Paul Temple Intervenes

by Francis Durbridge

  Temple turned to the other two.

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

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

  The sergeant grinned knowingly.

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

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

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

  “Now Sergeant,” said Temple, “what about this lorry driver?”

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

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

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

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

  “Percy’s Snack Bar, just off the Haymarket.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What’s the trouble, Sergeant?” he asked.

  “Blessed if I know, sir. Better ask Mr. Temple, here.””Oh—so you’re Paul Temple,” said Street, eyeing him shrewdly. “I’m Street—came to the Yard while you were in America.” He spoke in a guarded whisper.

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

  “We managed to tap a ‘phone call to Sammy Wren.”

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

  “Any luck yet?” he asked.

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

  Temple told him about the accident.

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

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

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

  “And what is his line?” asked Temple.

  “He’s an Egyptologist named Reybourn, Sir Felix Reybourn.”

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

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

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

  Storey took a gulp at his brandy.

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

  Temple gave him a searching glance.

  “Supposing you take your time,” he suggested, “and begin at the beginning.”

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

  “I think you knew Alice Mapleton, Mrs. Temple.”

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

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

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

  Steve shuddered.

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

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

  “That was just over four months ago,” he informed them. “Four months. It seems like four years whenever I think about it.” He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose vigorously. There was silence for some seconds, then Temple asked: “Was your fiancée worried at all?”

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

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

  Steve smiled at the boyish confession.

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

  “Please go on,” said Temple.

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

  “It was blackmail!” he muttered in a tense voice.

  Steve looked horrified and checked an exclamation.

  “You mean The Marquis?” suggested Temple.

  “Yes.”

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

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

  Temple suddenly said: “Sir Graham Forbes tells me that you identified the body of Rita Cartwright. Is that true?”

  “Quite correct,” Roger admitted. “That takes me a step further in my story. After Alice was murdered, I was so desperately worried, and I suppose almost out of my mind with anxiety, I felt that if I didn’t do something definite I’d go mad. So I started making investigations of my own in an amateurish sort of way. It wasn’t that I hadn’t any faith in the police or Scotland Yard; I just had to do something about it myself.”

  “I understand,” murmured Temple, nodding sympathetically, and beckoning a waiter to refill their glasses.

  “After I’d made one or two frightful blunders, Alice’s mother seemed to get a bit rattled. She told me that she had engaged a private detective named Rita Cartwright, and suggested that I should get in touch with her before making any more moves which might attract unpleasant publicity.” Storey paused, then asked: “Did you happen to know Rita Cartwright?”

  “I met her once,” said Temple, non-committally. “She struck me as being a very sensible young person.”

  Storey nodded.

  “Rita was no fool,” he agreed, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice, “but she wasn’t clever enough for The Marquis!”

  “Mr. Storey, why do you think Rita Cartwright was murdered?” asked Steve.

  Roger straightened himself abruptly, then leaned forward and spoke in a confidential undertone.

  “I think I can tell you why, Mrs. Temple. It was because she found out something about a man called Sir Felix Reybourn.”

  “You mean the Egyptologist?” asked Temple.

  “That’s the man.”

  “And what did she discover?” asked Steve.

  Roger hesitated and nervously fingered his tie.

  “Mr. Temple, before I answer your wife’s question, will you tell me if I strike you as being a frightened sort of person?”

  Temple smiled.

  “I don’t think so, Storey. Nervous, perhaps. But I’d say it takes quite a lot to scare you.”

  The young man moistened his lips, and spoke in almost a whisper.

  “Well, I am frightened! Hellishly frightened! And I may as well admit it now before I go any further.” There was a long pause.

  “During the past six months,” proceeded Storey, eventually, “there have been four attempts on my life. Fortunately for me they’ve proved unsuccessful but now you see why I was so anxious to get in touch with you. I wanted to tell you everything I know, everything Rita Cartwright knew, about The Marquis.”

  “Then,” said Temple softly, “begin by telling us who is The Marquis?”

  With a wistful half-smile, Roger shook his head. He seemed to have aged perceptibly in the past half-hour.

  “If I was quite certain of that, Mr. Temple, I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

  “But you suspect Sir Felix Reybourn?”

  Roger took refuge in an expressive shrug.

  “I don’t see whom else I can suspect—in the face of all the facts.”

  “Suppose you tell us the facts?”

  “Take Alice’s case first, then: two days before she was murdered, she paid Sir Felix a visit. I don’t know why; I’ve never been able to find out. Twenty-four hours before the police discovered the body of Carlton Rodgers on the beach at Newhaven, he had dined with Sir Felix at his house in St. John’s Wood. And the last person to see Myron Harwood alive was Sir Felix Reybourn!”

  He paused to note the impression his statement had made.

  “You’re quite sure of these facts?” said Temple.

  “Absolutely certain.”

  Steve imagined for a second that she caught a strange, wild gleam in Storey’s pale blue eyes. ‘Poor boy,’ she thought: ‘This business is sending him distracted.’

  “Did you discover all these facts yourself?” asked Temple.

  Roger shook his head.

  “I helped to check up on one or two items. But the real work was done by Rita Cartwright.” He hesitated, then: “And if you want my opinion, Mr. Temple, that’s the reason why she was murdered!”

  On their return to the flat, Temple and Steve were met by Pryce, who informed them that Sir Graham Forbes and Superintendent Bradley were waiting in the library.

  “Are you all right, madam?” asked Pryce, anxiously. “I heard Sir Graham say something about an accident.”

  “Quite sound in wind and limb, Pryce,” his master breezily assured him. “Bring in some coffee as soon as you can.”

  Nevertheless, as soon as Pryce had gone into the kitchen, Temple turned to his wife.

  “Sure you wouldn’t like to go straight to bed?” he asked. “You must feel quite worn out.”

  “Not a bit of it,” she insisted. “Remember I was used to working nights in my newspaper days.”

  “That sounds rather paradoxical,” he murmured. “Still, what else could one expect from an ex-reporter?”

  She squeezed his arm affectionately, and they went into the library, where Sir Graham and his assistant had made themselves comfortable. As the door opened, Forbes was draining his glass. He turned.

  “Ah, so there you both are—at last,” he greeted them.

  “It isn’t often we have the pleasure of two visits from you, Sir Graham, in such a short time,” smiled Steve, who appeared as fresh and unperturbed as when they had met earlier.

  “It can’t be much of a pleasure, my dear,” drawled Forbes. “Not at this time of night.” He turned to introduce Superintendent Bradley, who seemed eager to get to business.

  “They ‘phoned through to the Yard about the accident, Mr. Temple, and we thought there might have been—”

  “Yes,” Temple interrupted. “But I don’t think ‘accident’ is quite the right word, Bradley.”

  “H’m, that was my impression,” grunted Forbes. “You know, you’ll have to be careful, Temple. You’ve started stirring up things pretty actively, and this fellow’s dangerous. We never know where he is or what he’ll be up to next.”

  “What about Bombay Road? Any further developments?” asked Temple.

  “No. I’m having the place watched, of course, but you were right when you said it would be too late. The birds had flown, and they haven’t left a trace that amounts to anything. I had five men search the place from cellar to attic – they even ripped up the floorboards.”

  “I sincerely trust they have replaced them,” said Temple, with a grim smile.

  Bradley offered Temple a cigarette.

  “I was sorry to hear about Sammy Wren,” he began. “He was a queer little devil, but I had quite a sneaking regard for him. Out of the ordinary run of crooks, was Sammy.”

  “Did he tell you anything, Temple?” asked Forbes.

  Temple shook his head. “Nothing about The Marquis. But, oddly enough, he told me something about a man called Roger Storey. Since then, I’ve met Storey himself.”

  “Oh, we know all about him,” said Sir Graham, in rather a deprecating tone. “A decent young fellow who’s making himself a general nuisance.”

  “I can well imagine that,” smiled Temple.

  Bradley thoughtfully stroked the bristly hair at the back of his head. “Lady Alice Mapleton was his fiancée, you know, so we’re making some allowances when he gets under our feet.”

  “That’s very generous of you.”

  Temple paced restlessly across the room, picked up a book, replaced it, then returned to confront Forbes.

  “Sir Graham,” he burst forth, suddenly, “do you think we are up against not only The Marquis, but a definite criminal organisation?”

  Sir Graham pondered on this for a while.

  “Yes,” he decided at length. “And if you want my opinion, Temple, it’s an organisation which is held together by one element alone—blackmail!’’

  Steve looked up, inquiringly.

  “You mean every member of The
Marquis’ organisation is being blackmailed?” she asked, recalling a similar case in her newspaper days. And a very difficult case it had been while the blackmailer had remained at large. For his victims would tell any lie or employ any subterfuge in his favour to avoid their own guilty secrets coming to light.

  “That’s just what I do mean, Steve,” Sir Graham was saying. “In other words, find The Marquis, and your organisation collapses like a pack of cards!”

  Temple nodded. “I’ve an idea you’re right, Sir Graham. By the way, I saw Inspector Street about an hour ago, at Percy’s Snack Bar.”

  “Yes—yes—he’s telephoned me since then,” said Forbes. “Nothing doing there apparently, Sammy Wren’s accident upset that angle. Street didn’t recognise anyone there.”

  “That’s not quite accurate,” said Temple. “He did recognise one elderly gentleman, Sir Felix Reybourn.”

  “The Egyptologist?” queried Bradley, promptly.

  Temple nodded.

  “I’ve heard of Sir Felix,” said Forbes, knitting his brows. “Lives in St. John’s Wood – writes books about mummies and so forth. I don’t quite see what he has to do with—”

  “Just a moment,” said Temple. “Please understand that I’m only repeating what I’ve been told, but I’m given to understand that two days before Lady Alice Mapleton was murdered, she paid Sir Felix a visit. Also, that twenty-four hours before the police discovered the body of Carlton Rodgers, he had dined with Sir Felix. And finally that the last person to see Myron Harwood alive, as far as is known, was Sir Felix Reybourn.”

  “Yes, that point came out at the Harwood inquest,” put in Bradley, swiftly.

  “Good God! This is staggering,” said Forbes, rising to his feet.

  “They are facts which can be checked, I should imagine, Sir Graham,” said Temple, equably.

  Sir Graham thumped his fist on the padded arm of the chair. “By heaven, they will be checked too,” he ejaculated, with some force. “Bradley, you might look into it as soon as we get back to the office.”

  Bradley nodded respectfully.

  “We haven’t told Mr. Temple the real reason for our visit tonight,” he reminded Forbes.

  “Jove, I’d almost forgotten,” Sir Graham admitted, so distracted had he been by recent developments. He fumbled in his pocket and produced a grimy envelope.