Paul Temple Intervenes

by Francis Durbridge

  “Yes sir, I know you’ll do what you can. But after all, you’re outside the Yard, and it’s against all our rules.”

  “I’m afraid, Bradley, we’ve got to break rules with the same impunity as The Marquis if we’re going to run him down.”

  “But was all this necessary, Temple?” interposed Sir Felix. “It seems rather a melodramatic precaution, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I quite agree about its melodramatic possibilities,” said Temple, gravely, “but I assure you, Sir Felix, it’s highly essential just the same.”

  “I wish to goodness someone would tell me what has happened!” cried Steve in bewilderment.

  Temple offered his cigarette case to the others, then turned to Steve.

  “I’ll tell you what has happened, darling,” he began, in a soothing tone. “A series of highly incriminating developments have indicated beyond any shadow of doubt that Sir Felix is The Marquis. Accordingly, Sir Graham issued a warrant for his arrest, and sent Bradley to execute the warrant. I knew this was bound to happen, however, and I told Bradley that under no circumstances was Sir Felix to be arrested.”

  He tapped a cigarette on his case preparatory to lighting it, and coolly added: “So the accident was faked.”

  “But darling, you can’t hope to get away with that,” cried Steve, in amazement.

  “I don’t hope to do so indefinitely. All I need is twenty-four hours’ grace – possibly forty-eight hours. Quite a lot can happen in that time, Steve. Revolutions have been successfully staged in less.” He lit his cigarette, expelled two neat smoke rings, and repeated, “Yes, a lot can happen in forty-eight hours.”

  “I hope so, Mr. Temple,” declared Bradley, fervently, “I sincerely hope so!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ABOVE SUSPICION

  On reaching the office the following morning, Sir Graham was surprised to hear that Temple had been awaiting his pleasure since nine o’clock. Eventually, he found him in the Records Department busily comparing specimens of handwriting with the help of a magnifying glass, and carrying on a desultory conversation with a young sergeant at the same time.

  “Good morning, Sir Graham,” said Temple, briskly, pushing a small pile of cards into a corner, and returning the lens to its owner.

  “Hello, Temple,” said Forbes, gruffly. “You’re an early bird, aren’t you?”

  “Well, I daresay you’ve heard the legend about the early bird,” smiled Temple.

  “H’m,” murmured Forbes sceptically.

  “Quite an unfounded legend of course,” pursued Temple, pleasantly, “I daresay you’ve noticed that the more money men make, the later they seem to arrive at the office. And I don’t suppose even you know the reason why, Sir Graham.”

  “No,” grunted Forbes, taking a paper from under his arm and unfolding it. “There’s a lot of questions I’d like answered. Have you seen the Morning Express?”

  “I’m afraid getting up so early was such an effort, Sir Graham, that I haven’t had time to look at a paper.”

  “H’m, then take a look at this …” He pointed to a two-inch headline splashed across the back page.

  MYSTERY OF SIR FELIX REYBOURN BELIEVED TO BE ALIVE - ANOTHER SCOTLAND YARD MYSTERY

  Temple skimmed through the heavy type summary of the story.

  “H’m, it certainly sounds like a scoop for somebody,” he murmured, in non-committal tones.

  “But it’s a lot of damned nonsense. Not a word of truth in it!” snapped Sir Graham. “Why, Bradley identified the body, and I’ve never known him to slip up on any case.”

  “I’ll ‘phone Castleton, the news editor, if you like; he’s quite a friend of mine,” Temple offered. “I’m interested to hear how they got hold of that story.”

  “These damned editors never let on,” snapped Forbes. “I’ve tried it myself.”

  “I think I can fix it with Castleton,” said Temple. “We’re old friends, and he knows I respect anything he tells me in confidence. What’s more, I’ve given him a scoop or two in my time.”

  “H’m, well, there’s no harm in trying. You can ‘phone him from my office. I’ll be with you in ten minutes – one or two things I may as well check while I’m down here …”

  When he got back to his office, Sir Graham found Temple carefully re-reading the report, which was phrased in the slick style of the modern newspaper reporter, adding just the right amount of imagination to the few facts at the writer’s disposal.

  “Well, any luck?” asked Forbes.

  Temple laid down the paper.

  “In a way,” he replied. “Castleton was highly delighted I’d rung up, because there’s apparently some mystery about that report. One of the night ‘subs’ found it on his desk after he’d been having a snack in the canteen. It was just in time for the final edition, written in typescript, and it was signed with the initials of one of their most reliable reporters, the chief ‘sub’ O.K.’d it right away.”

  “And who was the reporter?”

  “A fellow called Jimmy Fane.”

  “Oh yes, I know Fane quite well,” said Forbes.

  “Apparently, the trouble is Fane knows nothing about this report,” continued Temple. “He’s on the daytime shift this week, and last night enjoyed a convivial evening at the Cheshire Cheese. Doesn’t remember an awful lot about it. When he rolled into the office about 8.30 this morning, Castleton sent for him to do a follow-up on the Reybourn story – only to find that Jimmy hadn’t the remotest idea what it was all about.”

  Forbes snorted.

  “So it’s all a confounded hoax! Why the devil didn’t they telephone us for a check-up before they put the report in? Now I suppose we’ll get the Home Office screaming blue murder again,” he added, grimly.

  “You can always tell them the old one about the freedom of the press,” grinned Temple. Forbes sat down at his desk and began to look through his letters. “Oh well, we may as well forget all about it and get on with the job,” he growled.

  “Not so fast, Sir Graham,” said Temple, perching on the corner of the desk. “It’s obviously to the interest of someone to take all that trouble and risk to get the story in the Morning Express.”

  “You mean The Marquis?”

  “Who else?”

  “But why should he?”

  “Surely that’s fairly obvious, Sir Graham. The man we’re after has succeeded in throwing a considerable amount of suspicion upon Sir Felix Reybourn. Naturally, if he is going to continue with his nefarious activities, it’s to his advantage to keep on throwing suspicion on to Sir Felix by suggesting that he isn’t dead at all, and is still operating from some place of concealment.”

  “Might be something in that,” conceded the Chief Commissioner. “But it doesn’t seem to get us very far.”

  Temple smiled. “But it does explain the mystery of the report in the Morning Express.” He picked up the paper again, the door opened, and Ross appeared.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Ross apologised. “I didn’t know you were engaged.”

  “That’s all right, Inspector. What is it?”

  “It’s only my rough draft of the report on the Bevensey affair – I thought you might like to see it before I send it down to be typed.”

  “Good,” said Sir Graham, pushing aside his correspondence, “I’ll just glance through it.” He took the neatly written sheets, and while he was turning them over, Ross glanced across at Temple.

  “Anything interesting in the paper, Mr. Temple?”

  “Then you haven’t seen the Morning Express,” replied Temple, passing it over.

  “No sir, not this morning.”

  “Apparently, they have a hunch that Reybourn is still alive,” said Temple drily, indicating the report in question.

  Ross read the headlines and gave vent to a low whistle.

  “But this is all nonsense, Mr. Temple,” he protested. “Why, Bradley identified the body, and he’s never been known to make a mistake of that sort.”
/>   Temple nodded.

  “All the same,” he insisted quietly, “it would be rather good news if Reybourn were not dead, wouldn’t it, Inspector?”

  “Yes,” reflected Ross. “Yes, indeed it would, Mr. Temple.”

  Forbes glanced up from his papers.

  “You’d better leave this report with me, Ross. Just one or two little things I want to look into. I’ll send it down to you sometime before lunch.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Ross discreetly withdrew.

  Deep in thought Temple crossed to the large bay window. He stood for a moment looking down into the square below. At last he said: “Sir Graham, do you remember that envelope we found on Roddy Carson? The one with Sir Felix Reybourn’s address on it?”

  Forbes looked up quickly.

  “Why yes, I’ve got it here!”

  He opened a drawer and took out a handful of his coloured folders. At length, he came across the somewhat grimy envelope.

  “I always had a profound admiration for your system, Sir Graham,” declared Temple solemnly, with the merest suggestion of a twinkle in his eye.

  “Well, what about this envelope?” insisted Forbes, calmly ignoring the compliment.

  But Temple was not to be hurried.

  “Now, Sir Graham, you remember the letter Storey brought us, the one from The Marquis to the Hon. Charles Serflane?”

  “Yes, I remember it. We checked up on the handwriting – it’s the same as that on this envelope.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Temple murmured, pensively.

  “What are you getting at, Temple?” asked Forbes, suspiciously.

  “Just this, Sir Graham. I was wondering if you would care to compare the writing on the envelope with that on the report in front of you.”

  “But—but this is Inspector Ross’s report,” stuttered Forbes, incredulously.

  “Compare them, Sir Graham,” insisted Temple in the gentle tone one reserves for a fractious child. Forbes blinked, then looked at the report. The red second finger of the electric wall clock swept nearly full circle before the Chief Commissioner spoke again.

  “Good God! It isn’t possible!”

  “They’re the same writing?” queried Temple, diffidently.

  “Exactly!” Forbes was completely staggered. “Temple! What the devil does this mean?”

  “I’ll tell you what it means, Sir Graham,” said Temple, very deliberately.

  He crossed the room and carefully closed the door which Inspector Ross had left slightly ajar.

  While Temple was in his bath that evening, Roger Storey was announced, and Steve received him in the lounge. Storey had now discarded his sling, and he seemed to have more colour in his cheeks than Steve remembered noticing before.

  “Mr. Temple said he wanted to see me rather particularly,” he told Steve. “But if it isn’t convenient I can easily call back later.”

  “No, no, do sit down, Mr. Storey,” she urged. “I’m sure Paul won’t be more than a few minutes. Can I get you a drink of any sort?”

  He shook his head. “No thanks. I know it sounds a trifle heroic, but I’m on the waggon just for a time.” He smiled somewhat deprecatingly.

  “Well come to the fire,” Steve invited. “Here’s the evening paper. I’ll just go and hurry Paul if you’ll excuse me.”

  Storey thrust his feet towards the blaze and opened the paper.

  Temple entered the room a few minutes later wearing a dressing-gown that would have done credit to the most hectic Noel Coward comedy.

  Roger Storey looked up from his paper, then jumped up.

  “Good evening, Mr. Temple. I got your telephone message – sorry I was out when you rang.”

  Temple noticed that he wore another new suit.

  “That’s all right,” said Temple. “Excuse this exotic dressing-gown. It’s my wife’s idea of what the popular novelist should wear! Actually, I’ve never been to China!”

  Roger laughed, then once again refused a drink. Temple mixed himself a small whisky and soda, which he brought over to the fire.

  He looked thoughtfully into the fire for a few moments before he spoke.

  “I asked you to drop in for a chat,” he began, “because—well, the fact of the matter is, I want you to do me a favour.”

  “Why certainly,” replied Roger eagerly, his eyes alight with interest.

  Temple sipped his whisky; he appeared to be in some doubt as to how to broach the subject he had in mind.

  “I think,” he said slowly, “you know Inspector Ross, by sight at any rate.”

  Roger seemed slightly surprised.

  “Yes, of course I know Ross,” he replied.

  Temple appeared to be about to reveal some information, then paused and asked: “What do you think of him?”

  “Oh—er—he seems a pleasant sort of chap,” answered Roger, rather at a loss. “Why do you ask?”

  Temple tasted his whisky and soda.

  “Storey,” he said quietly, “I want you to trail Ross.”

  There was a moment’s pause before Temple continued:

  “I want you to make a daily report to me of everywhere Ross goes. I want to know everything he does! The people he meets! Will you do that for me?”

  “Trail a police inspector?” echoed Storey, in bewildered tones.

  “That’s what I said.”

  Storey looked away in some embarrassment.

  “But surely Ross is above suspicion,” he protested.

  “No one is above suspicion, Storey,” said Temple, eyeing him over his glass. “Not even you, or Ross, or Bradley, or Mrs. Clarence—or even Sir Graham if it comes to that. We have to suspect everybody.”

  “You’re quite sure about this?” asked Roger after a moment’s hesitation.

  “I’d hardly have asked you to come here if I weren’t.”

  Storey seemed to be weighing up the position.

  “All right,” he decided at last. “I’ll do it, Temple!”

  “I’m sure I can rely on you,” said Temple, gravely. “Particularly after the experience you’ve had during the past few months.”

  “I’m ready to tackle anything that’ll bring to book the swine who killed Alice,” said Roger with sudden force. “Do you know where Ross lives?”

  Temple took a notebook off the shelf and read out: “Forty-nine Birchfield Avenue, Wimbledon.”

  Storey borrowed a pencil to scribble down the address on a slip of paper. Then he asked: “When do you want me to start?”

  “Tonight if possible. The sooner you can get on the job, the better. Something might break at any minute.”

  “All right,” Roger agreed. “I’ll ‘phone you tomorrow morning, about ten.”

  He fastened his camel hair coat, picked up his hat, and moved slowly towards the door. As he opened it, he turned.

  “All the same, Temple,” he murmured, shaking his head, “it does seem a bit steep!”

  Temple seemed particularly cheerful at breakfast next morning, rather to Steve’s mystification, for he had told her very little about any later developments concerning The Marquis. Even a batch of singularly unenthusiastic press cuttings concerning his latest novel did not appear to depress him very much.

  “I see the Morning Express is quite conceited about the Reybourn scoop,” she commented, tossing him the paper.

  “H’m, they might have landed themselves in serious trouble, printing that story without official verification. As it happens to have come off, they’re all cock-a-hoop. I’m surprised at Castleton, I thought he was a little more restrained.”

  “That’s life in Fleet Street,” murmured Steve. “’Dog eat dog.’ I suppose you broke the news to Sir Graham about Sir Felix when you were with him yesterday afternoon.”

  “As there was an Express reporter waiting on the mat, I felt something had to be done.”

  “What did he say?”

  Temple grinned at the recollection. “I regret to admit that he used some rather strong langua
ge, hardly consistent with his dignity as Chief Commissioner. Still, it passed off quite well, everything considered. Have you done with the marmalade, darling?”

  “Poor Sir Graham,” Steve sympathised. “You know, darling, if you have one really predominant fault, it’s your malicious delight in keeping people in the dark. At this moment, I can’t for the life of me make even a wild guess about what you’re up to.”

  He laughed. “Well, that’s something anyway, Steve!”

  “Yes, but why pretend that Sir Felix is dead?” she insisted. Temple laid down the paper and began to spread marmalade on his toast.

  “Simply because I wanted to know whether Sir Felix was The Marquis or not.”

  “But I thought you’d already decided that he wasn’t The Marquis,” she said in surprise.

  “Did you, darling?” he replied glibly, avoiding her direct gaze.

  “Look here, Paul,” she declared in some exasperation, “It’s no use your being mysterious with me—”

  “Because you know all the answers, eh darling?” he laughed.

  “Most of them, anyway,” she retorted, feeling a little cheated all the same. Her delight in discovering that Sir Felix was alive after all was now mingled with intense curiosity concerning his strange hideout. However, the appearance of Pryce forestalled any further cross-questioning.

  “I beg your pardon, madam,” gently interrupted the butler, “but Sir Graham Forbes would like to see Mr. Temple at once, if possible.”

  “Ask him to come in here, will you, Pryce?”

  Forbes was full of apologies: “I didn’t realise you’d be at breakfast, Temple.”

  “This is one of the mornings when I do not perform my early bird act,” smiled Temple. “Sit down and have some coffee.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sir Graham drew off his gloves, and unbuttoned his overcoat.

  “Try one of those cigarettes on the table; they’re a new brand of Egyptian.”

  Forbes hesitated, then took one. “I don’t usually smoke this early, but I can never resist trying a new brand.” He lighted the cigarette, and balanced a cup of black coffee on his knee. Almost at once, he laid the cigarette down, then took a sip at the coffee and placed the cup on the arm of his chair.