it at a page where there was a marker. He tapped his teeth with a pencil. ‘This chap Langdon – is he about forty, dark wavy hair, medium height, uses a pretty exotic aftershave?’

Temple smiled. ‘Yes, that’s him!’

‘He was hovering about when I interviewed Kelburn and his wife, but they didn’t introduce me. They were pretty upset, of course.’

Leaning over so that she could take a peek at Raine’s notebook, Steve was surprised to see that the page was covered with as many doodles and drawings as words. The Superintendent drew a circle round one of his sketches.

‘Would you say there’s been anything between Langdon and Julia Kelburn?’

‘I don’t think so, but I wouldn’t know, of course. You’d better ask Langdon that question.’

‘I will,’ Raine promised, putting away his notebook and standing up. ‘Thank you for the coffee, Mrs Temple.’

‘Our pleasure, Superintendent.’

‘You’ve no objection, I take it,’ Temple asked casually, as he ushered Raine to the door, ‘if I go along and see Kelburn?’

‘Not the slightest, Mr Temple.’ Raine gave him a smile and a long, straight look. ‘Not the slightest. It’s a free country so they tell me…’

‘It isn’t that I mistrust the police, Mr Temple. I just think that a case of this kind demands a more imaginative approach than the average police officer is capable of.’

The emotional stress he was under had made George Kelburn’s Yorkshire accent more pronounced. He was a burly man with the paunch and podgy cheeks of someone who can afford more whisky than was good for him, and it was evident that he had been seeking solace from the decanter. He was wearing a black tie with the dark blue suit which a skilful tailor had constructed to mask his bulk.

‘Mr Kelburn, I’ve worked with the police now for many years and I can assure you that the men at Scotland Yard are shrewd, intelligent and highly efficient.’

Since greeting Temple, Kelburn had not invited him to sit down. The furniture of the room was luxurious but brash and showy. Standing on the brilliantly patterned carpet Temple could look down through the window at a tiny walled garden.

‘Efficient, yes, maybe. But slow – slow. That’s the trouble – damned slow. My daughter’s been murdered, Mr Temple my only child…’ The tears were springing again to Kelburn’s eyes. ‘I’ll give anything to find the swine responsible for that murder. Just name the fee…’

Kelburn was chairman of over fifteen companies and believed that he could buy anyone’s services with a snap of his fingers and a flourish of his cheque book.

‘You don’t solve a case of this kind simply by paying someone a fat fee, Mr Kelburn,’ Temple said quietly. ‘The whole problem is far too—’

He saw Kelburn’s moist eyes focus over his left shoulder and turned round. A woman who looked about fifteen years younger than Kelburn had come quietly into the room.

‘Oh, there you are, Laura! I was wondering where you’d got to. Mr Temple – may I introduce my wife?’

‘How do you do, Mrs Kelburn? I believe you know Steve…’ As they shook hands Temple felt the chunky rings on her fingers. She had put on a dark grey suit, but her nails were painted and her auburn hair was as crisp as if she had just come from the hairdressers.

‘I do indeed. Is she well?’

‘Thank you, yes. She was looking forward to seeing you this morning.’

‘This morning?’ Laura echoed, obviously puzzled.

‘Yes. We were expecting you to call at nine o’clock as arranged, but obviously this business…’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Temple, but I don’t understand.’

‘Were you under the impression that my wife was coming to see you?’ Kelburn demanded.

‘I was indeed.’

‘What made you think she wanted to see you?’ Langdon’s nasal drawl gave the question an unflattering implication.

‘The fact that she telephoned me in the early hours of this morning and said that she wanted to.’

Laura Kelburn stepped back, staring at Temple in amazement. ‘I – I telephoned you?’

‘Yes. About three o’clock a.m.’

‘But that’s nonsense!’ she exclaimed, throwing an appealing glance at her husband.

Kelburn crossed to his wife and put a hand under her elbow. ‘I can assure you my wife didn’t ’phone you, Mr Temple. We occupy the same bedroom. If she’d made a telephone call at that hour of the morning I’d certainly have known about it.’

She said: ‘What exactly am I supposed to have ’phoned you about?’

‘You told me that you suspected…’ Temple hesitated.

‘Suspected what?’ she prompted him rapidly.

‘That your stepdaughter was going to be murdered.’

Laura’s eyes widened and her hand covered her mouth.

‘Good God!’ Kelburn stared accusingly at Temple, as if he was responsible for everything that had happened. ‘But this is ridiculous!’

‘Are you serious, Temple?’ Langdon asked angrily.

‘Wait a minute!’ Laura had recovered her poise quickly.

‘This is the second time I’m supposed to have made a mysterious telephone call.’ She turned to Temple. ‘I met your wife a couple of weeks ago and she had some strange story about having spoken to me on the ’phone – and my saying I wanted to see you.’

‘And you didn’t want to see me?’

‘Of course not!’ Laura dismissed the idea emphatically. ‘I didn’t even ’phone…’

‘Someone did,’ Temple said quietly, then abruptly changed the subject. ‘Mrs Kelburn, your husband has asked me to investigate this affair and I think perhaps you might be able to help me.’

‘How, exactly?’ she asked, a shade brittle.

‘Well, you can start by telling me where Julia bought her clothes from.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know where she bought her clothes from. She wasn’t very fussy about her dress, you know.’ From Laura’s tone it was clear that Julia Kelburn had been more than a handful.

‘Could you find out?’

Laura shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘I’m interested in the coat she was wearing at the time of the murder,’ Temple persisted. ‘There was a label inside with the name “Margo” on it.’

‘Margo?’

‘Yes. Does that name mean anything to you?’

‘No, I’m afraid it doesn’t. But I’ll make enquiries if you like?’

‘I’d be grateful if you would, Mrs Kelburn.’

Kelburn had been listening to the exchange with increasing impatience. ‘Mr Temple, surely there’s something we can do – something just a little more progressive than enquiring about a coat?’

‘Take it easy, George,’ Langdon drawled. ‘Mr Temple knows what he’s doing.’

Temple looked pointedly at his watch, glad of his cue to escape from an atmosphere that had become faintly hostile.

‘You have my ’phone number, Mrs Kelburn, if you want to get in touch with me?’

‘Yes, of course…’ she said absent-mindedly, then quickly corrected herself. ‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t.’

‘It’s in the book,’ Temple said with a smile. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr Kelburn, I have a lunch appointment.’

In fact, Temple’s lunch appointment was with Steve at a small restaurant just off the Bayswater Road where they were well known. It was while they were having coffee that she came out with what had been on her mind all through the meal.

‘Paul, do you think the people who kidnapped me were responsible for the murder?’

‘Yes, I do. And I think I know why they kidnapped you, Steve.’ Temple leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘While I was in America a report appeared in one of the Continental newspapers…Well, I’ve got it in my pocket.’ He took out his wallet, extracted a folded newspaper cutting and handed it across the table. ‘Read it for yourself.’

She unfolded the paper and smoothed it flat on the tablecloth. The report was quite brief. After a few lines about the multiple activities of the master criminal known as The Fence, it stated that the celebrated criminologist, Paul Temple, had cut short his American tour at the request of Scotland Yard and was returning post-haste to London.

‘The Fence is that man Raine mentioned?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it true that Scotland Yard have asked you to help them?’

‘No, darling – it’s just a newspaper story. Sir Graham and I have never even discussed The Fence.’

‘But you think that someone read this and…’

‘I think The Fence himself read it and believed it. Remember what that man said to you, Steve. “We did it as a warning and to prove that it was possible, Mrs Temple.”’

Steve nodded, thoughtful and serious.

‘From now on you’ve got to watch your step, dear. Get Charlie to answer the door. Don’t go anywhere on your own if you can help it. Always leave a message as to your whereabouts. Don’t act on any telephone calls without checking. Well – you know the routine.’

‘Yes,’ she said with resignation, ‘I know the routine.’

Temple had been given a lift back from the Boltons by Mike Langdon, but Steve had driven to the restaurant in her MG Metro, and had been lucky enough to find a parking meter close by. Traffic on the Bayswater Road was thick and a hundred yards from Marble Arch it had slowed to a sluggish crawl.

‘Relax, darling,’ Steve said, with a smile. ‘I don’t mind this, I’m used to it.’

‘Delighted to hear it. And you can relax too, your hair’s fine.’

‘My hair?’

‘Isn’t that why you keep looking in the mirror?’

‘As a matter of fact I was watching the car behind. The Escort driven by a man in dark glasses. It was parked outside the flat when I left and it was behind me when I drove to the restaurant.’

Temple did not turn round. As the traffic began to move he said quickly: ‘Take this turning on the left. Yes, this one!’

Steve obeyed instinctively and the car lurched as she made the turn. Temple lowered the anti-dazzle flap and used the vanity mirror to check on the cars behind.

‘Yes, he’s following us all right. Steve, pull in to the kerb behind that taxi that’s stopping.’

‘What’s the idea?’

‘I’m getting out. I want you to drive straight home. I’ll see you there.’

Steve knew better than to question Temple when he was in this mood. He had the door open before she stopped. The driver of the Escort had two options. Either he could pass the Metro and risk losing it or pull in and take the chance of being spotted. Inexperienced at car tailing, he was braking hesitantly when Temple ran out from the kerb, opened the door on the passenger side and slid into the seat.

‘Here, what’s the big idea,’ the man in dark glasses protested, ‘getting into my car like this?’

‘Keep going!’ Temple told him crisply. ‘I’ll explain later.’

‘Who the hell are you?’

Steve had already accelerated away and drivers behind had started a cadenza on their horns.

‘Drive on. People are getting impatient.’

‘I don’t give a damn what people…’

‘Drive on! And there’s no need to follow that Metro, I can tell you all you want to know about it.’

As the engine almost stalled the other man rammed the lever with a crunch into a lower gear. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘I think you know what I’m talking about. You’ve been following that car all the way from Eaton Square. Now I suggest you drive into the Park – we can have a little talk there.’

‘I—’ He started to protest again, then suddenly caved in. ‘Yes, all right.’

‘I should switch the engine off, Mr Wyman.’

Docile now, Tony Wyman reached forward and turned the key. Following Temple’s instructions he had driven into Hyde Park and stopped on a yellow line on the stretch parallel to Bayswater Road.

‘You recognised me, then?’

‘Yes, I recognised you.’ Temple smiled. It would have taken more than a pair of dark glasses to disguise the pop singer, with his outrageous hairstyle. ‘Now, what can I do for you? Why are you following us around?’

‘I’ve read a lot about you in the papers, Mr Temple, and I thought – well, I’m in dead trouble, see? And I thought maybe you could sort of give me a line. I hung around your flat hoping to catch you, but I couldn’t pluck up enough courage to…’

‘All right, so you have a problem?’ Temple was watching a yellow delivery van with a rent-a-van sign painted on the side, which had cruised past slowly and stopped a couple of hundred yards further down.

‘It’s the police, Mr Temple. They’ve put the wind up me. That Superintendent Raine gave me a proper going over. Practically accused me of doin’ the murder.’

‘You mean Julia Kelburn?’

‘Yes, and I never even knew she’d been killed, straight I didn’t. That chap Raine was at me for the best part of an hour, but all I could tell him was that I finished at the club just after one and went straight home.’

‘Just how friendly were you with Julia Kelburn?’

‘Depends what you mean by friendly.’

‘How did you meet her?’

‘Some of the gang – the reg’lars – brought her to the club one night. She was dressed all sloppy like with her hair all combed up and dyed. I thought at first she was one of them punks. But we got talkin’ a bit and she seemed to go for me. Next time she come in, I hardly knew her. She looked like a film star.’

‘Did you know her father was well off?’

Down the road the yellow van was taking advantage of a lull in the traffic to make a three-point turn.

‘Well, not at first – she never let on. But later she started throwing the lolly around and I guessed somebody had the dough. She wasn’t a bad kid. I was fond of her in a funny sort of way, but – well, she started getting in my hair. Hanging around the club, meeting me in restaurants, waiting for me at the TV studios – you know how it is.’

‘No, I don’t know how it is. You tell me.’

‘Well, you know – she was a bit of a mixed-up kid. Bit dotty, perhaps, I don’t know. Spent quids with one of those psychiwhatsits.’

Gathering speed, the yellow van was now heading back towards the parked Escort.

‘Oh – who told you that?’

‘She did. She used to visit a shrink in Wimpole Street. Benkaray, I think the name was. Yes, that’s right – Dr Benkaray.’

‘Did you tell the Superintendent about this?’

‘No, I didn’t tell him any more than was necessary.’

Keeping an eye on the yellow van, Temple had a hand on the door lever.

‘I know the police only too well. When I was a kid in Bermondsey I –’ Wyman broke off and his voice rose to a falsetto shriek. ‘Hi, look at this van!’ The truck had suddenly veered left, just as if a steering linkage had broken, but instead of braking the driver was accelerating. ‘He’s coming straight for us!’

Temple flung his door open and yelled: ‘Get out, quick!’

He dived out through the door, hitting the grass with his shoulder and rolling over. As he went he heard Wyman cursing his sticking door. There came the sickening thud of metal on metal, the tinkling of glass, a hiss of steam, followed by a high-pitched scream of agony.

A passing taxi driver had seen the accident and had the good sense to drive straight to the nearest call-box and dial 999. A police car, ambulance and fire brigade van were there within minutes. While the ambulance men slid the truck driver into their vehicle and the firemen cut Wyman free of the tangled wreckage of the car, Temple gave the police a preliminary report of the incident.

‘We’ll want you to give us a written statement, sir,’ the patrolman said.

‘Yes, I know. But in the meantime I suggest you call Superintendent Raine at Scotland Yard. Tell him someone just damn nearly killed Tony Wyman and Paul Temple.’

Raine was at Paddington Hospital within ten minutes of Temple arriving there in the police car. Despite the fuss he had made, Tony Wyman was not seriously injured. He had escaped with a couple of broken fingers, some nasty cuts and a mass of bruises. According to the doctor who had attended him he would not be detained in hospital.

‘That must have been quite a spectacular little crash,’ Raine said.

‘It was – and a deliberate one too.’

‘A good thing you managed to get clear.’

‘I was dead lucky. What have they done with that truck driver?’

‘He’s at Paddington Green police station. Got away with a few bruises and a cut cheek. He was carrying his licence so we know who he is. A Scot, name of Ted Angus.’

‘Ted Angus?’

‘Do you know him?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I’ve been on to Glasgow. They know him but have never been able to pin anything on him. He’s done all sorts of jobs. Barker in a fairground, Wall of Death rider. May have been mixed up in a couple of smash-and-grab jobs but always got clear. You know, I hardly think it was you he was after. It was Wyman’s car.’

‘Maybe you’re right. Are you going to charge him?’

‘We can only hold him for an hour or two but I intend to try and make him talk. You can come along if you feel up to it.’

‘Oh, I’m up to it. Just give me a moment to ’phone my wife.’

But even Raine’s and Temple’s questioning failed to extract any admission from the tough little Scot. His story was that the steering had broken and he was sticking to that, knowing full well the whole front of the truck was smashed.

‘What do you make of him?’ Temple asked, as the cell door was closed on Angus. He was still protesting vociferously at being ‘treated like a criminal’.

‘About as straight as the Tower of Pisa, but we’re still going to have to let him go.’

The Temples were just finishing tea when Charlie came in to announce that a Mrs Kelburn had called.

‘Show her in, Charlie. And take this tray away.’

‘Are you expecting Laura?’ Steve asked.

‘No, but I did ask her to find out where Julia bought her clothes.’

Laura Kelburn was still wearing the same dark suit, but she had added a pair of ear-rings and a gold neck-chain.

‘No, I won’t, thank you, Mr Temple,’ she said, in reply to the offer of a drink. ‘I’m in rather a hurry. I’m dining with some people in Hampstead. Mr Temple, I’ve made one or two enquiries about Julia’s clothes, and I’ve been through her wardrobe. There’s nothing with the name Margo on it, but I’ve discovered that most of her clothes – most of the respectable clothes, at any rate – were bought from a shop in Ogden Street called Daphne Drake Limited. You must have heard of it, Steve.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of it. It’s a very good shop.’

‘Did Julia have many clothes?’ Temple asked.

‘Yes, she did, but she was a frightfully erratic sort of person. She’d probably wear nothing but jeans and a sweater for a month or so, and then suddenly buy herself half a dozen dresses and suits. There was no telling what she’d do. Unfortunately, it wasn’t only her clothes that she was erratic about.’

‘What do you mean?’

Laura Kelburn’s mouth twisted with distaste. ‘Well – she wasn’t exactly careful about her choice of friends, was she? Of course, the trouble was George wouldn’t take her in hand. He wouldn’t hear a word against her. Understandable, I suppose, but rather irritating at times.’

‘Did you try to take her in hand, Mrs Kelburn?’

‘No,’ she said, affronted by the question. ‘It wasn’t my job.’

‘But you were quite good friends?’

Laura pondered that for a moment. ‘Yes – we were, considering. But, the trouble really started when George got a bee in his bonnet about this Tony Wyman person and tried to lay the law down. It was too late – you just couldn’t do that sort of thing with Julia. Tell her she couldn’t have something, and she’d immediately want it.’

‘How is your husband, Laura?’ Steve enquired.

‘He’s still very upset, of course – it’s been a terrible shock for him, but the doctor’s given him some dope. He was lying down when I left. I suppose there’s no news, Mr Temple? The police have no idea who did it?’

‘No. At least, I certainly haven’t heard anything, Mrs Kelburn.’

Laura picked her crocodile handbag off the floor and stood up. ‘Well, I must be going.’

‘I’m very grateful to you for calling. You’ll let me know if you come across anything you think might be of any importance?’

‘Yes, of course. I certainly will, Mr Temple.’

‘I hope she enjoys her dinner,’ Temple remarked, when Steve came back from showing the visitor out.

‘You don’t like her, do you, Paul?’

‘No – but I’m glad she called. I wonder if this Daphne Drake place is worth investigating.’

‘Well, I can tell you one thing, the coat that was left in my car at the airport wasn’t bought from Daphne Drake’s.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The weight of the material. And it wasn’t their style. They have much more expensive stuff than that. They have some really lovely things.’ Steve put her head on one side and gave Paul a look. ‘You know, I think I ought to go along there tomorrow morning, and make a few enquiries.’

‘I know the sort of enquiries you’d make!’ Temple laughed. ‘Still, it’s not a bad idea.’

‘Thank you, darling.’

‘But, Steve—’

‘Yes, dear?’

‘One dress – one only, remember…’

Dr M. C. Benkaray was in the telephone book with an address in Wimpole Street.

‘I hope he doesn’t shut up shop at five o’clock.’

Steve broke off playing the piano while Temple dialled the number. ‘Why are you so anxious to talk to this Dr Benkaray, Paul?’

‘Tony Wyman told me that Julia Kelburn recently consulted a psychiatrist. I thought it might be a good idea to find out what her trouble was—’ Temple broke off and took his hand away from the mouthpiece as the ringing tone stopped.

‘Dr Benkaray’s practice.’

Temple hesitated, puzzled by the man’s accent. ‘May I speak to the doctor, please?’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Temple. Paul Temple.’

‘Just hold on a minute, please.’

Watching him, Steve saw two lines appear between his brow, always a sign that he was adding two and two and making five. ‘What is it, Paul?’

‘I could swear that the man on the other end – Hello! Is that Dr Benkaray?’

‘No, this is Dr Benkaray’s secretary.’ The voice was masculine but more like that of a car salesman than a doctor’s secretary. ‘The doctor is out of town.’

‘My name is Temple. I’d like to make an appointment—’

‘Then I suggest you ’phone again towards the end of the month.’

‘But surely—’

‘Any time after the twenty-fifth. I shall be pleased to make an appointment for you then.’

‘But I’m afraid that’s too—’

‘Goodbye, Mr Temple.’

Slowly Temple put the receiver down.

‘Well, I’m damned! He cut me short and rang off. By Timothy, if that’s the secretary I wonder what the doctor’s like.’

‘Did you think you recognised the person who answered first?’

Temple nodded. ‘He sounded exactly like that truck driver who nearly wrote me off. Ted Angus.’

Steve was only forty minutes late for her rendezvous with Temple. They had arranged to meet in the cocktail bar of a small club near Ebury Street.

‘Hello, Steve! I thought you were never coming! Did you buy up the whole shop?’

‘No, darling, I didn’t.’

She sat down on the button-leather bench beside him. One of the club waiters, in a short green jacket, came over to the table.

‘Can I get you anything, madam?’

‘I’d like a dry sherry.’

Temple pointed to his own glass. ‘I’ll have the same again.’

‘Yes, sir. A Tio Pepe and a dry martini.’

‘Well, Steve?’ Temple knew from the way she kept glancing at him with a faint smile on her lips that she’d had a successful morning. He hoped the bill would not be too high.

‘I’ve got some news for you, Mr Temple!’





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