Книга - News of Paul Temple

News of Paul Temple
Francis Durbridge


As detective Paul Temple turns his hand to playwright, his leading lady Iris Archer pulls out shortly before the play is due to open and declares that she is heading for France.However, shortly after her disappearance Paul Temple receives a guest at his Scottish holiday home – none other than that of Iris Archer.The mystery deepens as Temple is asked by a young man to act as postmaster in delivering a letter. Meanwhile someone acting under the codename of Z4 seems to have control of events. Could this be Doctor Steiner, and just who is he? It is all up to Temple . . .








FRANCIS DURBRIDGE




News of Paul Temple













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 1940

Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1940

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: 9780008125608

Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008125615

Version: 2015-06-01


Contents

Cover (#uef0165b5-9d93-5af9-8722-c5e0f58728c6)

Title Page (#u9a5d7adf-b62b-593f-8585-8857cf40f3f1)

Copyright (#u2848f8c9-eb6c-50e1-a7b3-07291fe8ddeb)

CHAPTER I: The Stage is Set (#ucb1e27d5-0cdd-5fef-abd0-6866a92a9ede)

CHAPTER II: Concerning Z.4 (#u05f7038e-d4a0-57b2-9f31-2c1af1a59b2e)

CHAPTER III: Instructions for a Murder (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER IV: Appointment with Danger (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER V: In Which Mrs Moffat Receives a Visitor (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER VI: Introducing Z.4 (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)



Also in this series (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER I (#u993478ce-8e04-5814-8585-daf40cee6690)

The Stage is Set (#u993478ce-8e04-5814-8585-daf40cee6690)


1

‘Bryant! Where the devil is Bryant?’ Ralph Cosgrove, news editor of the Evening Post, replaced the telephone and repeated his question into the mouthpiece of the dictograph. A few seconds later the door opened and a resonant tenor announced: ‘Do I hear you calling me?’

‘Cut out the fooling and shut the door,’ snapped Cosgrove. ‘You should have been here hours ago. What the devil have you been doing?’

Rex Bryant came into the office and perched himself on the arm of the chair reserved for visitors. He was young, attractive, well dressed, and, oddly enough, did not wear a trilby on the back of his head. ‘I’ve been to a movie,’ announced Rex. ‘It was terrific. All about a newspaper. The editor got the scoop. The reporter got the girl. And the girl got the baby.’

There was an unpleasant glint in Cosgrove’s eye. ‘Unless you take the lead out of your pants you’ll get the sack!’ he barked. ‘Get down to Southampton and cover the Clipper story!’

Rex frowned. ‘Look here, Chief, I’m just about tired of meeting film stars.’

‘I’m not asking you to meet film stars. Maybe you’ve never heard of the Golden Clipper?’

‘Of course I have! New York to Southampton in twenty-four hours. Nice easy passage. Where’s the story?’

Ralph Cosgrove smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. ‘I don’t suppose you know by any chance who happens to be travelling on the Clipper?’

‘The Quintuplets?’ suggested Rex.

Cosgrove thoughtfully fingered a newspaper cutting he had picked up from among the pile of papers on his desk.

‘No, not the Quintuplets,’ he said softly. ‘Just Paul Temple. Mr and Mrs Temple, to be more precise.’

‘Are you sure of this?’ There was no mistaking the note of urgency in Rex Bryant’s voice.

‘Of course I’m sure. It was in last night’s Standard.’

‘Well, I’m damned!’

‘You’ll also be fired if you don’t get down to Southampton. We’ve been waiting for this story to break for weeks.’

‘But everybody knows why Temple is on his way home,’ protested Rex. ‘They’ve been rehearsing that new play of his. It’s due to open in a fortnight.’

‘That’s old stuff. Iris Archer in The First Lady Seaton.’

‘Yes. Only for some reason or other Iris Archer isn’t going to play the part.’

This was obviously news to Cosgrove and he raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘What’s the matter with Archer? Why isn’t she playing the part?’

‘I don’t know. Gibson had a chat with her last night. She talks a lot of nonsense about the part being unsuitable.’

Cosgrove nodded. ‘Well, get down to Southampton and see what Temple has to say about it.’

Rex wearily levered himself from the arm of the chair.

‘I’d sooner cover that new movie at the Empire,’ he grinned. ‘It’s all about an editor who took the wrong turning.’

‘Southampton!’

‘OK, Snow White! OK!’

Rex made a hasty yet dignified retreat.

Four hours later, his vermilion two-seater sports car was nosing its way through Southampton’s dock traffic, and he was wondering if there would be any other newspapermen present. There was nothing Rex hated more than mass interviews. However, knowing Temple and his wife in the days when they were both journalists was certainly a point in his favour. When the Golden Clipper bumped gently to a standstill, Rex had no difficulty in segregating Paul Temple and Steve from the crowds that thronged to see Hollywood’s latest film face, which, as usual, proved more than a little disappointing in its everyday proportions.

Over a drink in the buffet, Rex surveyed his old acquaintances with a quizzical stare. Temple, he decided, had hardly altered as far as features were concerned since the days when he was a penurious journalist. True, he must be quite a stone lighter, but that suited him.

Steve, who was always ready to talk ‘shop’ with Bryant or any of the other reporters, said quietly: ‘How’s the circulation, Rex?’

‘Not so good lately. Wrong time of year.’

‘It’s always the wrong time of year,’ put in Temple, with a twinkle in his eye.

‘They’re sending us out after all sorts of stories that the subs slaughter down to four lines on page eight,’ declared Rex moodily, ordering himself another whisky.

‘What exactly are you doing down at Southampton?’ demanded Steve curiously.

Rex splashed soda into his glass. ‘To be quite candid, I came down here to see your delightful husband,’ he grinned.

‘Things must certainly be in a bad way if I’m considered to be in the news,’ laughed Temple. ‘What’s it all about?’

Rex took a cigarette from his case and scratched a match. ‘The play, for one thing. You might as well give me all the dope about it. Be a sport, Temple – it isn’t as if the publicity will do the show any harm – or will it?’

‘By Timothy, you boys must be hard up for news,’ murmured Temple sympathetically.

‘There isn’t any story, Rex,’ added Steve wistfully. ‘If there was a story, you could have it like a shot, couldn’t he, darling?’

Temple nodded. ‘Like a shot,’ he corroborated.

‘But is Iris Archer leaving the cast, or isn’t she?’

Temple dived in his pocket and produced a crumpled Western Union Cable. ‘I got this just before we left New York; that’s all I know.’ He tossed the cable over to the reporter, who straightened it out and read:

‘Terribly sorry unable to play Lady Seaton stop will explain later stop lots of love Iris.’

‘And a very large full stop,’ added Temple ruefully.

Rex folded the paper and handed it back to the novelist. ‘I thought you wrote the play specially for Iris Archer.’

‘So I did.’

Rex wrinkled his forehead. ‘Then it seems funny that—’

‘Don’t worry him, Rex,’ advised Steve, who knew just how sore the point was with her husband.

‘But look here, I’ve got to have some sort of a story to take back to town!’

Temple and Steve regarded him innocently.

‘Hadn’t you better go and catch Sylvia Larone before she gets the train?’ suggested Steve. ‘You could ask her what she really thought of Hollywood.’

Rex ignored the suggestion. ‘Tell me your plans for the future,’ he said.

‘We’re going to Scotland for three weeks.’

‘The South of France, dear,’ Steve prompted gently.

‘Scotland,’ repeated Temple firmly.

‘The South of France.’

‘All right,’ chipped in Rex, eyeing them impatiently. ‘I’ll say Scotland and the South of France. Then what?’

Temple said quietly: ‘Well, I’ve promised my publishers a new novel for Christmas—’

Rex shifted impatiently on his high stool.

‘I’m not running the literary page,’ he said heavily. ‘I’ve got to go back to town with a story. Not a “puff” for a new novel.’

‘But we haven’t got a story, Rex. Nothing’s happened – nothing at all.’

Rex shook his head sadly. ‘All right,’ he murmured resignedly. ‘Tell me something about the trip – your personal reactions and all that sort of hot air. I’ll have to turn in a couple of “sticks” or they’ll murder me.’

Temple laughed. Then he caught sight of a distinguished-looking man who had just entered the buffet.

‘Here’s Doctor Steiner. He’ll tell you all about the trip – won’t you, Doctor?’

Temple introduced the newcomer.

‘It will be possible to get a train soon, Mr Temple?’ queried the doctor.

‘Why yes – it’s due almost any minute. Then I’m afraid we shall have to leave you. We go by road,’ said Temple.

‘Ach, it is sad to part so soon. It has been such a pleasant journey and a wonderful experience. Just look at my buttonhole – the carnation is quite fresh, and I bought it in New York.’

Rex Bryant was impressed with this small point. The doctor was obviously a man who noticed things.

‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me a sort of interview, sir,’ he barged in hastily. ‘Is this your first trip across the Atlantic?’

‘I should have warned you, Doctor, that Mr Bryant is a representative of the London Evening Post. One of our most respected publications,’ Temple added with a twinkle.

‘So,’ grunted Steiner. ‘A reporter? This England becomes more like New York every day. No, young man, this is not my first trip – I have been many times before.’

‘Have you any intention of visiting the other European countries, Doctor?’ asked Rex.

‘I do not know, my friend. That I shall decide later.’

‘H’m,’ murmured Rex thoughtfully, taking a grubby envelope and pencil from his inside pocket. ‘I didn’t quite get your name, sir?’

‘The name is Steiner,’ said the German in dignified tones. ‘Doctor Ludwig Steiner. Professor of Philosophy at the University of Philadelphia.’

‘What’s your interest in coming to Europe, Doctor?’ Rex paused significantly. ‘Have you an interest in politics or…?’

The doctor shook his head. ‘I am over here on holiday, my friend,’ he said. Then added as an afterthought: ‘Just a holiday.’

2

There was something both distinctive and rather strange about Iris Archer’s well-moulded features, smooth fair hair, limpid blue eyes and vibrating voice. ‘She’s always Iris Archer,’ her critics commented, and to some extent this criticism was justified, but they rather forgot that Iris owed her success to the fact that she was able to shape an indifferent part to her own individual personality. There was something mysterious, glamorous, and rather different about Iris Archer. Seeing her on the stage one could not help feeling that she led an exciting life, that some tall, distinguished young man (hair slightly grey at the temples) was perpetually in her dressing room waiting to take her to the Savoy grill.

Iris had suddenly appeared in the West End. Some said she had played small parts on Broadway, others declared that she had toured in an obscure concert party and had inherited a sum of money with which she had set herself up in London. Certainly her very early days were never mentioned in any interview, no matter how persistent the gossip writer became.

Though she always contrived to give her acquaintances the impression that she could afford very little time to trouble about clothes, Iris was always dressed in a simple but striking fashion that lingered just a shade too long in the masculine memory.

Paul Temple had been rather surprised to meet her at a cocktail party given by a comparatively unknown publisher. Temple was even more surprised to discover that she could discuss all the latest best-sellers with an intelligence that betokened not only wide reading but a very close observation of the many spheres of life.

And what had impressed him most of all was the fact that she had not begged him to write a play for her. Nevertheless, Temple had returned home determined to do so. The First Lady Seaton was the result. It had been shelved for over a year in view of other commitments, for Temple was determined that none but Iris Archer should play the leading part.

‘Lady Seaton’ was a queer and unusual character. Temple felt certain that, played by anyone but Iris, it would prove unsympathetic. Iris had just those qualities to bring ‘Lady Seaton’ to life; to make her a distinctive creation unlike any other heroine he could ever remember seeing on the English stage.

He had been more than a little taken aback by her cable and was still deeply puzzled by it. Nevertheless, they had been in their Mayfair flat for several days before Iris made her customary extravagant entrance.

‘Darling, how nice to see you again!’ As always, there was just the right inflection in Iris’ voice.

Paul Temple and Steve rose to welcome her.

‘Steve, my dear, you look marvellous!’ cried Iris, holding out both hands. ‘Doesn’t she look marvellous, Paul? Now do tell me about the trip, I’m simply dying to hear all about it. Did you feel frightened?’

‘A little,’ confessed Steve, who was not very much at home in the air.

‘My dear, I should have been petrified,’ said Iris. ‘The very thought of all that water makes me positively violent.’

She seated herself with a tiny sigh of content.

‘You look very fit, Iris,’ said Temple quietly, surveying her intently.

‘I’m not, darling. Feel awful at times.’

‘Won’t you take your things off, Iris?’ suggested Steve.

Iris smiled and nervously fingered the clasp of her fox cape.

‘No, I can’t stay very long, darling.’

‘What about a cocktail?’ suggested Temple.

‘Yes,’ decided Iris after a short pause. ‘Yes, I would rather like a drink, my sweet.’

Temple went across to the cocktail cabinet and consulted a slip on which a recipe was typed. He remembered that Iris had a favourite cocktail.

‘Paul, you got my cable?’ Iris asked presently.

‘Yes,’ replied Temple, ‘it was handed to me just as we were getting on the ’plane.’

‘Were you surprised?’

Temple carefully speared a cherry before answering.

‘Well, just a little.’ There was an awkward pause. ‘Iris, are you serious about this?’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so serious in my life before,’ said Iris grimly.

‘But why?’ cried Steve in obvious surprise. ‘What’s the matter? Has Seaman been nasty about something?’ It was quite obvious that Steve was as anxious about the play as Temple himself.

‘No, no, it’s not that. He’s a swell producer,’ replied Iris hastily.

‘Is it money?’ asked Temple rather tentatively. ‘I thought we’d offered you a splendid contract. After all, we gave way to you over that picture business.’

Iris was somewhat at a loss for words.

‘I’ve been badly miscast, Paul,’ she said at last, but her tone was strangely unconvincing.

Temple could not help laughing.

‘But that’s ridiculous! You said yourself the part fitted you like a glove.’

Iris nodded. ‘That was six weeks ago,’ she added quietly. There was a disturbing note in her voice.

‘Aren’t you very well, Iris?’ queried Temple rather anxiously.

‘Not terribly,’ she confessed.

‘What are you going to do? Make a film?’

‘No,’ replied Iris uncertainly. ‘I’m—well, I’m going to the South of France for two months. When I get back I may start work again—I don’t know—yet…’

‘Are you going alone?’

‘Yes, quite alone. To a small place near St Maxime.’

Temple shrugged his shoulders and handed Iris her cocktail.

‘Well, I’m sorry about all this,’ he said, and forced a smile. ‘I suppose it can’t be helped.’

‘You’re very sweet about it,’ smiled Iris, her limpid blue eyes suddenly warm and friendly.

‘I suppose there isn’t a chance that you might change your mind about the play?’

Iris shook her head regretfully. ‘No. No, I’m afraid there isn’t, darling.’

‘Iris, do you mind if I tell you something quite frankly?’ said Temple suddenly. ‘Six months ago you wrote me a letter about the play. You said you thought it was well written, extremely amusing, and that the part of “Lady Seaton” was quite the best part offered you for many years.’

‘Oh yes, I did,’ agreed Iris flippantly. ‘I remember the letter perfectly. And I meant it, Paul. Every word of it.’ She leaned forward. ‘Really, I was quite sincere.’

‘Yes,’ smiled Temple. ‘Yes, I know you were.’

Temple felt it was high time the cards went on the table. ‘Iris, why are you leaving the cast?’ he demanded flatly. ‘It’s not because you don’t like the play any longer. I know you well enough to realise you wouldn’t change your mind. It’s not because the part doesn’t suit you. You’ve got another and more important reason, haven’t you?’

It was some little time before Iris spoke, but when she did there was a strange and somewhat urgent note in her voice.

‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘But it’s no use asking me what that reason is, because I can’t tell you.’

Temple rose and poured himself a drink.

‘If we postponed the production, say for two or three months,’ he suggested, ‘would that be all right?’

Iris looked a little bewildered. ‘You mean, would I be prepared to play “Lady Seaton” if you held things over, till…say, just before Christmas?’

Temple nodded.

‘But darling, you can’t do that!’

‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he persisted.

Iris took a cigarette from her case. ‘I should love to do it, Paul,’ she said softly. ‘It’s a fine play, and a wonderful part for me, but—’

‘But what?’

‘But I must be free between now and the tenth of November.’

Temple perched himself on the arm of a chair and looked into her eyes. ‘All right, then that’s settled,’ he said. ‘I’ll write to Seaman tonight.’

‘Paul, you’re a darling!’ cried Iris in amazement. ‘The thought of not playing “Lady Seaton” nearly broke my heart.’ She was obviously both genuinely relieved and delighted.

‘Go ahead and kiss him, Iris!’ smiled Steve. ‘It’s overrated, anyway.’

‘You don’t know what a weight you’ve taken off my mind, Paul,’ said Iris, finishing her cocktail. ‘Now, I really must fly!’

‘When are you leaving?’ asked Steve.

‘On Saturday – by ’plane at midday.’

‘And I can tell Seaman you’ll be back in town for the end of November!’ pursued Temple.

‘Not a day later than the seventeenth, I promise you,’ replied Iris, drawing on her gloves.

‘Good. Then take care of yourself, Iris,’ laughed Temple. ‘I don’t want any accidents happening to my leading lady.’

Iris was turning to go when Temple’s manservant opened the door and announced Sir Graham Forbes.

Both Temple and his wife appeared surprised, for they had not seen Sir Graham for some months. Steve was more than a little alarmed, for Sir Graham’s visits were usually associated with something a little more exciting than afternoon tea.

‘It’s all right, Steve,’ smiled her husband, ‘there’s nothing to get excited about.’

‘Sir Graham Forbes?’ queried Iris, setting her hat at a jaunty angle. ‘Isn’t he connected with Scotland Yard or something?’

‘It is Scotland Yard,’ Temple informed her, as she followed Pryce. She bade them an extravagant farewell, and Temple once more repeated his assurance that he would write to Seaman that night.

As Pryce carefully closed the door, Steve turned to her husband with a worried frown. ‘Paul, if Sir Graham is here because he needs your help, then please—’ There was a catch in her voice.

Temple squeezed her arm affectionately.

‘Sir Graham is here because he needs a cocktail. A very strong cocktail. And nothing else, Mrs Temple,’ came the urbane voice of Scotland Yard’s Chief Commissioner.

‘Why, Sir Graham!’ ejaculated Steve.

‘Come along in, Sir Graham!’ laughed Temple. ‘It’s grand seeing you again. Though I thought Pryce—’

‘Yes, Pryce wanted to announce me all right,’ smiled Sir Graham. ‘But he seemed to have his hands full with the blonde.’

‘That was Iris Archer. You’ve probably heard of her,’ Temple informed him.

‘Iris Archer?’ Sir Graham was obviously impressed.

Temple crossed over to the cocktail cabinet.

‘What would you like, Sir Graham? Sherry? Bronx?’

‘I’d rather like a Bronx,’ said Sir Graham, watching Temple rather curiously as he selected the ingredients. ‘What was the trip like, Temple? Got a bit of a shock when I heard you were coming over on the Clipper.’

‘Oh, lovely!’ enthused Steve. ‘We enjoyed every minute of it, didn’t we, darling?’

‘Every minute,’ agreed Temple, handing their visitor his drink and then pouring out a glass of sherry for Steve.

Sir Graham smacked his lips.

‘Isn’t Iris Archer going into a play of yours? I seem to remember reading something about it?’ he asked.

‘Well, she was going into a play of mine,’ replied Temple. ‘Now things seem a little uncertain.’

‘H’m. Pity.’ grunted Forbes, who understood little or nothing of the complications that arise in the theatre world.

‘What’s Scotland Yard doing at the moment?’ asked Temple.

‘Just at the moment,’ began Forbes with elaborate emphasis, ‘we are up against one of the greatest criminal organisations—’

Steve had almost risen from her chair, and Sir Graham broke into a heavy laugh.

‘He’s only pulling your leg, darling,’ Temple reassured her, but somehow Steve did not altogether appreciate the joke.

‘As a matter of fact, things are pretty dead. They have been for months,’ continued the Chief Commissioner evenly. ‘One or two isolated murders, but nothing really big since “The Front Page Men”, and I can’t honestly say I’m sorry.’ He drained his glass and got up.

‘I must be on my way – I only dropped in to welcome the wanderers home again.’

‘We’re going away again in a day or two,’ said Temple, ‘but when we get back you must come to dinner and—’

‘I shall be out of town myself for about a month,’ broke in Sir Graham. ‘First holiday I’ve taken for nearly six years.’

Temple said casually: ‘Where are you going?’

‘Carol’s taken a villa just outside Nice.’

‘Nice!’ echoed Steve in some surprise.

‘Yes,’ said Forbes. ‘I say, you two don’t happen to be going to the South of France, by any chance?’

‘Oddly enough, Sir Graham—’ began Temple.

‘We’re going to Scotland,’ finished Steve. ‘You did want to go to Scotland, didn’t you, darling?’

‘Why—er—yes. Yes, of course,’ said Temple in some embarrassment.

‘Then that’s fine,’ smiled Steve, rather delighted by her husband’s unexpected confusion.

‘Well, wherever you go, Temple, keep out of mischief,’ said Forbes.

Steve smiled. It was a very pleasant smile.

‘That’s just why we are going to Scotland!’ she said.

3

For five hours Temple had been driving steadily through variable Scottish weather. They had stopped at Dunfermline to gaze open-mouthed upon the many evidences of the benevolence of Mr Andrew Carnegie. They had even paused some time at the tomb of Robert the Bruce, and, rather to Steve’s amusement, Temple had drawn many parallels between the tenacity of that legendary figure and the patience required in the solution of modern crime mysteries.

As they continued their journey towards Inverdale, where they proposed to spend a few days, the sky suddenly darkened, and on a particularly lonely stretch of moorland the rain lashed furiously against the windscreen.

Steve was never very comfortable during thunderstorms, and when the sky was streaked with forked flashes she begged her husband to stop. But Temple drove on, holding the theory that a moving vehicle is a less likely target for lightning.

‘The rain seems to be getting worse,’ shouted Steve above the noise of the storm. Temple, struggling with the windscreen wiper, which was sticking occasionally, muttered an imprecation.

‘I don’t believe the lightning is quite so bad now,’ added Steve, after a pause.

‘Perhaps not,’ replied Temple, who had not been paying much attention to it. ‘This road is terrible. If we get a puncture now, everything in the garden will be lovely!’

‘I wonder how many miles we are from Inverdale,’ Steve speculated, eyeing a range of mountains which seemed deceptively near.

‘I’m beginning to wonder if there is such a place,’ grunted Temple.

‘There must be, darling. It’s on the map.’

‘That’s a very old map,’ Temple pointed out as he stepped on the footbrake. ‘Hallo, what’s this?’

‘This’ was a cluster of about twenty cottages, scattered at varying intervals along the road.

‘Looks like a village of some sort,’ said Steve, as the car approached.

‘“Some sort” is about right,’ grimaced Temple. ‘I hope this isn’t Inverdale.’

‘It can’t be, darling. There’s nothing except cottages.’

A solitary cow was straying homewards, and Temple had to slow the car down to practically walking pace. The storm had almost passed over by now, and Temple was anxious to find a signpost of some description. ‘It’s no good going on if we’re off the right road,’ he told Steve, who was busy unfolding the map. He stopped the car outside the first of the cottages.

Temple glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was only half-past six. Steve was busy tracing the route they had followed. ‘We must have done nearly two hundred miles,’ she estimated.

Her husband, who had been surveying the rather unprepossessing cottages, suddenly announced: ‘That second cottage is a shop by the look of things. They’d put us on the right track.’

‘Yes, perhaps it would be quicker,’ agreed Steve. ‘Get me some chocolate, darling – fruit and nut.’

‘You wouldn’t like a juicy steak, by any chance, with sauté potatoes?’ suggested Temple as he climbed out of the car.

‘What, no onions!’ Steve riposted, and the novelist laughed.

Temple approached the cottage, which differed from the others in that it had a roof of slates, and its greystone walls bore no trace of whitewash. He pushed open the heavy door, and a tiny bell clanged discordantly. The interior was gloomy and cluttered with a miscellany of articles ranging from flypapers to sides of bacon suspended from the ceiling.

A tight-lipped Scotswoman in her late forties came into the shop from the kitchen. She had a voice that droned rather than spoke and she eyed Temple with obvious suspicion.

‘What can I get ye?’ she demanded in reply to Temple’s civil greeting.

‘I should like some chocolate, please.’

‘We don’t keep chocolate.’

‘Oh, I see,’ murmured Temple, rather taken aback. ‘Very well, I’ll have some postcards.’

‘A packet?’

‘Yes – a packet,’ agreed Temple, regarding them rather dubiously.

‘Six delightful views of Inverdale,’ announced the woman. ‘Two by moonlight. That’ll be sixpence.’

Temple produced a coin.

‘I’ll put them in an envelope for ye,’ offered the woman rather surprisingly, opening a drawer at the back of the counter.

‘How far is Inverdale from here?’ asked Temple politely.

‘About two miles.’

‘Oh, good. I thought it was farther than that.’

‘No,’ intoned the woman. ‘Two miles.’ She threw Temple’s sixpence into the drawer and closed it sharply.

‘I suppose there’s some sort of an hotel at Inverdale?’

The woman appeared to be searching her memory. ‘Yes,’ she decided at last. ‘There’s an inn.’

‘A good one?’

‘Not bad—it’s not at all bad.’

‘Do I keep straight on from here, or is there a turning before—’

He broke off in some embarrassment before the piercing glance from the steely grey eyes.

‘Ye’re a stranger round these parts?’ she observed coldly.

‘Very much so, I’m afraid,’ he tried to answer in an easy tone.

‘Have ye come far?’

This is practically a cross-examination, reflected Temple. But he said: ‘London.’

‘London? That’s a long way,’ commented the woman, in a rather warmer tone. ‘I’ve a married sister in London. Peckham, I think it is. Would there be a place called Peckham?’

Temple nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there is a place called Peckham.’

‘It must be a wonderful thing to travel,’ sighed the woman. ‘Often wish I had the time, an’ money o’ course. What was it Shakespeare said about travellers?’

‘As far as I can gather, he said quite a number of things,’ smiled Temple.

‘H’m—will ye be wanting anything else now?’ Her voice was cold, almost as if she regretted the previous conversation.

Temple was about to reply when the doorbell clanged violently and a very excited young man entered the shop. He had obviously been running hard, for he stood against the door with almost a sigh of relief.

‘Why, Mr Lindsay!’ exclaimed the woman in some surprise.

‘Hello, Mrs Moffat,’ gasped Lindsay.

‘Gracious me, ye’ve certainly been running!’

‘I’m sorry for bursting in like this,’ he apologised. ‘No, please don’t go, sir!’ There was a note of urgency in his voice as he placed his hand on Temple’s sleeve. In another minute he had recovered his breath.

‘Apart from being out of breath, you seem rather excited about something,’ said Temple. ‘Is anything the matter?’

David Lindsay smiled. It was a very infectious smile.

‘I saw your car about a quarter of a mile back. Then I saw you stop at Mrs Moffat’s, so I raced along after you. I was afraid you might get started again before…before I could get here in time.’

‘Can I help you at all?’ queried Temple, who rather liked the look of the young man.

‘I was wondering if you happened to be going to Inverdale?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact I am.’

‘Then would you be good enough to do me a favour?’

‘Well, I might. What is it exactly?’

‘There’s an inn at Inverdale,’ said Lindsay, ‘called the “Royal Gate”. I don’t know whether you know it or not?’

‘As a matter of fact my wife and I intend spending the night at Inverdale, so—’

‘Oh, that’s splendid!’ Lindsay’s blue eyes lit up. ‘Well, when you get there, would you be good enough to ask for a Mr John Richmond, and then…’ His voice became rather more tense. ‘And then will you please give him this letter?’ He handed an envelope to Temple, who studied it thoughtfully.

‘Mr John Richmond,’ he repeated, as if he were trying to place the name. ‘Why yes, I’ll do that with pleasure.’

Lindsay gave him a searching look.

‘Please realise that this is most important,’ he said earnestly. ‘Under no circumstances must you give the letter to anyone else – under no circumstances.’

‘But supposing this Mr Richmond doesn’t happen to be staying at the inn?’ asked Temple.

‘He’ll be there all right,’ declared Lindsay with quiet confidence.

‘Why didn’t you stop me when you first saw the car a quarter of a mile back?’ Temple wanted to know.

‘I was afraid that you might be—someone else.’

Temple glanced up sharply. There was an honest, straight-forward look in the young man’s eyes, so he pursued the question no further.

‘Don’t worry about the letter. I’ll see that your friend gets it all right. It’s a straight road into the village, I gather?’

‘Perfectly. You can’t possibly go wrong. The “Royal Gate” is on the left-hand side, about halfway through.’

‘Thanks,’ said Temple, lifting the latch.

‘Ye’re forgetting your postcards,’ Mrs Moffat reminded him.

‘So I am,’ he smiled, picking up the envelope. ‘Good night!’

When the door had closed, David Lindsay turned to Mrs Moffat, who had been an interested spectator.

‘Mrs Moffat, I’m sorry to trouble you, but do you think I might use your ’phone?’

‘I’m very sorry, Mr Lindsay,’ she replied with great deliberation, ‘but the telephone’s out of order. It has been ever since yon storm started.’

This was obviously a blow to Lindsay.

‘I see,’ he murmured, wrinkling his forehead in some perplexity.

‘Ye can try it if ye like, of course,’ offered Mrs Moffat.

‘It won’t be any use, though. The wires must have broken somewhere.’

‘Yes, yes, all right,’ murmured Lindsay, whose thoughts were now obviously elsewhere.

‘If there’s anything I can do, Mr Lindsay—’

‘No, no, I’m afraid you can’t do anything. Thanks all the same.’ He wished her good night and departed. She went to the window and watched him until he was almost out of sight. Then she bolted the door cautiously, crossed to the telephone and picked up the old type earpiece.

‘Hello? I want Inverdale 74…Hello, is that you?’ Her voice was almost a whisper now. ‘Yes—he’s been here. Just left…No…no, I couldn’t. He gave a letter to a man who was—’ There was an interruption which obviously irritated her. ‘For God’s sake, listen to me,’ she snapped impatiently. ‘He gave the letter to a man who happened to be in the shop at the time…Yes—it was addressed to a Mr John Richmond at the “Royal Gate”.’

Suddenly Mrs Moffat replaced the receiver and permitted herself the luxury of a grim chuckle.

4

‘That young man seemed to be in rather a hurry,’ commented Steve, when Temple returned to the car.

He recounted what had happened in the little shop as they started rather cautiously on their way towards the village.

‘He saw the car about a quarter of a mile before we stopped,’ said Temple, after they had been travelling for about ten minutes.

‘Then why didn’t he stop us?’

‘Yes, that’s what I wanted to know,’ said Temple. ‘Apparently he was afraid we might be someone else.’

There was the sound of a motor horn behind them, and Temple glanced through his driving mirror to see a large Buick Tourer approaching at a reckless speed. For the second time the horn sounded with a note of urgency.

‘By Timothy, this fellow’s in a hurry,’ commented Temple, slowing down a little and drawing into the side.

‘He wants you to stop, darling,’ said Steve, who had been looking through the back window.

‘Stop?’ cried Temple in amazement.

‘Yes, he’s making signs.’

The Buick shot past them, took the middle of the road, and slowed down at once.

Two men emerged from the Buick and approached Temple’s car, which had now pulled up. The elder of the two, a well-dressed, dapper little man, came up to Temple with a smile of apology.

‘Really, sir, I must apologise for stopping you like this,’ he began, a shade too extravagantly.

‘If you want the road to Inverdale—’ put in Steve quite pleasantly.

‘Unfortunately, madam, we are not interested in the road to Inverdale.’

‘I think perhaps we had better introduce ourselves, Laurence,’ said the second man, a suntanned, fairly elderly individual, who seemed rather like a native of the district.

‘Why yes, of course,’ agreed his companion. ‘My name is van Draper. Doctor Laurence van Draper. This gentleman is Major Lindsay, a very close friend of mine. In fact, he is the father of that very excitable young man you met in the village – about ten minutes ago.’

‘I see,’ nodded Temple, who made no attempt to reciprocate where the introductions were concerned.

‘I believe I am correct in saying my son gave you a letter,’ proceeded Major Lindsay, whose real name was Guest.

Temple looked up quickly.

‘Yes, that’s quite true,’ he admitted.

‘The letter was addressed to a certain Mr John Richmond,’ continued the Major evenly.

‘Well?’

‘I should esteem it a favour,’ said Major Lindsay impressively, ‘if you would be good enough to give the letter to Doctor van Draper.’

Temple leaned back slightly and shrewdly surveyed the Major. There was silence for a few moments.

‘I’m sorry, Major,’ decided Temple at length, ‘but your son gave me explicit instructions that the letter was to be delivered to no one except Mr Richmond.’

‘I’m afraid your task will be very difficult, sir. You see, there is no such person as John Richmond.’

‘No such person?’ repeated Temple in some surprise.

Van Draper came forward.

‘Perhaps you’d better let me explain, Major.’ He placed an arm on the car window and addressed Temple. ‘David Lindsay, the man who gave you the letter, is unfortunately the victim of a rather peculiar – what shall we say – mental condition?’

‘You mean that he isn’t quite…’ began Steve, and van Draper nodded.

‘Precisely. He isn’t quite responsible for certain of his actions. There’s no real harm in the boy; in fact his condition is rapidly responding to treatment. But there are occasions – tonight was one of them I’m afraid – when he’s a little—er— unbalanced.’

‘I understand perfectly,’ said Temple in a non-committal voice.

‘My treatment of the case is purely of a psychological nature,’ continued van Draper, ‘and for that reason I should rather like to have the letter he gave you. On the other hand, if you feel a little dubious about handing over—’

‘No, of course not, Doctor,’ replied Temple. ‘There’s no question of doubting your word. But tell me, how did you know about the letter?’

It seemed as if van Draper was about to embark upon a long explanation, but the Major cut in quickly: ‘Mrs Moffat rang us up. She knows all about David’s weakness, and understands.’

‘Oh yes—of course,’ murmured Temple. ‘Here is the letter.’

‘Thanks,’ said the Major, placing the envelope in his pocket. ‘I’ll move my car out of the way so you can get by. I seem to have taken up all the road.’

With a brief nod the two men departed and presently their car drew into the side of the road. Temple and Steve shot past them and for a time neither spoke. Then suddenly Temple began to chuckle and Steve looked up in surprise. She could not see that there was any cause for amusement.

‘Paul, what’s the matter?’

‘Have you ever heard such a ridiculous story in all your life?’ grinned Temple.

‘You mean—what the doctor said?’

‘Doctor! He’s no more a doctor than I am,’ scoffed the novelist. ‘The fellow didn’t look like a doctor and, by Timothy, he certainly didn’t talk like one.’

‘If you didn’t believe his story,’ said Steve, obviously puzzled, ‘why did you give him the letter?’

‘I didn’t, my dear,’ laughed Temple, diving in his coat pocket. ‘I gave him the postcards. Six delightful views of Inverdale. Two by moonlight!’

5

Like so many Scottish hotels, the ‘Royal Gate’ was classified as an inn. It was, in fact, the only comfortable hotel in this small village, which had lately become fashionable as a centre for salmon fishers, deerstalkers, mountaineers and artistic dilettantes.

In a noble but misguided endeavour to cater for all tastes, the proprietors had placed a stag’s antlers over the mantelpiece in the entrance hall, a huge stuffed salmon in a glass case at the foot of the stairs, and several anaemic aquatints on any stretch of wall that appeared inviting.

There was, of course, a barometer suspended somewhat precariously just inside the front door. This had been badly damaged in transit and had lost a considerable quantity of its mercury, but oddly enough no one ever commented upon its inaccuracy, though every visitor most certainly tapped it fiercely first thing in the morning.

Paul Temple and his wife had very little difficulty in finding the inn. They were welcomed by the host and hostess, Mr and Mrs Weston, who informed them that the place was full, but undertook to ‘manage something’.

Temple and Steve were surprised and pleased to hear their hosts’ broad cockney dialect. Ernie Weston had been a night porter in a London hotel, where he had met his wife, who was employed there as a chambermaid. She had apparently come to London from Yorkshire to find better paid work, and between them they soon managed to save a few hundred pounds, which constituted the ‘ingoing’ to the ‘Royal Gate’.

Buxom Mrs Weston, with the North Country roses still unfaded in her cheeks, had soon taken a fancy to Steve.

‘I think you’ll be very comfortable ’ere,’ she was saying.

‘It may not be as palatial as some of these railway hotels, but the view’s champion, anyway.’

Steve looked round the fairly small bedroom which was sparsely furnished but very clean.

‘This room will do very nicely, thanks,’ she smiled. Mrs Weston smoothed imaginary creases out of her apron and nodded pleasantly.

Her husband entered, carrying two large suitcases. He was rather out of breath and dropped them thankfully. ‘I’ll bring up the other stuff later,’ he announced. ‘Where do I put this?’

‘That’s all right – leave it to me,’ said Temple.

Ernie Weston seemed quite pleased to obey. He was an inch or two shorter than his wife, a few years older and rather wizened in appearance. While Mrs Weston bustled around, fetching towels and other requisites, Ernie stood in the doorway looking on. He made no effort to go.

‘You seem to be fairly busy,’ remarked Steve conversationally. ‘Is it always like this?’

‘Crikey, no!’ exploded Ernie. ‘This place was a proper white elephant up till a couple o’ months ago. Ain’t that right, Mother?’

‘Well, things ’ave certainly bucked up, there’s no doubt about that,’ agreed Mrs Weston cheerfully.

‘Bucked up! Blimey, I should think they ’ave. I’ve been run off me feet for weeks from early morning till last thing at night. ’Ave you come far, sir?’

‘We left Edinburgh this morning, about ten.’

‘Pretty good goin’,’ commented Ernie. ‘I expect you’re feelin’ a bit peckish?’

‘Yes, we are rather,’ admitted Steve.

‘Dinner’ll be on at any minute now – seven-thirty. You’ll hear the gong,’ said Ernie, adding whimsically, ‘the gong was Mother’s idea.’

His wife glared at him, then turned to Steve. ‘We started getting so many “posh” folk here, I thought we’d better live up to it,’ she explained. ‘Would you like a wash and brush up, ma’am?’

She took Steve to the bathroom, leaving Temple alone with Ernie.

‘I’ll pop down and get the other stuff up, sir,’ volunteered the landlord.

‘No, just a minute.’

Ernie perched himself easily on the edge of a small table. Temple suddenly shot a question.

‘Do you and your wife run this place?’

‘That’s right, sir. Weston’s the name. Bin ’ere six months now.’

‘Do you like it?’

‘Well, it’s a bit quiet, sir, after London.’

‘The hotel seems pretty full at the moment.’

‘Not ’arf. Everybody seems to ’ave made their minds up to go on ’oliday just now. Between you and me, sir, you wouldn’t be ’aving this room if me and the missus weren’t pally.’ He chuckled to himself as he helped Temple to lift a case onto a small bench at the foot of the bed.

The novelist flung a pair of pale blue pyjamas onto his pillow, and asked: ‘Have you anyone staying here named Richmond—John Richmond?’

‘Why yes, sir!’ said Ernie, rather startled. ‘Is ’e a pal o’ yours?’

‘No, but I’d like a word with him.’

‘Well, I think ’e’s out, sir. But ’e’ll soon be back for dinner.’

‘Good. I’ll see him then.’

Temple was a little dubious as to whether he should offer to tip his host, but Ernie accepted the coin with alacrity.

‘Thank you, sir – and if you fancy anythin’ tasty-like for dinner, just tell the missis.’ He winked and departed.

Temple went on with his unpacking, whistling quietly to himself. He had almost finished, and was just debating as to whether he should open his wife’s case, when there was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ called Temple, thinking it was Ernie with the other luggage.

The door opened and a voice with a Teutonic accent rasped: ‘I trust I do not intrude, Mr Temple?’

Temple turned swiftly.

‘Why, Doctor Steiner! Come in!’ He held out his hand to the German, who appeared just a little embarrassed.

‘I saw your name in the register,’ he said rather shyly, ‘and could not resist this opportunity of renewing our—transatlantic friendship.’

‘It’s delightful to see you again,’ Temple assured him. ‘But I am surprised. What are you doing in Scotland?’

‘I am on holiday,’ replied Steiner. ‘Trying to forget that I am a Doctor of Philosophy at the University of Philadelphia. But it is not easy, I am afraid. These Scottish people are very interesting to a philosopher. They are in many ways highly religious and, shall we say, narrow-minded. And yet they worship their national poet, Robert Burns. You have, no doubt, heard of Burns?’

Having heard of little else since arriving in Scotland, Temple smiled and nodded.

‘And yet again,’ pursued the professor, ‘the Scottish race frown upon divorce. They look upon marriage as sacred, binding and eternal. Yet it is easier to many in Scotland than anywhere else in the British Isles. Perhaps you can explain these inconsistencies, Mr Temple. I should be most happy to listen and to take notes.’

But before Temple could make any attempt to reply, the door opened quickly and Steve rushed in.

‘Paul, the most amazing thing—’ She stopped suddenly at the sight of Doctor Steiner.

‘I thought you’d be surprised,’ laughed Temple. ‘Dr Steiner has just arrived. He spotted our name in the register.’

‘Perhaps I am wasting my time on philosophy,’ smiled Steiner as he shook hands with Steve. ‘I should be a detective—yes?’ He looked from one to the other. ‘But surely you tell me on the ’plane that shortly you leave for the South of France?’

‘Paul changed his mind,’ Steve informed him. ‘He thought it would be too hot.’

‘I like that, I must say!’ protested Temple.

‘I am glad to see a man change his mind,’ declared Steiner, with a twinkle in his grey eyes. ‘Well, I do not think you will find it too hot in Scotland. B-r-r! I have never felt it so cold, not even in Philadelphia.’

‘How long are you staying here, Doctor?’ asked Temple.

‘I don’t know. It all depends—on the weather,’ he added hurriedly. Rather unexpectedly Steiner turned towards the door. ‘I must start unpacking. We shall meet later, I hope—at dinner.’

‘Why, yes, of course. You must sit at our table. I’ll arrange it,’ said Temple.

‘I shall be honoured. Then for the time being…auf wiedersehen!’ He bowed slightly and went out. As the door closed Temple turned to his wife.

‘Now, what’s all this excitement about?’ he demanded. ‘You came dashing in here as if all the Campbells and McLeods were after you.’

‘Paul, whom do you think I’ve seen?’

‘I haven’t the vaguest idea.’

‘Iris!’

‘Iris—here?’ Temple ejaculated.

Steve nodded. She sat on the bed and tucked her legs under the eiderdown. ‘Darling, I’m not joking,’ she assured him seriously. ‘I really have seen Iris – there’s no mistaking her. I was coming out of the bathroom when a door opened at the far end of the corridor – and out stepped Iris.’

‘Did she see you?’ broke in Temple swiftly.

Steve wrinkled her forehead in some perplexity.

‘I don’t know,’ she had to admit. ‘I have a feeling that she did.’

‘But—but what happened?’ Temple was completely mystified.

‘There’s a staircase at the end of the corridor, near her room. Before I could say anything she had turned her back to me and disappeared.’

‘Why didn’t you call to her?’

‘I was so startled – it was like one of those dreams when you feel quite helpless.’

‘It’s certainly very peculiar,’ reflected Temple. ‘What the devil would Iris be doing here?’

Suddenly, in the distance, a gong boomed.

‘Dinner! And I haven’t even started to unpack!’ cried Steve. Temple appeared not to have heard. He was sitting on the edge of a chair gazing thoughtfully out of the window – though he actually saw nothing of the view so highly praised by his hostess. Steve may have made a mistake about Iris, but it was hardly likely. What could she be doing in a remote Scottish inn! Why had she thrown over the best part of her career to penetrate the wilds of Scotland? Why…

He was startled by Steve’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Paul, I’ve just remembered about that letter. Hadn’t you better inquire—?’

He smiled at her. ‘I have.’

‘Then there is a John Richmond?’

‘Certainly.’

Steve considered this.

‘Paul, you don’t think there could be any connection between the young man, those two men who stopped us, and Iris?’

Temple frowned. Once again the gong boomed and almost simultaneously there was a knock on the door. When Temple opened it, Ernie Weston stood outside.

‘I beg your pardon, sir, but I believe you wanted to see Mr Richmond. I brought him up now because I thought you might—’

‘Oh yes, please ask him to come in.’

The man who had been waiting just along the corridor came forward.

‘Why, Sir—’ began Temple. Then stopped at an urgent sign from the visitor.

‘Sir Graham!’ cried Steve, before they could suppress her exclamation.

‘There seems to be some mistake,’ said Sir Graham Forbes politely. ‘My name is Richmond. John Richmond.’




CHAPTER II (#u993478ce-8e04-5814-8585-daf40cee6690)

Concerning Z.4 (#u993478ce-8e04-5814-8585-daf40cee6690)


1

Temple was the first to appreciate that there was a serious element to the situation. He recognised an urgent note in Sir Graham’s voice. Obviously, the Chief Commissioner was not anxious to have his identity revealed. As there was every indication of Steve starting an inquiry of this nature, Temple suddenly broke into a rather nonsensical chuckle.

‘Really, sir, we must beg your forgiveness,’ he grinned. ‘By Timothy, I’ve never seen anything like it…’ He regarded Sir Graham quizzically, his head on one side. ‘The same chin, the same nose…Why, he’s just like old Forbes, isn’t he, Steve? The absolute “spit” of old Forbes – just look at his hair…well, I’m damned!’

He contrived to shoot a warning glance at Steve while Ernie Weston was looking at Sir Graham.

‘What the devil is all this about?’ snapped Forbes irritably, addressing the landlord. ‘Who are this lady and gentleman?’

Ernie Weston was palpably perplexed.

‘A Mr and Mrs Temple, sir,’ he informed Sir Graham. ‘Arrived about half an hour ago.’ He looked at each of them in turn. ‘There seems to have been some sort of mistake, doesn’t there?’ he suggested.

‘I thought you said they wanted to see me,’ growled Forbes.

‘Well, ’e said ’e did want to see you,’ protested Ernie. He turned on Temple rather fiercely. ‘I say, what’s the game?’ he almost snarled. ‘You said I was to give a message to…’

‘It’s all right,’ laughed Temple. ‘There’s nothing to get excited about. This gentleman reminded us of someone else, that’s all.’

Ernie made no effort to move. ‘But this is the gent you wanted to see – Mr Richmond—’ he began in puzzled tones.

By this time, Steve had begun to realise the position.

He broke off suddenly, as if realising Weston’s presence for the first time. ‘It’s all right, Weston,’ he murmured casually. But Ernie was obviously loath to accept this dismissal.

‘We don’t serve dinner after a quarter to,’ he announced.

‘We shall bear that in mind,’ replied Temple, politely holding the door for him.

‘All right,’ said the landlord, retreating reluctantly.

Temple watched him down the corridor, then carefully closed the door. Steve sank on the bed with a sigh of relief, while Sir Graham perched on the arm of a chair.

‘Sir Graham, I’m most terribly sorry,’ Temple apologised. ‘It was extremely stupid of us both to blurt out like that.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Forbes gruffly. ‘You covered it up well.’ He ruminated rather gloomily for a few seconds, then suddenly asked: ‘What the devil are you two doing here?’

Temple and Steve exchanged a brief smile.

‘Well, if it comes to that—’ began the novelist.

‘I know, I know!’ Forbes forestalled him. ‘Don’t ask me, Temple. Don’t ask me!’ He drew a hand across his forehead rather wearily, then continued: ‘But seriously, what made you two visit Inverdale? You couldn’t have had an inkling…it isn’t possible…’

‘You remember we told you we were coming to Scotland,’ Steve reminded him.

‘So you did. Yes, I’d forgotten about that,’ Sir Graham admitted. But there was a dubious note in his voice.

‘Sir Graham, don’t you think you might tell us why you are staying here under the name of Richmond?’ suggested Temple mildly.

‘Yes, that’s another thing, Temple. You asked to see Mr John Richmond. I am John Richmond, though how the devil—’

‘Paul, give him the letter,’ interrupted Steve. ‘Then we can go down to dinner.’ There was a note of urgency in her voice.

‘What letter?’ demanded Forbes quickly, looking from one to the other.

‘A letter from a young man named Lindsay—David Lindsay,’ explained Temple.

‘For me?’ queried Forbes in some surprise.

Temple nodded.

‘I don’t know anyone named David Lindsay. There must be some mistake.’

Steve was quite taken aback. ‘You don’t know anyone called Lindsay?’ she repeated in amazement.

‘No,’ said Forbes decisively.

‘Is there another John Richmond staying here?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘Then this letter must be for you,’ declared Steve.

Temple, who had been pacing the room, his hands deep in his trouser pockets, looked up and smiled.

‘This gets brighter and brighter!’ he said. ‘First of all I meet the delightful Mrs Moffat, then the excitable Mr Lindsay, and later—’

‘Mrs Moffat?’ interrupted Forbes. ‘You mean the woman in the village?’

‘That’s right,’ nodded Temple. ‘The dark-eyed beauty with a sister in Peckham.’ Sir Graham pondered upon this for a moment, then asked: ‘How did you meet Mrs Moffat?’

Temple was gazing thoughtfully out of the window at the view so highly praised by his hostess, so Steve began to explain.

‘On our way here, Sir Graham, we got lost. We stopped in the village, and to make absolutely certain of getting on the right road—’

‘I popped into Mrs Moffat’s,’ put in Temple suddenly becoming aware of the conversation once more. ‘Just as I was on the verge of leaving, in barged the young fellow I was telling you about – David Lindsay. He was obviously excited and rather worried about something. To cut a long story short, he asked me if I was coming into Inverdale, and whether I’d deliver a letter for him to a Mr John Richmond, who happened to be staying at the “Royal Gate”. Naturally, I agreed to do so. On the way here, however, two men stopped us—’

Sir Graham looked up sharply. ‘Can you describe them?’

‘There was a man who called himself Doctor Laurence van Draper, and another, rather military-looking chap, who said that he was Major Lindsay, father of the young man who gave me the letter. They told us a rather one-sided story about the young fellow being a bit mental, and more or less demanded the letter. They were quite nice about it, but obviously meant business.’

‘What happened?’ demanded Forbes eagerly.

‘Well, Paul happened to buy a packet of postcards, which Mrs Moffat fortunately popped into an envelope,’ smiled Steve.

‘You don’t mean you gave them the postcards?’ asked Forbes, jumping up.

‘I’m afraid so,’ Temple replied evenly.

‘Well, I’m damned!’ Forbes sank back and slapped his thigh in approval. Temple wandered off to the window again.

‘Now listen, Temple. This is most important. I want you to describe that young man as closely as possible.’

Temple swung round.

‘You mean Lindsay? Oh, he was about five feet ten – dark – good-looking—’

‘Rather like Frank Lawton, the film actor,’ supplied Steve.

‘My God, it’s Hammond all right!’ ejaculated Forbes, thumping his fist on the table. ‘Now, of course, I understand.’

Temple had crossed to a chair and picked up the jacket he had been wearing earlier in the day. As he dived into an inside pocket, a look of concern spread over his features.

‘Darling, what is it?’ asked Steve.

‘The letter…’ gasped Temple.

Forbes went across to him quickly. ‘Temple, you don’t mean to say—’

‘It’s gone,’ announced Temple quietly.

‘Gone!’ echoed Steve. ‘But, Paul, it couldn’t possibly—’

‘You didn’t make a mistake about those postcards, Temple?’ suggested Sir Graham.

‘No. I had the letter when I arrived here. I’m absolutely certain of that. When I was unpacking, I changed into this old sports coat and left the other on the chair.’

‘That letter’s important, Temple,’ said Sir Graham in some anxiety. ‘It’s desperately important, and we’ve got to get it back.’

Temple’s brain was working quickly.

‘Those men – van Draper and the fellow who called himself Major Lindsay – they must have contacted someone here at the “Royal Gate”…’

Forbes nodded thoughtfully.

‘Who did you see when you arrived?’ he asked.

‘A porter helped us with the luggage, then Weston and his wife brought us upstairs.’

Temple carefully examined the contents of every pocket without result.

‘Paul, there’s Doctor Steiner,’ Steve suddenly reminded him. ‘He came in here after Weston and—’

‘By Timothy, yes! And he stood over by that chair for quite a while. But how could he possibly know—’

‘Steiner?’ put in Forbes. ‘Who exactly is Doctor Steiner?’

‘He’s a Professor of Philosophy at Philadelphia University,’ said Temple. ‘We met him on the Golden Clipper, coming over here.’

‘What’s he doing in Scotland?’

‘He’s on holiday. As soon as he spotted our names in the register he came up here.’ Temple paused and puckered his brow.

‘By Timothy! I’m a prize jackass if you like!’ he ejaculated.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Steve.

‘Steve, don’t you remember? I didn’t sign a register. The book was full. Weston made me sign on a sheet of notepaper. He put the paper in a drawer, so I don’t see how Steiner could possibly have—’

‘Then he knew you were coming here,’ cried Forbes. ‘He was waiting for you – waiting for the letter!’

‘Just a minute. Not so fast, Sir Graham,’ softly interposed Temple.

‘Why should Doctor Steiner, a respectable university professor, want that letter?’ asked Steve.

‘I presume you have only his word for his identity,’ said Forbes. ‘What’s his nationality?’

‘Oh, obviously Austrian, I should say. Most probably Viennese,’ said Temple.

‘Well, it seems a remarkable coincidence that he should be staying here the very night that Noel Hammond—’

‘Who is Noel Hammond?’ demanded Temple. ‘And who’s this man Draper? And who the devil is—’

‘I can’t tell you now, Temple,’ snapped Forbes. ‘Come to my room after dinner—no, I’ll come down here. It will be safer. We must get that letter back – no matter what happens we must get that letter!’

He regarded them both with a grim smile. ‘I think you will be interested to know why I came to Scotland instead of going to the South of France.’

He turned to the door. ‘I’ll see you both here, in about an hour.’

‘Yes, all right,’ agreed Temple.

After Forbes had departed, Temple carefully folded his coat and placed it in a drawer. Neither spoke for a minute or two, then Steve suggested they should go down to dinner. Her husband was busy unlocking a suitcase, and did not appear to be listening.

‘Is anything the matter, Steve?’ he said suddenly.

‘No – nothing,’ she replied with a tiny gulp, but he could see that her eyes were slightly misty.

‘You’re worried, aren’t you?’ he challenged her, taking hold of her shoulders and looking at her closely. ‘You’re upset about this business.’

‘Yes,’ admitted Steve at length.

‘Why?’

She sighed.

‘Well, so many things have started like this, haven’t they? The Front Page Men, that awful business with the Knave of Diamonds, and—’

Temple gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘Darling, if you want to leave here first thing in the morning – we leave. And nothing on earth will stop us.’

‘You’re very sweet,’ whispered Steve gently, rubbing her cheek against his rough tweed coat. Somewhere below a gong boomed insistently. Temple smiled.

‘I rather fancy that’s for our benefit,’ he said.

2

An hour later two men knocked cautiously at the door of Mrs Moffat’s shop. They seemed reluctant to be seen, but they need not have feared, for practically every person in that tiny hamlet was in bed, though it was little after nine. There was a sound of bolts being withdrawn, and Mrs Moffat eventually peered through the few inches between door and lintel. When she recognised them she opened the door swiftly, and they went inside.

‘What happened?’ she demanded quickly, setting the flickering candle on the counter and facing them.

‘We missed him,’ growled van Draper.

Mrs Moffat eyed them suspiciously.

‘It’s no good hiding things, Draper,’ said Guest. ‘She’ll have to know sooner or later.’

‘Something went wrong?’ speculated Mrs Moffat, leaning an elbow on the counter.

Guest nodded. ‘We stopped the car and dished out a cock and bull story about Lindsay being out of his mind. They seemed to swallow it all right, but…’

He took the packet of postcards from his pocket.

‘Instead of handing over the letter, he presented us with these damn things!’

Mrs Moffat recognised the envelope with a grim smile. Taking out the postcards, she carefully replaced them on the stand.

‘That was canny of ye both, I must say,’ was her only comment.

‘We can’t stand here all night,’ snorted van Draper impatiently. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’

But Mrs Moffat did not offer to move.

‘Why are ye both so anxious to get that letter?’ she persisted. ‘What was in it?’

‘I’ve had my suspicions about Lindsay for a long time,’ said van Draper. ‘Tonight they were—’

‘My God!’ cried Mrs Moffat suddenly, her face grotesquely distorted by the guttering candlelight. ‘Ye don’t mean to say he’s—’

‘His name is Hammond – Noel Hammond,’ replied van Draper with savage deliberation. ‘He’s a British Agent. We ought to have checked up on him long ago, instead of accepting one person’s word.’

‘But Z.2 recommended him,’ insisted Mrs Moffat. ‘She swore he was safe.’

‘The little fool was taken in by him,’ said Guest contemptuously.

‘Z.2. That’s Iris Archer, isn’t it?’ queried van Draper thoughtfully. ‘She’s always liable to fall for that type. That’s her one weakness. We should have realised that.’

Mrs Moffat set her lips in a firm line of disapproval. ‘You have always said that Lindsay was a good man at his job,’ she reminded them.

‘Hardwick always said so,’ van Draper agreed. ‘Though just lately they don’t seem to have been hitting it off too well.’

‘Well, whatever happens, we’ve got to get Lindsay,’ declared Guest in ruthless tones.

‘That’s imperative,’ said van Draper.

‘Why is it so imperative?’ Mrs Moffat wanted to know.

‘Why?’ spluttered van Draper impatiently. ‘Good God, woman, don’t you realise that Lindsay can blow up the whole bag of tricks? He’s been working with Hardwick on the screen…he knows about us – about Z.4—’

‘About Z.4?’ put in Mrs Moffat rapidly. ‘What exactly does he know about Z.4?’

‘He knows that Z.4 is behind Hardwick,’ said van Draper slowly. ‘Also that Z.4 is at the head of the greatest espionage organisation in Europe.’

‘But does he know who Z.4 is?’ pursued Mrs Moffat.

Guest shrugged his shoulders. ‘Do any of us?’

‘That’s not the point,’ van Draper cut in. ‘Lindsay or Hammond, whichever you like to call him, knows a great deal too much. There’s Hardwick to start with…’

‘And don’t you think the British Intelligence people know about Hardwick?’ suggested Mrs Moffat.

‘Of course they do,’ retorted van Draper. ‘But fortunately for us they don’t attach any importance to him – yet.’

‘And after receiving Hammond’s letter they might?’

‘Precisely.’

‘I wonder who this man…Richmond is?’ speculated Guest.

‘I don’t know – but if he’s got that letter we’ve got to get him before he leaves.’

‘I shouldn’t be surprised if Lindsay hasn’t seen Richmond himself,’ theorised Mrs Moffat.

‘No,’ interrupted van Draper. ‘Lindsay would keep clear of the village. I’m sure of that. He’d reckon on us keeping an eye on the “Royal Gate” – that’s why he didn’t ask our friend for a lift.’

‘You know, I’ve got a hunch that Lindsay might return,’ said Guest thoughtfully.

‘You mean—here?’ queried Mrs Moffat, rather taken aback.

‘Yes, here.’

‘Why should he?’

‘Well, in the first place,’ Guest elaborated, ‘he doesn’t suspect that you happen to be one of us, and he’ll probably be anxious to try and contact Richmond by telephone.’

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the telephone rang.

‘I have it switched through upstairs,’ explained Mrs Moffat succinctly. ‘We’d all better go up.’

She picked up the candle and led the way towards the crude staircase, and they gingerly climbed up to the top landing. The telephone rang again, louder now, and Mrs Moffat opened the door of a small room which was built in the roof of the cottage. Roughly furnished with a divan, a table and two or three chairs, it was lighted by a small dormer window in the daytime.

Mrs Moffat picked up the telephone, which stood on the floor at the side of the divan.

‘Hello?…Yes…When did you arrive?…When?…I see.’ She covered the mouthpiece for a moment and whispered to the two men: ‘It’s Z.2.’

‘Yes, I’m listening,’ she spoke into the instrument again. ‘Who?’ Her face became noticeably alert, even in that dim light. ‘…Paul Temple?’ she repeated somewhat incredulously. ‘What’s he like?…Yes, describe him quickly…yes—’

‘Ask her to come down here,’ broke in van Draper urgently. ‘She might know something about Richmond.’

Mrs Moffat nodded.

‘We want to see you…yes, straight away. Get here as soon as you can.’ She replaced the receiver.

‘So that was Z.2,’ murmured Guest thoughtfully. ‘I rather thought she was out of things.’

‘We needed her on this job. Z.4 ordered her up here,’ said van Draper.

Mrs Moffat was busy lighting a rather smoky oil lamp. When she had it working to her satisfaction she turned and asked them: ‘Do ye know who the gentleman was who handed ye the postcards?’

‘Not the faintest idea,’ snapped van Draper. He thought he saw a gleam of amusement in her cold eyes. ‘Who was it?’ he demanded suspiciously.

‘Paul Temple,’ replied Mrs Moffat simply.

‘Phew! Paul Temple!’ whistled Guest. ‘My God, if Temple’s on this job we can expect fireworks.’

‘What the devil is Paul Temple doing here?’ demanded van Draper fiercely.

Mrs Moffat gave the merest lift of the shoulders, but did not reply. Instead, she busied herself with the lamp once more.

‘You don’t suppose Temple happens to be Richmond, by any chance?’ suggested Guest. ‘That would account for his switching the postcards.’

‘Lindsay would have recognised him,’ said Mrs Moffat, without turning.

‘Not necessarily,’ persisted the other. ‘After all, none of us know who Z.4 is, but we take orders from him – or her.’

‘We should hear something about Richmond from Z.2,’ decided van Draper after a moody silence. ‘If she’s staying at the “Royal Gate”, then obviously she must have seen Richmond.’

‘Sh!’ called Mrs Moffat suddenly. Her keen ears had detected the lifting of the front door latch, and this was suddenly confirmed by the ringing of the shop bell.

‘Who can it be at this time?’ asked van Draper.

‘I shan’t be long,’ said Mrs Moffat, making for the door.

‘Wait!’ ordered van Draper.

She paused. ‘Well?’

‘It might be Lindsay. If he wants to use the telephone – it’s in order now. You understand?’

She nodded. They heard her descend in leisurely fashion, and presently voices floated up from below.

‘It’s Hammond!’ whispered Guest, and his confederate nodded.

‘Somehow or other, I thought he’d turn up,’ murmured van Draper. ‘Right from the beginning I had a feeling we’d get him. Is your gun here?’

Guest nodded. ‘If only Temple hadn’t tricked us over that letter, we’d be sitting pretty now we’ve got Hammond,’ said Guest.

Van Draper motioned him to be silent as footsteps were heard on the stairs.

‘You never told me you had the ’phone connected up here,’ Lindsay was saying as the door swung open.

‘Hello, Lindsay! Surprised?’ said van Draper.

‘Why, hello, Van, I didn’t expect—’

‘Drop that gun!’ called Guest sharply. A tiny revolver fell from Lindsay’s left hand onto the wooden floor.

There was silence for some seconds.

‘What’s the idea?’ asked Lindsay at length.

‘There seems to have been a slight misunderstanding,’ smiled Guest. ‘Don’t you agree, Mr Lindsay – or should I say Hammond?’

Lindsay was obviously exerting every ounce of self-control.

‘Hammond? Who the devil is Hammond?’ he demanded.

‘Your name is Hammond, my friend,’ van Draper informed him with cruel deliberation; ‘Noel Hammond, of the British Intelligence Department.’ His tone was scathing now, but Lindsay broke into a laugh which sounded surprisingly genuine.

‘British Intelligence?’ he repeated. ‘That’s damned funny. If I’m from the British Intelligence, why the devil do you think I worked with Hardwick? I’ve sweated my guts out on that blasted screen of his.’

‘Oh yes,’ agreed van Draper. ‘You worked very hard on the screen – we’ll grant you that. But you had a reason,’ he added viciously.

‘Of course I had a reason,’ replied Lindsay. ‘Six thousand reasons, to be exact.’

‘Six thousand?’ echoed Mrs Moffat. ‘Did Z.4 promise you six thousand pounds if—’

‘No – dollars,’ replied Lindsay cynically. ‘I say, what the devil is all this about, anyway?’ He looked round desperately. The two revolvers never wavered. Mrs Moffat’s ample form continued to fill the doorway.

‘Two years ago,’ van Draper was saying, ‘a certain Mr John Hardwick approached the War Office concerning an invention of his called the Hardwick Screen. This was tested and proved, to all intents and purposes, to be a failure—’

‘And then I suppose the British Intelligence Department sent me along just in case?’ suggested Lindsay sarcastically.

‘Yes,’ agreed van Draper quietly, ‘just in case a certain other party became interested in the screen and any future developments.’

‘I’ve never heard such damned nonsense in my life,’ cried Lindsay indignantly. ‘If the War Office thought the screen was a washout, why should the Intelligence Department take an interest in the affair?’

‘The answer to that is quite simple, my friend,’ put in Guest smoothly. ‘They’re after Z.4.’

‘Very interesting, I’m sure,’ said Lindsay, trying hard to appear cynical.

‘The Intelligence Department discovered that Z.4 had contacted Hardwick,’ pursued van Draper evenly, ‘so they determined to kill two birds with one stone. Keep away from that door!’ he commanded suddenly, as he noticed Lindsay’s glance move in that direction.

‘Now listen to me, van Draper,’ began Lindsay nervously. ‘Put that revolver away and don’t be a fool. Surely we can talk this over sensibly.’

‘What was in that letter you sent to Richmond?’ demanded van Draper inexorably.

‘And who is John Richmond?’ said Guest.

‘I—I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about,’ stammered Lindsay, who was obviously rattled.

‘That’s a pity,’ sneered van Draper, ‘because I’m going to give you fifteen seconds to refresh your memory.’

He took a watch from his pocket. ‘Keep him covered, Guest,’ he ordered.

Lindsay looked round once more in desperation.

‘Five,’ said van Draper imperturbably.

Lindsay moistened his lips, then looked at Mrs Moffat. She returned his stare with eyes that were quite expressionless. There could be no help from that quarter.

‘Ten!’ snapped van Draper.

‘You—you can’t do this!’ shrieked Lindsay hysterically. He made a sudden dive for the door. Both revolvers barked, and Lindsay fell with a choking gasp across the small table. Mrs Moffat saved the lamp just in time. She picked up the table and replaced the lamp on it as if nothing had happened.

‘Pity he didn’t talk,’ commented van Draper unemotionally.

Suddenly the shop bell tinkled.

3

Guest looked somewhat alarmed. ‘Could anyone have heard?’ he whispered.

‘It’s probably Z.2,’ Mrs Moffat told him in a scornful voice, as she prepared to go down.

‘If it is Archer, get her up here,’ ordered Guest through the half-open door.

Meanwhile, van Draper had been briskly searching the dead man’s pockets, but had found nothing to enlighten him. He eyed the body distastefully. ‘We’ll have to get this out of the way…Better get the car and heave him over Moorford Ridge,’ he decided. Before they could make any further plans, Iris Archer entered the room. She wore a smart tweed suit, carried a Robin Hood hat, and appeared, as usual, completely self-possessed.





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