“When I got home tonight, I found this on the door mat.” He passed over the letter. “It’s from a man called Roddy Carson. Do you know him?”
Temple stirred his coffee.
“Roddy Carson,” he repeated, thoughtfully. “Yes, I think so. A tough, illiterate bounder. Served a term for dope smuggling about ten years ago.”
“That’s the man. Read his letter.”
Temple unfolded the shabby scrap of paper, and with some difficulty deciphered the pencilled message.
Dear Sir Graham,
If I can trust you, meet me at Forard Glen tonight at 12.30. I shall be waiting near the clump of six trees about a mile from the road. There is something about The Marquis I got to get off my chest.
Roddy Carson.
Temple carefully refolded the note and replaced it in the envelope.
“Have you tested this for fingerprints, Bradley?”
The Superintendent nodded. “It’s Roddy Carson all right,” he declared, confidently.
“Where is Forard Glen?” asked Steve, who had heard the name, but could not quite place it.
“About six miles the far side of Hampstead Heath.”
“Ross should be there by now,” said Bradley.
“Ross?” repeated Temple, curiously.
“I contacted the Yard straight away,” pursued Forbes. “Ross and two of the Flying Squad units are on the job. I thought we’d join them at the zero hour, Temple.”
Paul Temple nodded his agreement.
“But we saw Inspector Ross at The Golden Cage,” put in Steve.
This puzzled Bradley. “Why, Ross lives out Wimbledon way,” he informed them. “What the devil would he be doing at the Elephant and Castle?”
“That was over two hours ago,” said Temple. “Quite a lot can happen in two hours.”
“M’m … all the same, I told the boys to pick him up at his home. He said he’d be on call if wanted. I hope they haven’t missed him.”
Temple poured himself some more coffee.
“Yes,” he said, quietly, “I hope so too.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
DEATH STALKS FORARD GLEN
Roddy Carson had always specialised in dope. He knew every contact man in the business, and what was even more important, he knew his own limitations. In co-operation with a certain wizened little man named Sonny Maskell, Roddy Carson had developed a considerable clientele for those familiar small white packets which commanded such exorbitant prices, and returned such a pleasing profit to the vendor. Lately, however, there had been some falling off in this steady income, and Roddy had not been long in discovering the reason. It appeared that he was facing considerable opposition on a fairly large scale, and the organiser of the new concern had apparently enlisted quite a number of the well-informed middlemen who were always ready to place their services at the disposal of the highest bidder. Along with several other of the ‘dope’ boys, Roddy Carson and his confederate were also being frozen out of the market by various little devices which would have horrified the most unscrupulous dictator, and called for immediate reprisals.
For some days, Roddy had been watching 79a Bombay Road, and on the night Rita Cartwright was murdered he called on Sonny Maskell at the latter’s ‘one-room flat’ somewhere in the precincts of Soho. Resisting the inviting glances of two elaborately perfumed ladies on the stairs, Roddy thrust open the door of Maskell’s room.
“I’ve got the swine at last, Sonny,” he announced, flinging his huge bulk on the bed.
Sonny blinked at him with watery eyes, and pushed over a bottle and glass.
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
“That—swine at Bombay Road,” exploded Roddy. “I got something on him tonight that’ll put a stop to his little games.”
“Go on?” said Mr. Maskell with some display of interest. “Who is this guy?”
“I seen him go in there once or twice, but I thought he was a customer. Posh lookin’ cove with a mackintosh and a soft felt hat pulled down over his eyes. Never took much notice of him before, but I’d know ‘im again now. You betcha life.”
“Well, what happened?” Mr. Maskell was growing slowly impatient.
“Plenty! I was ‘angin’ round the back like I been doin’ lately, when suddenly the side door opens. I steps back into the shadows – and out comes this feller carryin’ a girl. And if she wasn’t a stiff, my name ain’t Roddy Carson!”
Mr. Maskell was duly impressed. “Blimey!” he exclaimed. “Murder, eh?”
“You said it! I ‘ad to dodge up the passage when I ‘eard ‘im coming back, and just as I passed the side door, it opened and somebody showed a light. I ran like ‘ell and just managed to jump on a ‘bus at the bottom of the road.”
“Think they recognised you?” asked Sonny.
Roddy shook his head.
“Dunno. Not that it makes much difference.” He balanced his feet on the bedrail and locked his hands behind his head.
“D’yer know what I think, Sonny?” he asked.
“I’ll buy it.”
“I think this feller’s something to do with The Marquis murders. That’s why the police can’t find ‘im. ‘E ain’t one of the reg’lars – or I’d know ‘im and you’d know ‘im.”
Sonny nodded thoughtfully as he absorbed this. “Think you could spot ‘im again?” he asked.
“I’d know that bloke anywhere. It was bright moonlight tonight, and I got a good look at ‘is dial.”
“Well, if it should be this ‘ere Marquis, you’d be on to a nice reward if you split,” said Sonny.
“You mean that Scotland Yard broadcast last week?”
“That’s it—five hundred smackers—”
“And kill two birds with one stone, eh?” murmured Roddy. “I reckon it’s worth tryin’.”
As the police car swept past Jack Straw’s, Temple broke a ten minutes’ silence to ask Forbes: “About these cards The Marquis leaves on the body, have you had the writing examined?”
Forbes nodded.
“Yes, but it isn’t much help, as we have nothing to compare it with so far. Obviously, we can’t rake through specimens of the handwriting of everybody in London. The fellow uses purple sort of ink, but we can’t trace it. You see it’s quite ordinary stuff that might be bought anywhere.”
“What about fingerprints?”
“No good. The man wears gloves, of course. He never seems to leave anything remotely resembling a clue. No doubt about it, The Marquis has a well-trained criminal mind, either from instinct or experience, and so far the luck’s been all on his side. But we’ll have to do something pretty soon. The papers are screaming about these mysterious murders, and the Home Office is getting pretty restive as usual.”
“Everything in good time, Sir Graham,” smiled Temple, soothingly. “What do you think about it, Bradley?”
The sandy-haired superintendent grunted non-committally, but did not venture an opinion. Temple had a suspicion that Bradley was after the kudos of capturing The Marquis, and the promotion it was bound to bring for any member of the Yard staff. Judging by one or two occasional remarks, it seemed that Bradley cherished the idea that Sir Graham was a little too old for his job. That it needed a younger man to hold the reins in these nerve-racking times. But Temple kept his own counsel.
When the car drew on to the grass verge at the roadside and snapped out all its fights, Bradley was the first to get out. In a few moments, a torch flashed fifty yards away to the right, and presently Inspector Ross joined them.
“How long have you been here?” asked Bradley at once.
“I should say about three-quarters of an hour,” said Ross, turning to Sir Graham to explain: “We’ve formed a patrol circle, sir. Smith, Warrender, Hale, Dickson and myself with two of the local men.”
“Seen anyone?” asked Forbes, turning up his coat collar.
“Not a soul, sir.” Ross suddenly recognised Temple with a slight start of surprise.
“Hello, Mr. Temple. I didn’
t see you.”
“No rest for the wicked, eh Ross?”
“That’s about it, sir,” replied Ross in a non-committal tone.
The wind whistled through the trees and heavy black clouds rolled up from the west as they walked over to the clump of six straggling fir trees. There was no sign of life.
“Which way d’you think he’ll come?” Bradley asked Ross.
“Difficult to say. But he’ll be tailed all right. One of the boys is bound to hear him.” Bradley sniffed as if he were inclined to doubt that statement. A torch shone suddenly some distance to their left, and they all halted immediately.
“Who’s there?” called Ross sharply. There was no reply. Temple noticed Bradley gently ease his revolver in its holster.
“Is that you, Warrender?” called Ross again.
A figure of a woman suddenly loomed before them.
“It’s only me,” said Steve.
Temple bit his lip to conceal his annoyance.
“Steve, you are the limit. I particularly asked you to wait in the car,” he protested.
“But you forgot your torch, I thought I’d better bring it,” she replied, offering him the article in question. The laughter that followed helped to ease the eerie atmosphere. Once more, they moved towards the trees. As they were almost beneath them Bradley suddenly stopped.
“Did you hear that?” he asked.
There was a long, tense pause.
“I’m damned if I can hear anything,” said Forbes petulantly, after they had waited for over a minute.
“You will, Sir Graham,” said Temple, who had heard the sound which had arrested Bradley. “Quiet now …”
Again they listened, and after a few moments there came a low, soft moan, the last cry of a man who has suffered torture and can endure no more. They heard it again almost at once.
“It’s somewhere under these trees, Ross,” whispered Bradley, urgently.
“But damn it, I’ve just patrolled them half-a-dozen times without seeing a soul.”
“I take it you kept your torch on the ground like a patriotic citizen,” said Temple. Bradley was the first to see the implication of his suggestion.
“My God! He can’t be hanging—”
“Listen!” said Temple. Once again they heard the low, soft moan. It seemed to emanate from thin air.
They began a thorough search, and it was not long before they discovered what they sought. The ghastly figure swung, head downwards, suspended by the ankles from a branch fifteen feet above their heads.
“I’ll get some brandy from the car,” said Forbes, as one of the Yard men found the other end of the rope and gently lowered the body. Temple examined it quickly.
“I’m afraid it’s too late, Sir Graham,” he announced.
“Poor devil,” murmured Forbes.
“Do you recognise him, sir?” asked Ross.
“Yes, this is Roddy Carson all right,” Forbes decided.
Ross went quickly through the dead man’s pockets. He unearthed a small revolver and a wallet containing seventeen pounds. The only other thing the wallet contained was a small, empty envelope.
“Looks as if he has jotted something down on this,” muttered Forbes, flashing his torch on it. “Yes, it’s a name and address. Good God—Temple, look here—”
Temple took the envelope and read:
“Sir Felix Reybourn, 492 Maupassant Avenue, St. John’s Wood.”
The novelist could not repress a chuckle.
“What the devil’s the joke?” snapped Forbes, irritably.
“I was just thinking,” murmured Temple, “Fancy Roddy Carson being able to spell Maupassant.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SIR FELIX ENTERTAINS
Temple spent most of the following morning delving into the files of the Egyptologists’ Journal from the past five years. This monthly publication, published from an obscure address near the British Museum, presented a most forbidding appearance to any layman not interested in its particular subject, with its severe buff colour, endless pages of small print and very dull pictures rather indifferently reproduced.
Somewhat to his surprise, Temple found the two articles by Sir Felix Reybourn contained an occasional flash of whimsical humour to relieve their rather erudite discourse. Both concerned a series of excavations undertaken by Sir Felix, which, as far as Temple could see, had proved singularly unproductive save for a few ancient weapons in very poor condition, and a vessel containing a strange liquid which had not been analysed. Sir Felix dilated at some length upon the medicines of ancient Egypt and the cures they were reputed to have effected, and thus he cleverly concealed the paucity of the actual results of his expedition. As a writer himself, Temple admired the ingenious manner in which Sir Felix had contrived this little deception.
By way of an afterthought, he went into another room at the British Museum and looked up Sir Felix in Who’s Who, but he found the details given were rather scanty, and obviously supplied by the gentleman in question, who had studiously refrained from answering several items on the questionnaire sent him by the publishers. Sir Felix was described as ‘Egyptologist and Zoologist;’ it appeared he was unmarried, the son of an obscure Cornish baronet, educated at Clifton and London University, where he had gained a B.Sc. with honours. He was the author of a couple of books and several pamphlets on his favourite subjects, though Temple had to admit that he had heard of none of the publications in question, and had a strong suspicion that they were long since out of print.
The address of Sir Felix was given as 492 Maupassant Avenue, St. John’s Wood, and as this happened to be the 1935 edition of Who’s Who, he had obviously been settled there for some considerable time.
Temple stood for a few moments on the steps of the British Museum, and as the sun was shining invitingly, he decided to walk down to Scotland Yard, where he had arranged to meet Sir Graham Forbes at eleven-thirty.
As he walked, Temple turned over the question of Sir Felix Reybourn in his mind, examining it from every possible angle. Why should an elderly man, with apparently an absorbing interest in civilisations of long ago, become in any way involved with modern gangster-dom? What could he hope to gain? Money? Apparently, Sir Felix had managed to obtain finance for several Egyptian expeditions. Was it a case of Jekyll and Hyde again, with the Egyptologist activities as a cloak for diabolical criminal exploits? Or was Sir Felix himself a victim of The Marquis, who was unscrupulously diverting attention from himself by throwing suspicion upon one of his minions? Yet what crime could Sir Felix have committed to bring him within The Marquis’ relentless clutches?
Temple strode down Charing Cross Road immersed in thought, bumping into song pluggers, variety artistes, typists carrying tea trays, and milliners’ assistants with parcels, and leaving a train of muttered imprecations behind him.
At Scotland Yard he found Forbes in his office, moodily adding fresh details to the evidence in his files, and gloomily reflecting that the aforesaid details amounted to practically nothing at all.
“Pretty folders you have there, Sir Graham,” commented Temple with a smile as he accepted a cigarette. “They must cheer you up considerably in times like this.”
“Humph!” grunted Sir Graham, pushing four of the folders out of sight. “Well, what have you got to suggest?”
Temple merely took a long draw at his cigarette and strolled over to the window.
“Have you heard of a man named Dukes?” he asked.
“Dukes? There’s a little dope peddler named Lannie Dukes.”
Temple nodded thoughtfully.
“That sounds like the man. Think you can find him?”
“Why?”
“He was at 79a Bombay Road. Sammy Wren said he was taking his orders from him.”
“Do you think Wren was telling the truth?”
Temple smiled. “I think I knew enough about Sammy to ensure that he always told me the truth.”
“All right, I’ll put Ross on to Lannie Dukes as soon as he co
mes in. And now what are you going to do?”
Temple flicked the ash from his cigarette.
“I’m going out to tea on my own invitation,” he announced.
“What the devil—” began Forbes, irritably.
“Steady, Sir Graham. I haven’t told you the name of my host yet.”
“I don’t see what it has to do with this infernal murder,” snapped Forbes.
“That remains to be proved. You see, I’m proposing to pay a call upon the eminent Egyptologist, Sir Felix Reybourn.”
That afternoon saw Temple and Steve striding energetically past Lord’s cricket ground until they arrived at the sweeping curve of Maupassant Avenue, with its pleasant lime trees and dignified Georgian mansions standing well back from the roadway.
Since Number 492 was obviously at least half-a-mile from where they entered the avenue, they strolled on, discussing the mystery of The Marquis in all its latest aspects. Steve suddenly stopped.
“We must have passed it, darling. There’s 489 over there, and the numbers run that way—”
“This must be it,” said Temple a minute later, indicating a grey stone building which appeared to be numberless.
“It’s between 490 and 494, so by reductio ad absurdum …” Temple was saying, when Steve grabbed his arm.
“Paul, I’m getting scared. What on earth will you say to Sir Felix? Don’t you think it would have been better if you had written or telephoned first?”
“And you an ex-reporter!” he chaffed her, lightly. “Didn’t you ever learn anything about the value of the surprise element? Why, that scoop of yours when you interviewed Bernard Shaw would never have come off if you’d written for permission. You just happened to catch him in an idle moment when his thoughts were running on women’s suffrage!”
“Darling, this is no joke!” she protested. “What are you going to say to Sir Felix?”
He turned and faced her as they stood beneath a large yew tree in the drive.
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