Paul Temple Intervenes

by Francis Durbridge

  During their search, they heard a sound which caused Steve to pause for a moment and grip Temple’s arm: through the stillness of the evening came the strange eerie howling of a bloodhound. It began with a deep bay, and ended on a prolonged wailing note.

  “We seem to have been provided with appropriate sound effects,” commented Temple, and Steve forced a smile.

  They listened in silence. After a few minutes, the noise stopped, and Temple turned his attention to the door again. The narrowly-focussed beam from the electric torch flickered across the front of the house.

  “There doesn’t seem to be a knocker, only a letter-box,” he whispered. Neither was there any sign of a bell. Temple was about to rattle the letter-box and in doing so he pressed against the door.

  “By Timothy! It’s open!” he exclaimed in surprise.

  He was pushing it open wider, but Steve laid a hand on his arm.

  “Darling—we can’t go in,” she breathed.

  “Keep your torch handy,” he replied, “and don’t be scared, Steve!”

  “Paul, do be careful!”

  Temple took Steve’s arm, and focussing the torch ahead, they advanced slowly into the stone-flagged hall; a grandfather clock ticked with measured beat and a slight clanking of the pendulum sounded almost deafening in the intense silence.

  “I’m sure we shouldn’t—” Steve was starting to protest, when Temple interrupted her by calling out: “Hello there! Anybody at home?”

  His voice died abruptly into echoes.

  “H’m, it seems deserted,” he murmured.

  “Don’t you think we ought to get back to Sir Graham and—”

  “All right,” he agreed, “we’ll just take a look in here first.” He opened a door on the left and swept his torch round the room. It was furnished in very much the style Temple had expected. There were several Hepplewhite chairs and a quaint writing bureau in the far corner.

  “Empty,” he pronounced, laconically. “Looks like the morning room.”

  “What a lovely old coffee set in that cupboard,” said Steve. “I’m sure it’s Wedgwood.”

  “Speaking as an interested layman, I should say you were right.”

  Temple crossed the room, leaving Steve standing somewhere near the door. He was moving very silently on rubber-soled shoes, and had switched off his torch. The moon was shining through one of the windows, lighting up one corner as its beams came obliquely across the room, throwing the rest of it into rather more intense shadow.

  “Don’t do that, darling, you made me jump,” said Steve, suddenly. She had her back to the room, and was trying to examine the corner cupboard.

  Temple looked round in surprise.

  “What d’you mean?” he asked.

  “You touched my hand, dear.”

  Temple made an involuntary movement.

  “I could hardly have done that when I was over here, quite ten feet away.”

  “But you’re touching it now,” protested Steve, from the gloomy corner where she was standing.

  Temple swung the torch full on her, and had some difficulty in restraining a gasp.

  “For God’s sake don’t move!” he breathed.

  “What is it? Paul, what is it?”

  “Don’t move, Steve! Don’t move!” he repeated, in even tones. He was trying not to alarm her. He half-turned away from her, took out his automatic and aimed very carefully at two beady eyes in the V-shaped head of the snake which was sliding over the arm of a chair.

  Steve watched in terrific fascination. The snake withdrew its head suddenly, and Temple had to move to a fresh position. The light of the torch seemed to dazzle the reptile. He was taking careful aim again when the room was suddenly flooded with light, and Temple swung round abruptly. At the door stood Sir Felix Reybourn, with Mrs. Clarence hovering in the background.

  “Oh dear, it’s that Tina again!” said the housekeeper, in some annoyance. She crossed over towards the snake, which vanished under a sofa.

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Temple,” said Reybourn reassuringly. “Tina is quite harmless, though she will roam about in awkward places!”

  With a smile Temple replaced his automatic pistol.

  “Now come along, Tina,” admonished Mrs. Clarence. She began making soothing noises, and eventually ran the reptile to earth in a corner, where – to Steve’s bewilderment – she calmly picked it up and carried the snake out of the room.

  Open-mouthed, Steve watched her, and when she had gone, sighed audibly in relief.

  “I’m sorry if Tina upset you, Mrs. Temple,” Sir Felix apologised. “I keep a lot of pets, you know, down here. Most of them are quite harmless, but perhaps a little terrifying.”

  “Surely she’s a viper,” said Temple.

  “Oh yes—one of the most dangerous till her fangs were extracted. But she’s amazingly tame nowadays. Sensitive too. I daresay she was just as scared as you were!” He laughed somewhat deprecatingly.

  “By jove, you must think me quite a character! I’m a zoologist in my spare time, you know, Mrs. Temple, so that accounts for the strange collection of friends. Shall we go into the drawing-room? There’s a fire in there.”

  He led the way, letting them pass out of the room before him. As he paused at the door to switch off the light, a thought obviously occurred to him.

  “Oh Mr. Temple, forgive my asking, but how did you manage to get into the house?”

  Somewhat taken aback, Temple hesitated, and it was left to Steve to fill the breach. She smiled disarmingly.

  “It was very presumptuous of us, Sir Felix, but the front door was partly open, and we couldn’t make anyone hear.”

  “Open?” repeated Reybourn, in surprise. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course,” said Temple. “See—it’s still open—”

  Sir Felix crossed to the door, peered out for a moment, then closed it.

  “That’s very extraordinary. I don’t see how it could have happened.”

  “Have you been away from the house very long?”

  “Yes, it must be at least an hour and a half,” calculated Sir Felix, thoughtfully. “After we left you at the inn, Mrs. Temple, we came straight back here, then we went on to Ferndale Court, Lord Breckton’s place. He’s an old crony of mine, who lives about half-a-mile away. We left there about—well—fifteen minutes ago I should think.”

  “I suppose Lord Breckton could verify that,” suggested Temple.

  Reybourn seemed faintly annoyed.

  “Of course he could verify it – if you consider that necessary,” he replied, rather petulantly.

  “It may be necessary,” answered Temple, slowly.

  “What d’you mean?” demanded Reybourn, the colour mounting to his sallow features.

  Temple pointed to a dark, moist stain that was visible near the door.

  Reybourn stooped and examined it. He touched it with his finger then slowly recoiled.

  “Good God, it’s blood!” he cried. There was no mistaking the panic in his voice. “But—but how could blood get there?”

  Temple leaned against an antique oak chest.

  “Now Sir Felix, let us be quite honest with each other. What does that suggest to you?”

  Sir Felix’s brow was corrugated in deep thought.

  “Well,” he said at last, “it looks to me as if someone has been badly hurt and then taken through the front door and out of the house.”

  “Just so,” Temple nodded. He paused before adding as he looked full into Reybourn’s eyes: “Did you take anyone out of the house tonight, Sir Felix?”

  The Egyptologist backed in alarm.

  “No! No! I swear I never—”

  He was interrupted by a sudden shriek, which was repeated almost immediately. Then there was a sound of footsteps, a door was flung open and Mrs. Clarence came rushing into the hall in a state of great agitation.

  “Sir Felix!” she screamed.

  “My dear Mrs. Clarence, whatever’s the matter?” He went over and supported
her.

  “I—I—was drawing the curtains in the library,” she panted, “and … and … “

  “Easy now, Mrs. Clarence. Take your time!”

  “I must be seeing things, Sir Felix!” she gasped.

  “Please tell us what you saw, Mrs. Clarence,” urged Temple.

  She clutched a corner of her apron.

  “I happened to look through the library window. It’s bright moonlight outside now, and … oh, Sir Felix, there’s a body out there!”

  She collapsed into hysterics.

  “Look after her, Steve,” said Temple, quickly. “Come on, Sir Felix – which is the best way?”

  “Through the front door—it’s only round the bend!”

  In a few seconds they were standing beneath the library window.

  The man was lying face downwards.

  “Poor devil,” murmured Reybourn, “Is he…?”

  Temple stooped. “Yes, I’m afraid so,” he presently announced.

  “Oh, my God,” said Reybourn softly.

  Temple switched his torch full on the features of the dead man.

  “Have you seen this man before, Sir Felix?”

  “No—honestly I haven’t,” replied the other, in earnest tones. “I’ve never set eyes on him in my life.” He seemed very upset, but presently asked: “Have you any idea who he is, Mr. Temple?”

  “I have,” said Temple shortly.

  He switched off the torch.

  “His name is Derek Slater.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ACCIDENTAL DEATH?

  Sir Graham Forbes toyed with a bright new puce folder which was labelled ‘Derek Slater,’ opened it and ran through its meagre contents for the tenth time. They consisted of Slater’s statement, which had been typed out and signed, a few rough notes taken by Sir Graham and Bradley, a letter from a theatrical manager which was in Slater’s wallet, and finally the inevitable card with its inscription in purple ink, which had been discovered in Slater’s vest pocket.

  Paul Temple sat on one arm of a chair, absorbed in The Daily Record Literary Supplement, where his latest novel was far too briefly reviewed for his liking. True, the last five chapters had been written almost entirely on the outward trip to America in less than a fortnight in order to fulfil a promise to his publisher, yet Temple felt that it merited rather more than half-a-dozen lines of cynically written synopsis of the plot.

  He passed on to the painfully prolix reviews of books written by politicians, newspaper-men and refugees. Finally, he tossed the paper aside and began an irritating argument with Sir Graham concerning the death of Derek Slater.

  Temple persisted that although the case against Sir Felix Reybourn appeared conclusive, it was all just a little too cut and dried, as if it had been contrived very deliberately by an enemy who was planning Sir Felix’s downfall. Forbes became more and more annoyed, until he finally closed his folder and banged it with his fist.

  “I can’t see it at all, Temple. You’re barking up the wrong tree altogether.”

  “I suggest you smoke one of your excellent cigars,” suggested Temple, equably. “It will give you a mellower outlook on life in general, and you’ll realise that poor Sir Felix is just an innocent victim of a master mind.”

  “Dammit man, this isn’t one of your detective novels,” broke in Forbes, testily.

  Temple picked up his paper and folded it carefully, a far-away look in his eyes. “D’you mind if I try one of your cigars?”

  Forbes pushed the box towards him.

  “That’s your trouble, Temple, if you don’t mind my saying so. You’ve got the fiction writer’s outlook. Because suspicion falls heavily on Sir Felix, you leap to the conclusion automatically that he’s innocent. It won’t do, you know, Temple. You have only to read the papers to see that these things don’t happen once in a hundred cases.”

  Temple drew a luxurious mouthful of smoke from his cigar.

  “These are even better than pre-war, Sir Graham,’’ he declared, inconsequently. “Really, I’m amazed!”

  Forbes made an impatient gesture.

  “I’ve given this matter a great deal of thought, Temple, and it’s my contention that Sir Felix Reybourn is The Marquis.”

  “Then,” said Temple, puffing a neat ring of blue smoke into the air, “why don’t you arrest him, Sir Graham?”

  “I have already issued a warrant,” replied Forbes. Temple dropped his paper, and for the first time since his arrival at the Yard seemed really interested in the proceedings.

  “I sent Bradley down to Bevensey first thing this morning,” continued Forbes. “He had a warrant on a charge of murdering Derek Slater.”

  “For the murder of Derek Slater?” repeated Temple, incredulously.

  “And why not?” snapped Forbes. “Good God man, whether Reybourn is The Marquis or not, you’re not going to tell me he didn’t murder Derek Slater!”

  Inspector Ross looked up from a report he was writing at a desk in a distant corner.

  “He murdered Slater all right; there’s nothing more certain,” he declared, confidently.

  Temple turned to the speaker.

  “Really, Inspector?” he murmured suavely. “What makes you think so?”

  Ross propped his chin on his hand.

  “Oh come now, Mr. Temple,” he expostulated. “In the first place, after you and Sir Graham left Kellaway Manor, the rest of us made a search for the power-house in the wood. When we found the place, it was deserted.”

  “Well?” said Temple.

  “During that search – it was pretty foggy remember – we lost Slater.”

  “Good God!” cried Temple. “Why didn’t you say so when you got back?”

  “We didn’t get much chance – with all that scare about Mrs. Temple’s abduction, and making plans to go to Reybourn’s,” Ross reminded him. “Bradley and I have been on the carpet about it,” he declared ruefully with a glance at Sir Graham, “but we took it for granted that the poor devil had got the wind up and gone back to Town. What actually happened, however, is pretty obvious.”

  “Then supposing you tell us what actually happened,” Temple suggested.

  “Well, sir, in my opinion, Sir Felix was in the power-house. He had plenty of time to get there after leaving The Silver Swan. After the mine went off, he made a dash for it, and by accident or design bumped into Slater. He may have ordered him to go to the powerhouse – or perhaps Slater merely ran in that direction by chance. Reybourn knocked Slater out, bundled him into his car and took him back to Greensea House.”

  “Wouldn’t it be rather an exertion for an old gentleman to carry an unconscious man all that way?”

  “He’d probably got confederates,” replied Ross. “Until it got dark, the body was kept indoors at Greensea House, then with a bit of help from Mrs. Clarence – or whoever was around – the body was dumped in the shrubbery. It’s my contention that they were actually doing this when you and Mrs. Temple arrived.”

  “H’m …” murmured Temple, non-committally, but Forbes was more enthusiastic.

  “I agree, Ross! I agree one hundred per cent!”

  “You see, Mr. Temple,” pursued Ross, gaining more confidence. “It fits together like a jig-saw puzzle.”

  “I’ve a feeling you’re going to have some bits left over,” mused Temple. “Still, carry on, Inspector.”

  “When you and Mrs. Temple arrived, the door was open,” went on Ross. “If Sir Felix and Mrs. Clarence were at the back of the house, as I suspect, then they’d be likely to leave the door open. It would be, more or less, a natural thing to do.”

  “Yes, but just a minute, Ross,” interposed the Chief Commissioner. “We’ve checked up that alibi. Both Sir Felix and Mrs. Clarence were at Lord Breckton’s place till six-thirty.”

  Ross was momentarily nonplussed.

  “If I might suggest an alternative theory,” put in Temple, diffidently. “Supposing Ross to be right, and that the person escaping from the power-house bumped into Slat
er and knocked him out. Now assume that this person was not Sir Felix, but someone who wanted to throw suspicion – or shall we say continue to throw suspicion – on to Sir Felix.”

  Forbes looked up sharply.

  “What then?” he asked curiously.

  “Well now, they’d take Slater to Greensea House, and when they found the place empty – Sir Felix and Mrs. Clarence being at Lord Breckton’s – they’d open the front door with a skeleton key and dump Slater in the hall.”

  “But he was found in the shrubbery.”

  “Of course he was! For the simple reason that when Slater was left at the house, he wasn’t dead. He managed to get up and open the front door. Instinctively, he left it open, and then staggered out into the drive. It was getting dark. The poor devil was frightened, and would hardly know what he was doing. He stumbled round the side of the house, and fell into the shrubbery.”

  “M’m,” nodded Forbes. “An interesting theory at any rate.”

  But Ross was frankly sceptical.

  “Aren’t you stretching it a bit, Mr. Temple, when you jump to the conclusion that Slater could get into Sir Felix’s house as easily as all that?”

  “Why not? If he hadn’t a skeleton key, he might even have had a pass key. A man who was out to throw suspicion consistently upon Sir Felix might be expected to go to considerable trouble to obtain a duplicate of all his keys. They would be practically indispensable to such a person,” insisted Temple.

  Forbes laughed. “No, no, Temple! You’d better go and write a novel about it. That’s the best thing you can do with that idea, and it’s about all your theory’s good for.”

  “There’s only one person with a key to Greensea House,” declared Ross, dogmatically, “and that is Sir Felix himself. I’m absolutely convinced he’s the man who murdered Slater.”

  Temple shrugged.

  “Well, I’m delighted to hear you say that, Inspector. There’s nothing I like better than to hear a man say he’s absolutely convinced about something.” He paused, then continued in a detached sort of voice. “So Sir Felix left the power-house, bumped into Slater, knocked him out, and, instead of leaving him in the wood, took him all the way back to Greensea House, and more or less dumped him at his own front door.”