Paul Temple Intervenes

by Francis Durbridge

  He paused and accepted a cigarette which Temple lighted for him.

  “Of course, it took me completely by surprise,” he continued, puffing gratefully. “For a split second I lost my nerve – I didn’t know what to do. Luckily, I got a grip on myself before it was too late. I made up my mind like a flash, wrenched at the wheel, swung the car round, and headed for the blighter. I’m getting just about worn out with these ‘incidents,’ and I thought I’d settle the issue once and for all. In fact, looking back, I realise now that I was simply seething with rage as soon as it had dawned on me that this was yet another attempt on my life.” Storey’s jaw tightened and his eyes seemed to smoulder at the recollection.

  “I could see quite clearly that it was a young man driving the other car – a large, six-cylinder Packard. What’s more, I could see that I had him on the hop. He hadn’t expected any sort of retaliation, and the next we knew was his car had toppled into the ditch, where he had intended to send me. I slammed on my brakes for all I was worth as I shot past him, and as I pulled up I saw him scramble out of his car and make a dash for it. I was pretty badly shaken up, but I was still seething with rage, and I could see it was a case of ‘now or never.’ So I went after the swine.”

  “Did you catch him?”

  “Yes,” replied Storey, a gleam in his eye. “I caught him all right, but I had to knock him almost unconscious – we had the devil of a scrap. That’s how I got this arm so badly knocked about. However, I managed to get him back to the car and brought him straight here.”

  “Smart work,” nodded Temple. Storey took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

  “I don’t mind admitting a few more days like this will finish me,” he declared with some emphasis. Sir Graham passed him half a tumbler of whisky. “You’ll be all right now, Storey. Tell us about this fellow.”

  Storey took a gulp at the whisky.

  “His name is Slater—Derek Slater,” he told them.

  “I’ve just sent for him, Temple,” put in Forbes, noticing that Storey was still feeling the strain. “As far as we can gather, he’s an actor of sorts. Pretty highly strung at that. I shouldn’t think he’s more than twenty-two, though he says he’s thirty.”

  “Will he talk?”

  Forbes shook his head. “Not a syllable. At least, Bradley can’t get anything out of him. Whether he’s handling the boy right I don’t know.”

  The door opened to admit the subject of their conversation, escorted by Bradley, who wore a nonplussed expression.

  The young man was certainly the unconventional type. His hair was a couple of inches too long in front, and flopped over his eyes from time to time. He affected dark corduroy trousers with a light brown coat and orange hand-woven tie.

  Forbes dismissed Bradley, asking Storey to accompany him downstairs and see the police surgeon who had just arrived. When they had gone out, the Chief Commissioner turned to Derek Slater and indicated a chair.

  “Sit down Slater,” he commanded, gruffly.

  Derek Slater was patently very much overwrought. His lower lip had been bitten until it was bleeding slightly, and there was a wild, desperate look in his eye, such as one might expect from a cornered animal. Temple noticed that a muscle in his face twitched convulsively from time to time. However, he took the chair Forbes indicated without any demur. “Now Slater,” said Forbes quite kindly. “Superintendent Bradley tells me you refuse to talk. I wish you’d realise that a little co-operation would greatly benefit yourself, and—”

  “I will not stand that third degree stuff,” cried Slater, hysterically. “If the police can’t talk to me reasonably—”

  “Now calm yourself, Slater!” begged Sir Graham. “Nobody’s going to put you through third degree. If you’d prefer it, Mr. Temple here will talk to you – and he isn’t a policeman.”

  Slater looked from one to the other, the hunted expression in his eyes.

  At last Temple spoke, quietly. “Do you know the number of the car you were driving?” he asked.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Slater nodded.

  “It wasn’t your car?” hazarded Temple.

  Forbes turned to him. “The car was parked in a car-park just outside Canterbury yesterday afternoon. It was taken there by a girl. So far, we haven’t been able to trace her. Slater picked the car up this morning.”

  There was a silence. Temple eyed Slater with a thoughtful stare, while Forbes thoughtfully drummed on the desk with his paper-knife.

  “Look here,” there was a trace of hysteria in Slater’s voice. “I don’t know what all this is about. It was just an ordinary car accident – maybe I was to blame; maybe I wasn’t. But I had never set eyes on that other fellow before.”

  Temple snapped open his cigarette case.

  “Try one of these – it’ll quiet your nerves,” he offered. Slater took one and lighted it with shaking hands.

  “Now,” said Temple, “we should be interested to know who told you about this car in the first place.”

  Slater hesitated, then suddenly with an impatient gesture he flung his cigarette on the floor. “Oh for God’s sake let me alone!”

  Temple walked over and picked up the cigarette which he laid on Forbes’ desk. Then he returned to the young man.

  “Look here, Slater,” be began, quietly, “why not lay your cards on the table? You’ve got to do it sometime.” He placed one foot on another chair and looked down at Slater. “From the moment I set eyes on you,” he declared, “I knew you were being blackmailed.”

  The young man recoiled visibly.

  “It’s no ordinary blackmail either,” pursued Temple, evenly. “However, that’s beside the point. Why you are being blackmailed is no concern of ours. In fact, we are bleakly disinterested in that aspect of the case. What we are interested in is the man who is doing the blackmailing.”

  Slater moistened his lips but did not speak, and Temple continued in a soft voice: “I refer to The Marquis!”

  Disregarding Slater’s alarmed expression, he went on persuasively: “Now, supposing you stop being a damn fool—and talk!”

  But Derek Slater only shook his head, and seemed more frightened than ever. Forbes came over to him.

  “Pull yourself together, Slater,” he urged. “Remember you’re under police protection. Nothing can possibly happen to you here.”

  Slater still hesitated, as if he were weighing one plan of campaign against an alternative. Finally, he flung back his head with a histrionic gesture, and said in a definite tone:

  “All right, I’ll tell you as much as I know.”

  “I’m sure you won’t regret it,” Temple assured him. “Perhaps you’ll tell us from the beginning how you came to be involved – you needn’t tell us why you’re being blackmailed, of course. That’s entirely up to you.”

  Derek Slater leaned forward in his chair, and began in a tense voice:

  “Almost a fortnight ago, I had a telephone call from a girl. She mentioned the name of the man who has a hold over me, and said that she had been instructed to tell me to go down to Kellaway Manor, near Bevensey Bay in Sussex. When I got there I should receive further instructions.”

  “From The Marquis?” interposed Temple, swiftly.

  Slater paused, then nodded. “That was on Friday afternoon,” he continued. “The following day I went down to Bevensey, and stayed the night at the local inn, The Silver Swan. On Sunday, I set out in search of Kellaway Manor. Nobody at the pub seemed to have heard of the place, and I had the devil of a job in finding it. In fact I nearly gave it up as a bad job. Then a farm labourer put me on the trail.”

  He hesitated for a moment, then continued: “Kellaway Manor turned out to be a derelict sort of mansion on the fringe of a wood, almost fourteen miles from Bevensey. It was a creepy looking sort of place, and seemed to be deserted. The front door bell obviously didn’t work, and I knocked for a while without getting any reply. So I decided to walk round the place, and eventually I came to the back door leading into
the kitchen. The door was nearly off its hinges, so I entered. It was getting dusk then, but I could see there was a letter on the table. I picked it up and saw it was addressed to me.”

  “You mean that was the letter which gave you all the instructions about the Packard and the garage at Canterbury, and the ‘accident’ with Mr. Storey?” queried Temple, a trace of incredulity in his voice.

  “I know it sounds like a fairy tale,” said Slater, desperately, “but I tell you it’s true!”

  “But this is absurd,” protested Forbes. “Why didn’t he send you the letter in the first place – or get the girl on the phone to give you the instructions?”

  “I don’t know!” cried Slater more wildly than ever. “He always works in that cursed roundabout way. I swear to God I’m telling you the truth!”

  Forbes shrugged his shoulders dubiously, but made one or two notes. Temple offered Slater another cigarette, as he said: “Did you recognise the voice of that girl on the phone?”

  Slater shook his head.

  “Pity,” said Temple, pacing thoughtfully over to the window.

  Forbes confronted Derek Slater again.

  “Are you really expecting us to believe that the blackmailer had such a hold over you that he could force you into a car collision which might have meant your death?” he persisted.

  “It was to have been the last … settlement,” Slater replied, in a low voice. “I had to take a chance. In any case life wasn’t worth living. I’d have been better off in gaol.”

  “Did you keep that letter you found in the kitchen?” asked Temple.

  “No. I was told to destroy it immediately: that was in the postscript.”

  “How did you destroy it?”

  Slater thought for a moment.

  “I—I tore it up into little pieces, screwed them into a ball, and threw it into the bushes in the back garden.”

  “H’m,” murmured Temple. He turned to Sir Graham.

  “Well sir, it looks as if a visit to Kellaway Manor is indicated.”

  Slater sprang to his feet.

  “No! No! For God’s sake keep away from there!” he cried, in agitated tones.

  “Why do you say that?” countered Temple, swiftly.

  Slater relapsed again.

  “I—I don’t know. But there’s some devil’s work going on at that place. I’m sure of it!”

  “All the more reason,” said Temple quietly, “why it should be cleaned up without any delay.”

  Slater drew a bewildered hand across his brow in dramatic fashion, but said no more. He was being detained for the night at Scotland Yard, and after Bradley had taken him away, Forbes turned to Temple.

  “Temple, you don’t think this might be the place we’re looking for? You know, the headquarters where The Marquis—” His voice trailed away as he speculated on the possibilities of the theory.

  “Well, Temple,” he said at last, arousing himself from his reverie, “what’s your opinion of this Derek Slater business?”

  “I think,” replied Temple, suavely, “that Derek Slater has the makings of a very promising young actor.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  KELLAWAY MANOR

  The offices of Bridley, Taggart and Avery Limited were situated on the second floor of a dignified Victorian building overlooking Cambridge Circus. It would not have been easy to define the exact scope of their business. Their main occupation was the presentation of plays in the West End of London (always providing they could discover the necessary financial backing) but they also conducted a brisk trade as theatrical agents, producers of repertory and touring companies, press agents for theatres and artistes, and publicity and advertising consultants for any type of stage enterprise.

  Pete Bridley, the father of the firm, was in retirement now except for a very occasional visit to the office. George Taggart was usually on tour with one or other of the firm’s enterprises, and it was left to Dan Avery to hold the fort in the office.

  The firm had been responsible for the presentation of Temple’s first play, Dan Avery having persuaded a Northern steel merchant that it was worth a gamble. That the gamble failed to materialise any profits did not influence Dan in the least. He pacified his backer – Temple never knew quite how – offered his author one of the famous cigars he kept in his safe, and bade him go and write another play.

  He would be a very adamant person who failed to like Dan Avery, and Temple had taken to the brisk little man right from the start of their acquaintance. Dan had turned down his second play in such a pleasant and benevolent manner, that an outsider would have been quite convinced that he was doing the author a very great favour. The play had been eventually produced by another management, and when it had scored a minor success, Dan had been one of the first to congratulate Temple.

  However, Dan was quite impressed by Temple’s latest play, and had taken an option on it before the novelist sailed for America. Since then, there had been no news, so that Temple decided to pay his sponsor a visit. He knew that Dan arrived at his office promptly at nine-thirty every morning, so he strolled in soon after ten, having arranged to meet Forbes at eleven for their trip to Kellaway Manor.

  Already four or five actors and actresses were lounging in Bridley, Taggart and Avery’s outer office, eyeing every newcomer with a mixture of intense suspicion and calculated charm. The fact that Temple was immediately ushered into Dan Avery’s sanctum created a minor sensation to the accompaniment of raised eyebrows, knowing looks and sotto voce comments.

  Dan welcomed his visitor with a cheerful smile that was perhaps his greatest asset.

  “Why Temple old man, I’d no idea you were back. I’ve been trying to find out your whereabouts this past three weeks.” This statement was not exactly true, but Temple let it pass.

  “Nothing wrong, I hope,” he said, taking the comfortable chair Dan indicated.

  “No, no, everything’s fine,” replied Dan, quickly. “I got an offer for the play from Dinmonts.” Temple looked puzzled for a moment.

  “But I thought they were a rival firm of yours?”

  Dan shrugged.

  “My boy, we can’t afford to have rivals in this business. If a man comes to me with a good offer, I don’t care if he’s the Commissioner of Inland Revenue!” He went to the safe and took out the famous box of cigars. Temple tried to refuse one, but Dan pressed it on him. “Smoke it some other time, my boy, if it’s too early now.” He took one himself, carefully cut off the end, and lighted it.

  “What’s Dinmonts’ proposition?” asked Temple.

  Dan blew out a cloud of smoke.

  “You see it’s like this. They’ve got the Commodore going dark at the end of next month, and they want something to follow Honourable Lady. The same sort of thing: intimate comedy with one or two thrills.”

  For a little while they discussed the Dinmont contract, then Temple said: “By the way Dan, did you ever come across an actor named Derek Slater?”

  He knew that Avery was a walking ‘Who’s Who’ concerning the theatrical profession and its foibles.

  The little man fingered the heavy gold watch chain he always wore across his ample stomach.

  “Derek Slater,” he ruminated, “Yes, I know Derek. He worked for me in the tour of Love Me Tonight! Did a lot of work in ‘rep’ before that. I think he was in with that arty crowd at Oxford for a while, you know, a couple of leads and a dozen premium pupils.”

  “What d’you know about Slater?” put in Temple, to forestall one of Dan’s pet harangues on the subject of amateurs.

  “Not a bad actor,” pronounced Dan. “Not at all bad. Given the right part, he might make a West End name.” He eyed Temple suspiciously.

  “Has he been getting at you for the lead in your play?” he demanded. “Because, if he has I can tell you right away—”

  “No, no,” Temple interposed. “I happened to meet him in a different connection altogether, and I just wondered how reliable he was.”

  “Damned unreliable if you
ask me,” replied Dan. “You know what actors are, and he’s no better’n any of ‘em. And besides …”

  He hesitated.

  “Yes?” said Temple.

  “Mean to say you didn’t notice?”

  Temple looked at him inquiringly.

  “Slater’s shot to pieces with dope,” said Dan. “I thought everybody knew that.”

  Temple nodded slowly.

  “That’s all I want to know,” he murmured.

  After a highly indigestible lunch at The Silver Swan, the Scotland Yard contingent, with Temple and Derek Slater, set out for Kellaway Manor. Steve had insisted on accompanying them to Bevensey, but her husband had persuaded her to remain at the inn until they returned. This had not been so difficult as he had anticipated, probably because it was a bleak day in late autumn, with a chill grey mist swirling in from the sea, and the roaring wood fire in the lounge appeared infinitely more attractive than the prospect of a fourteen-mile drive. However, Steve had expressed great disappointment, protesting as always that she was capable of looking after herself.

  Derek Slater was much more subdued than in his previous moods and almost inclined to be sullen. He let it be understood that he was being taken to Kellaway Manor against his will, and more than once was heard to declare that he would take no responsibility for the consequences. This had evoked a sharp retort from Forbes, who was immersed in his plan of campaign, and was irritated by the young man’s attitude.

  The mist seemed to grow thicker when they started, but after the first few miles it cleared a little.

  “My God, what weather!” growled Forbes. “A good job we left Steve at the pub.” He wiped the inside of the windscreen for the twentieth time without effecting any noticeable improvement. A large lorry suddenly loomed from the mist ahead, and as the police driver rigorously applied his brakes, Temple had visions of another ‘accident.’ But the lorry slowed down to its left side as it clattered past and vanished in the distance. Soon, they came to a deserted cross-roads with a tilting finger-post, the words being hardly discernible. They turned right at Slater’s direction.