Paul Temple Intervenes

by Francis Durbridge

  He turned to Forbes.

  “If I wrote that story, Sir Graham, I’ve a feeling I’d have some difficulty in finding a publisher!”

  A sergeant interrupted them with the news that Roger Storey was outside waiting to see Temple.

  “We’ll have him in here, if you don’t mind, Sir Graham. He may have stumbled on another piece of information,” said Temple. Forbes agreed, and a few seconds later Roger entered.

  With his arm slung in a black silk scarf, the young man seemed to have regained some of his old nonchalance. He came in briskly, nodded to Ross and smiled engagingly at Forbes and Temple, who could not help noticing that he wore an extremely well-fitting suit, which looked as if it had only just left the tailors. Indeed, Temple could recall that Storey had worn three other suits since they first met – all of them of an expensive material and cut. There seemed to be no limitations to the young man’s wardrobe.

  He appeared to be supremely conscious that he was well-dressed, and he came across to Forbes’ desk.

  “I do hope I’m not making a nuisance of myself, Sir Graham,” he apologised.

  “You look much better, Storey,” said Temple. “And you almost tempt me to ask you to divulge the name of your tailor.”

  “As long as you don’t ask me to divulge how much I owe him,” Storey grinned.

  Forbes eyed the young man keenly.

  “I gather you want a word with Temple alone,” he said, rising from his chair, But Storey held up his hand.

  “No, no—please Sir Graham. You must all stay. I did try and get you on the telephone, Temple, but your man said you were here. So I thought there was no time to be lost …”

  With his free hand he was extracting a letter from an awkwardly placed inside pocket. “This will explain the reason why I’m in such a hurry.” He handed over the letter to Temple, who opened it and read:

  The Hon. Charles Serflane,

  284B Park Lane, W1

  Dear Sir,

  I have in my possession four letters which were written by you to Miss Laraine Curtis on August 7th, 10th, 14th and 17th of last year. It is my opinion that these letters are worth precisely seven thousand pounds, and I would suggest, therefore, that you take the necessary steps to secure this amount. Having done so, put the money in a small leather suitcase, and hand it over to a young lady who will meet you at the entrance to Oxford Circus tube station tomorrow evening at six-thirty. It is imperative that you carry out these instructions personally.

  The Marquis.

  Temple passed on the letter to Forbes, who read it and handed it to Ross. “When did this arrive?” asked Temple.

  “Yesterday morning,” replied Storey. “The poor devil was in the hell of a state. Didn’t know which way to turn, and in desperation he came to me.”

  “Why?” asked Ross in a puzzled voice. “Why didn’t he come to Scotland Yard?”

  “Because he was frightened. The very thought of a scandal has nearly given him heart failure. He doesn’t stand too well with his people at the moment – they haven’t forgotten his flutter with the Curtis girl – and he daren’t risk anything like this coming out.” He hesitated, then added by way of explanation: “You see, Charles and I were at Oxford together.”

  Forbes traced patterns on his blotter with his paper-knife.

  “This Laraine Curtis,” he said, “who is she?”

  “One of the show girls at The Highstepper Club. Charles was crazy on her for a while, but the affair cooled off. I’ve already ‘phoned her about the letters.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Apparently, they were stolen from her flat. Nothing else was missing, so she decided she wouldn’t make a fuss about it, for Charles’ sake. She was quite fond of him, you see.”

  “H’m,” mused Forbes. “I suppose it is possible.” But the tone in which he spoke was more than a trifle sceptical. “You don’t think she’s mixed up in this affair, Storey? Could she have any connection with The Marquis?”

  “It’s possible of course,” conceded Roger. “She’s a typical hard-boiled Cabaret girl who mixes with all sorts of men as long as they pay the bill. But the last I heard she was engaged to get married.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if she’d be interested in blackmail at this stage,” said Ross. “Those girls get a tenner a week and most of their meals cost them nothing.”

  Temple, who had been carefully examining the envelope, told them that the letter had been posted at Wimbledon.

  “That’s my part of the world,” said Ross, glancing up from the report he was still writing. “Look well if the blighter’s living on my doorstep.”

  “Wimbledon’s a fair-sized place,” said Temple.

  Ross grinned. “Don’t I know it! I patrolled every blessed back alley for over seven years. Most people outside Wimbledon seem to think it’s just a dozen tennis courts.”

  Forbes turned to Storey.

  “When are you seeing Serflane?” he asked.

  “This morning, Sir Graham. We’re lunching together.”

  The Chief Commissioner thoughtfully stroked his chin.

  “All right. Tell him not to worry – we’ll be looking after him. He must do exactly as the letter says.” He ignored Storey’s surprised exclamation. “It doesn’t matter about the seven thousand – he can use an empty suitcase, but he must meet the girl. That’s absolutely essential! You understand that, Storey?”

  “Yes, Sir Graham.”

  Forbes turned to Ross. “Our best plan would be for you to take half-a-dozen men,” he decided. “And you may as well pick up Serflane on the way there, so’s you can identify him. But keep well out of sight in the tube.”

  He was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Superintendent Bradley.

  “You’ve been quick, Bradley,” said Forbes, rather mystified. “Is anything the matter? Did you get Sir Felix all right?”

  Bradley hesitated for a moment, obviously excited.

  “He’d left with Mrs. Clarence before I got there,” he announced.

  “You mean you’ve lost them?”

  Bradley shook his head. “They left Bevensey by road soon after nine o’clock. Just outside Barking, the car skidded and overturned.”

  “Phew!” whistled Ross.

  “Mrs. Clarence was only shaken, it was an absolute miracle,” Bradley continued. There was a pause, then Forbes asked: “And Sir Felix?”

  “Sir Felix,” said Bradley, deliberately, “is dead.”

  The men looked at each other.

  “My God, I don’t believe it!” said Roger at last.

  “Who identified the body?” asked Forbes.

  There was yet another pause before Bradley said: “I did, Sir Graham!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  PAUL TEMPLE KEEPS AN APPOINTMENTt

  Paul Temple was strangely restless for the remainder of the day. He insisted upon taking Steve to lunch, and in the ornately decorated dining-room of the Cosmopolitan Grill he told her that there was an idea seething in his brain, and that he felt sure that noise would prove the right accompaniment to its satisfactory development.

  “But darling, how can you possibly think in the midst of all this noise?” protested the bewildered Steve.

  “In your newspaper days,” he reminded her, “you told me you often wrote your stuff with the telephones buzzing, sub-editors rushing about, and boys screaming for copy.”

  “Yes, but you wouldn’t exactly call that creative work,” she pointed out.

  “Don’t argue with me, darling,” he pleaded. “Just eat and agree with me if I make a remark that seems not quite sane. And now let’s gossip for all we’re worth – the same as everyone else. Tell me, what have you been doing this morning?”

  Steve smiled as she said: “I went to Scotland Yard.”

  He looked up quizzically.

  “Oh—why Scotland Yard?”

  “You remember, darling. Superintendent Bradley asked me to call and look at some photographs of that man Gleason.”
>
  “Ah, yes! Was he the man they suspected?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes—he was Lannie Dukes all right, but according to Bradley, he seems to have disappeared. Ross has been looking for him for some days, but after the raid on that house in Bombay Road he appears to have vanished from all his regular haunts.”

  “Oh well,” said Temple, frowning over the menu, “I daresay it’s only a matter of time …”

  After he had ordered lunch, Steve suddenly leaned forward and said: “Paul—you didn’t tell me about Sir Felix.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Superintendent Bradley.”

  Somewhat abruptly Temple said: “Don’t go upsetting yourself, Steve.”

  “But darling, Sir Felix seemed such a harmless old man.”

  “Forbes has a strong suspicion that he’s The Marquis. At any rate, he’s quite certain he murdered Slater.”

  “Murdered Slater?” Steve echoed incredulously, for she had begun to acquire a liking for Sir Felix, with his dry, rasping voice, charming manners, and quaint sense of humour. “Surely, if he were a murderer, he’d have killed us long ago – or tried to. He’s had plenty of opportunity, and a certain amount of provocation.”

  Temple shook his head, “Anyhow, we’ll soon find out one thing now.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Whether Forbes is right about Sir Felix being The Marquis.”

  They relapsed into silence, speculating on the possibilities of the idea. Over coffee, Steve noticed that Temple’s thoughts were far away, so she glanced at the lunchtime edition of the evening paper which she had bought outside. In the ‘Stop Press’ there was a stereotyped report of Sir Felix’s accident, which might well have been sent in by the local correspondent of the paper, and slightly amplified by a sub-editor with the help of Who’s Who.

  Steve read it through carefully, then laid the paper aside and allowed herself to recall some of her recent meetings with Sir Felix. She was interrupted by a suggestion from Temple that they should spend the afternoon witnessing the new Marx Brothers film which had just arrived in the West End.

  An hour later, having successfully dozed through two Ministry of Information features, a couple of newsreels and a ‘documentary’ about Irish village life, Steve woke up and laughed immoderately at the antics of the Marx Brothers. Then the lights went up, and she looked round the dazed, rather vacuous faces of their fellow patrons. Suddenly Steve clutched Temple’s sleeve.

  “Paul, look at that man sitting by himself over there!”

  Temple followed her direction.

  “Well?”

  “It’s—it’s that Sergeant Morris who called for me at The Silver Swan.”

  Temple stared intently, and was about to rise to his feet when the lights went down again. He pulled out the small torch he always kept in an inside pocket, and made his way across the auditorium. But by the time he reached the other side, the man had vanished through one of the three exits on that side of the theatre.

  Temple waited for Steve to join him in the foyer.

  “Paul,” she said, anxiously, “you don’t think he’s following us, do you?”

  “I wish him joy if he is,” he replied grimly. “Let’s go back to the flat and get Pryce to toast large quantities of crumpets.”

  Outside the cinema Temple hailed a taxi, and when they were inside, Steve could not restrain the impulse to peep through the back window to see if there was any sign of pursuit. But she found it almost impossible to detect any likely vehicle amongst the tremendous stream of traffic that was following.

  After tea, Temple lay back in his armchair and discoursed at some length upon the plot of a new thriller novel that had been simmering in his brain for the past fortnight.

  Steve looked at him admiringly.

  “I really don’t know how you do it,” she confessed. “I’d have thought this Marquis case was worrying you to death, and taking up every minute of your time.”

  “I’m only obeying the Chief Commissioner’s advice to go home and write a novel,” he laughed. “Anyhow, it’s quite a tonic to escape from fact into fiction sometimes. And yet again, it’s often salutary to go from fiction to cold, hard facts.”

  “I never realised Sir Felix was sixty-nine,” said Steve suddenly, for no apparent reason.

  “Didn’t you?” replied Temple, indifferently. “I always thought he looked quite seventy-two or three.”

  Steve noticed that he did not seem particularly anxious to discuss Sir Felix, and indeed had made no reference to him all the afternoon. It was as if he were concentrating the full force of his reasoning powers upon some other line of attack.

  “I don’t think he should have driven a car at his age,” persisted Steve. “If he could afford two large houses like that, he could surely have kept a chauffeur and—”

  Temple yawned and stubbed out his cigarette.

  “Darling, d’you happen to know if I have a presentable dress waistcoat? I’ll probably be needing it this evening.”

  “Of course darling. Two came back from the cleaners yesterday. I gave them to Pryce to put away. Shall I tell him…?”

  She half rose from her chair, but he waved her back.

  “No, no, I’ll do it.”

  Temple went out into the hall, called Pryce and gave him instructions, then engaged in two brief telephone conversations, of which Steve caught only meaningless snatches.

  “Paul,” she began, when he returned. “Do you think that really was an accident?”

  He took out his watch and compared it with the clock on the mantelpiece.

  “Oh yes, it was an accident all right,” he replied, casually. “I say, is that clock right?”

  “Two minutes fast.”

  “H’m, we haven’t much time. How long will it take you to dress?”

  “But I’d no idea I was going out with you,” she protested. “I thought it was one of your Club dinners.”

  “Of course you’re coming with me – it’s quite a social occasion,” he informed her. “I just arranged it on the phone, and believe me, it’s very special.”

  “But Paul, what sort of place are we going to?”

  “You might wear that powder blue frock,” he answered. “It would be most suitable.”

  “I daresay, Paul, but …”

  “And we haven’t much time, darling. You’ll have to hurry.”

  Steve’s protests were cut short by a ring at the outside bell, and Pryce ushered in Sir Graham Forbes.

  When Pryce had departed the Commissioner told them that he had decided to visit Oxford Circus himself, and had in fact only just returned from there.

  “Well, what happened?” asked Temple.

  Forbes shrugged impatiently.

  “Not a damn thing.”

  “Did the Honourable Charles Serflane turn up?”

  “Oh yes,” grunted Forbes, “he was there all right, complete with suitcase! The poor devil looked as if he was in the middle of a nightmare! He waited almost an hour for the girl.”

  “But she never arrived?”

  “No,” said Forbes. “Not as far as we know.” The Commissioner was obviously keyed up, and had difficulty in suppressing his excitement. “And do you know what I think, Temple?” he cried excitedly. “I think that proves without a shadow of doubt that Sir Felix Reybourn is The Marquis.”

  As he spoke he suddenly turned and stood in a challenging attitude with his back to the fire.

  Temple did not speak.

  “Well, if Sir Felix was The Marquis, your troubles are over, Sir Graham,” said Steve lightly. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I must go and change.”

  Forbes looked from Temple to Steve with ill-concealed curiosity.

  “Er—are you two going somewhere?” he asked.

  “We are,” replied Steve, “but where exactly, I haven’t the least idea.”

  When they were alone Temple offered Forbes a cigarette and lit one himself.

  “Sorry to have to run off,
Sir Graham, but I know you’ll understand. I’ll have to go and get into my glad rags. No! No, don’t run away. Help yourself to a drink!”

  “Thanks,” murmured Forbes, splashing a generous quantity of whisky into a tumbler. “I say, where are you two going, if it isn’t a rude question?”

  Temple turned at the door.

  “You’d be surprised, Sir Graham,” he replied, with an amused smile. “By Timothy, you’d be surprised!”

  A few hours earlier that evening, Forbes was sitting in his car issuing last-minute instructions to the Honourable Charles Serflane. Charles Serflane was a thin, pale young man with hair that was almost white.

  “The letter didn’t say which entrance to the tube station,” said Serflane, rather plaintively. He had been screwing himself up for this ordeal since mid-day, and having drunk three brandies before he started out, was now experiencing a pleasant internal glow. He had in fact already begun to delude himself that he, Charles Serflane, was going to bring the redoubtable Marquis to book. Indeed, after a chequered career amidst the more dubious West End element, the Honourable Charles Serflane was at last about to make good!

  He clutched his little attache case stuffed with old newspapers. Privately, he had decided to ignore Forbes’ instructions, and as soon as the girl showed herself take charge of the situation. After all, the detectives might be too late, and miss their quarry in the crowd. Nothing like a bit of action on the spot, decided the Honourable Charles. After all, why should Scotland Yard claim all the credit, while he was thrust into the background as the mere receiver of the blackmailing letter?

  “I should try the Oxford Street entrance first,” suggested Forbes, glancing at the clock on the dashboard. “It’s nearly half-past now. Better get going – and remember what I told you.”

  Serflane nodded and slowly climbed out of the car. Amidst the surging crowds of Oxford Street, he did not feel so secure. The Marquis might be lurking in any of these doorways. He walked the fifty yards or so to the entrance of the tube station, and stood uncertainly regarding the stream of people rushing past him. He hoped the detectives were within easy reach, and on their toes.