“Temple, you remember the letter that was sent to the Honourable Charles Serflane,” he began.
Temple took a bite at his toast and nodded.
“Apparently,” announced Forbes, “he’s received another.”
“How do you know?”
“Serflane was waiting for me when I got to the Yard this morning. He was with Bradley – they’d already checked up for fingerprints without any results. It seems the note arrived late last night by hand.”
He took the flimsy slip of pale blue notepaper from his pocket and passed it over to Temple, who read it through twice, then appeared to be lost in thought. Forbes picked up his cigarette again.
“Well, what d’you think of it, Temple?” he asked, at length.
Temple refolded the letter.
“I think,” he replied, deliberately, “that this time, Sir Graham, he certainly means business.”
“Don’t you think he meant business last time?” queried Forbes, with a lift of the eyebrows.
“No,” replied Temple, shortly.
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, no one turned up at the station,” Temple reminded him.
Forbes flicked the ash off his cigarette.
“For the simple reason that The Marquis found out that Serflane had taken the letter to Roger Storey, and that Storey had brought it to me.”
“What does this last letter say, darling?” Steve was anxious to know. Temple handed it to her, and she read:
Dear Sir,
This must be taken more seriously than the first note I sent you, and moreover must be considered strictly confidential. The letters written by you to Miss Laraine Curtis are still in my possession. They are still, in my humble opinion, worth precisely £7,000. I suggest, therefore, that having secured this amount, you meet me personally tomorrow evening, shortly after eight o’clock in the lounge of the October Hotel, Dalton Street, Kensington.
The Marquis.
Steve wrinkled her forehead, thoughtfully.
“Surely, he won’t be there in person,” she was saying, trying to figure out the problem. A queer, strangled gasp from Sir Graham distracted her.
“Sir Graham, what’s wrong?”
Forbes clutched at his collar, for a moment it seemed almost as if he was speechless. With a shaky hand, he pointed to the cigarette, which had fallen to the floor. Temple loosened the Chief Commissioner’s collar while Steve ran for some brandy.
After a moment Paul Temple picked up the cigarette. It smelt exactly as one would expect an Egyptian cigarette to smell when burning.
Steve came running with the brandy, and Forbes took one or two sips with difficulty; it seemed to revive him for, in spite of Temple’s attempt to restrain him, he struggled to his feet.
“Look out, he’s going to fall!” cried Steve. Sir Graham swayed uncertainly, then seemed to lose consciousness completely.
As he pitched forward, the telephone began to ring insistently, until the air seemed to vibrate with its shrill message.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SUPERINTENDENT BRADLEY GOES TO THE PICTURES
It was Superintendent Bradley’s afternoon off, but he was not particularly elated at the prospect. In fact, Bradley was in a singularly irascible frame of mind. For one thing, he was not at all happy about the Reybourn deception, having a vague idea that it would go down in his dossier as a very dubious sort of experiment. Forbes had not so far made much comment upon the episode, but Bradley knew that he did not approve of the faked accident. In all fairness he had to admit that he would not himself have been particularly enthusiastic if the positions had been reversed. It wasn’t as if this move of Temple’s had so far shown any results. Indeed Bradley began to have his doubts as to whether it would, but Forbes had apparently suspended judgment for the time being.
To upset Bradley’s temper still further, relations between himself and Ross had been distinctly strained for the past few days. Since Ross had been detailed to bring in Lannie Dukes. Bradley had greeted him every morning with an inquiry as to whether he had been successful. For Bradley rather fancied the idea of making some investigations himself in this direction, arguing that Dukes was known to have transmitted orders from The Marquis, and would therefore be quite likely to be in a position to reveal the identity of the leader of the organisation.
“Any news of Lannie?” asked Bradley, as Ross came into the office.
“No, I haven’t any news!” snapped Ross. “I’ve hung around all his pubs and hideouts till I’m just about sick of it.”
“Sure you haven’t missed him?” queried Bradley.
There was a dangerous look in Ross’s eyes.
“And why should I miss him?” he demanded, ominously.
“Well—er—he might be disguised,” suggested Bradley.
Ross was on the verge of losing his temper.
“Look here, Bradley, I haven’t been at this game all these years without learning to see through any disguise,” he retorted. “And if you’re so damned anxious to pull him in, why don’t you go after him yourself?”
The inter-office telephone buzzed and cheated Bradley of any reply. But it is extremely doubtful if he could have risen to the occasion.
Bradley and Ross hardly spoke to each other again that morning, and when Bradley caught a bus at one o’clock, he was still gloomily chewing the cud of his discontent, and vowing that he would somehow demonstrate that the task of bringing in Lannie Dukes was by no means beyond the powers of any normally endowed Scotland Yard official. The only trouble was he didn’t quite know how to go about it. Lannie had disappeared from his haunts and was obviously playing for safety by losing himself in the metropolitan millions. Of course, Bradley could have sent out his description on the ‘tape’ to all stations, but that would be tantamount to admitting defeat. For several reasons, Bradley wanted the search kept as quiet as possible. He had a strong suspicion that The Marquis might get to know about it if Dukes’ description was circularised. Also, he wanted to retain as much credit for himself as possible just in case the Reybourn ‘accident’ went on the debit side of his account. But Bradley was still inclined to be pessimistic as to the ways and means of tracking down the elusive Lannie Dukes.
When he arrived at the trim modern villa just off Denmark Hill, Bradley was still engaged in wracking his brain for some possible clue which would put him on the scent. As he opened the front gate, he heard the unmistakable shrill voice of seven-year-old April Bradley, and even as he inserted his latchkey in the front door she came running along the hall with the inevitable question:
“What have you brought me, Daddy?”
True, it happened to be April’s birthday, but the question was so familiar, that Bradley had come to ignore it, and even on this momentous occasion had to admit that, under the stress of his wording morning, he had completely forgotten his wife’s whispered reminder as he left the house.
April showed her displeasure in the usual way, by sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor and screaming until she was red in the face. She was only pacified by a promise from Mrs. Bradley that Daddy would take her to the pictures that very afternoon. Bradley was about to expostulate, but interposed a grim, threatening glance from his wife, and subsided. He knew it was a waste of time to argue.
Though she was only five feet three and a half, and weighed just eight stone, Mrs. Bradley was in the habit of getting her own way with her husband. She had a ready tongue which was incisive without being unduly acidulous, and her steady brown eyes had a penetrating quality which her husband found some difficulty in withstanding. It was she who had insisted upon calling their only child April, and Bradley had agreed without demur, though he secretly considered it an affected name, and never used it, without feeling painfully self-conscious.
Under her mother’s dominating influence, April had quickly developed into that despised abomination – a spoilt child. She was forever informing all and sundry that she was a little princess, and never stopped gi
ving orders to the few occasional playmates who would put up with her overbearing ways. Yet April never failed to create a good impression on strangers, with her aureole of flaxen hair, deep brown eyes and perfectly shaped mouth.
Superintendent Bradley had little idea of the calculating thoughts that revolved around that shrewd mind; he was usually too immersed in some case or other to realise how gifts and favours were cunningly extorted from him as craftily as a con man lures on his victim.
As he ate his lunch, April chattered merrily of the films they would see, and what her beloved daddy would buy her in the shops; undismayed by his lack of response, she launched into a detailed account of a large doll she had seen the previous day.
“You’re quiet,” commented Mrs. Bradley, a little affronted by the lack of co-operation her offspring was encountering.
“H’m,” grunted her husband, with his mouth full.
“Why can’t you be pleasant to the child on her birthday?” demanded Mrs. Bradley.
“Taking her out, aren’t I?” he demanded, truculently, for he did not greatly enjoy these excursions with the predatory April. And he had rather looked forward to spending this afternoon walking as far as Dulwich Park and reviewing the Marquis case in his mind without the constant interruptions which April could be relied upon to provide. But he felt he had a duty to his daughter, and since he was fond of her in some ways, he would not have dreamed of trying to evade the special birthday treat.
After lunch, he lounged in an armchair while his wife busied herself transforming the incorrigible April into a dainty angelic cherub, all curls, blue bows and superficial innocence. It was difficult to tell whether mother or daughter was more pleased by the result of these labours.
With April clutching his hand determinedly, Bradley hailed a Number 68 bus, and hoisted his precious charge aboard, hardly noticing the middle-aged ladies who bestowed affectionate glances on the child and whispered approving comments to each other. But April missed none of them, and sat up straight on her seat with the gracious air of a sovereign on her throne, continuing to prattle of the doll she had seen, and which she was quite determined her Daddy should buy her before the day was out. Having been informed by his wife that the doll cost four pounds five shillings, Bradley was equally determined that he would put his foot down for once.
They got off the bus at Camberwell Green and began a tour of the cinemas. Bradley was rather attracted by one which was showing a re-issue of Trader Horn, but April was quite emphatic that this would not interest her. She finally led him down a back street to a cinema of which he had been previously ignorant, but which she had twice visited with her school friends. According to the lurid lithographs in front of the building, the current attraction was a breath-taking epic called The Devil Riders, and this apparently met with April’s lavish approval.
Bradley asked for two balcony seats at the dingy box-office. They climbed the grimy staircase with its threadbare carpet, and entered the musty-smelling auditorium to be greeted with a sudden yell as a hundred lusty young throats cheered the progress of a man on horseback who was careering across the screen as if his very life depended on it.
In a penetrating voice, April ordered her father to buy her some chocolate from an attendant, then dragged him after her to a seat in the front row, squeezing past half-a-dozen grumbling patrons in the manner of an ancient queen spurning her slaves. She took charge of the chocolates as a matter of course, offering one to her obliging parent as an afterthought. They settled down to witness the exploits of the notorious Devil Riders, which at least served the purpose of reducing April to silence for as much as five minutes at a time, and which permitted Bradley to brood upon his own problems. The continuous din created by the younger section of the audience, however, grew to a positive uproar when the main feature ended, and was followed by a real old-fashioned serial, The Killer Strikes Again.
Bradley followed the lurid adventures of the intrepid Killer with a detached air, but April seemed to derive a considerable amount of entertainment from them.
It was getting dusk when they came out of the stuffy little cinema and walked back into the main thoroughfare, where April’s attention was immediately attracted by the music and bright lights of an amusement arcade, into which she dragged her unwilling parent. Her mother had forbidden her to enter the place, but she knew that her father was not aware of that, and April was already versed in the insidious art of playing one parent against another for her own benefit.
The arcade was fairly full, chiefly of youths trying their luck at pin tables and other mechanical games of chance designed to induce the semi-educated to part with their hard-earned money. April made straight for a large glass case piled high with sweets and small toys, which were obligingly scooped up by a miniature crane and deposited in the waiting hand of anyone who cared to venture a penny. That most of its contents slid out of the scoop before they reached the speculator did not seem to deter the juvenile gamblers.
Bradley gave his progeny fourpence in coppers, and moodily looked round the place while she enjoyed herself. He wondered when the law would be adjusted to curtail the activities of such places. He looked along the arcade to the far end, where two or three youths were anxiously aiming air rifles at a number of objects which moved across the back of the stall.
“Come along gents – step this way and get your eye in ready for the invasion!” a hoarse voice was barking at intervals. For the first time, Bradley thought he recognised a familiar note in that voice. He looked inquiringly at the owner, then blinked as if unable to believe his eyes. But there could be no doubt about it. The flashily dressed, foxy-faced manager of the rifle range was Lannie Dukes.
Bradley stood quite still for some seconds, considering the best course of action. Then a small hand gripped his.
“More pennies, Daddy,” ordered Miss Bradley, cramming two very doubtful-looking confections into her mouth at once.
Bradley mechanically handed her twopence, and watched her spend it. Then he managed to persuade her to accompany him to the door.
“I want you to be a good girl and go straight home by yourself in a motor car, April,” said Bradley. But April seemed to think the show should go on a little longer; the prospect of home and bed was not particularly exciting.
“Now, look here, April,” continued Bradley in some desperation, “you go home now and I’ll buy you that doll.”
“Tomorrow?” insisted the inexorable April.
Bradley agreed and April was satisfied. She knew a promise from her father was a sure guarantee. He took her a little way along the street to a taxi rank, gave a driver his address, deposited April inside the cab, scribbled a brief note to his wife on an old envelope, and April drove off, imagining herself in the inevitable role of princess conducting a triumphant procession through a loyal city.
Bradley returned to the amusement arcade and began slowly pushing his way to the far end. He was within ten yards of Dukes when the latter recognised him, broke off in the middle of his spiel, and abruptly turned and moved towards a door at the back of the range. Bradley lost no time in following him, and was just in time to see him turn into a room at the end of a short corridor. Bradley made a dive for the door, and was lucky enough to reach it just before Lannie could slam the door. The Superintendent burst into the room in time to see Lannie wrestling with a second door, which was obviously an emergency exit from the building.
Bradley caught him just as he had succeeded in wrenching open the door.
“’Ere, you lemme go—you got nothing on me!” declared Lannie hoarsely, as he struggled to shake off Bradley’s expert grip.
Bradley flung him into a chair and stood over him in a threatening attitude.
“We’ve got plenty on you, Lannie, and you know it! You were mixed up in the Bombay Road affair and you were one of the men who abducted Mrs. Temple! Oh yes, we’ve got plenty on you, Lannie. And it looks as if you’ll get a longer stretch this time than all your others put together – unless
you talk,” he added in a significant tone.
“You’ll get nothing out of me.”
“Then you look like taking a holiday for about five years, maybe more when we prove you’re definitely connected with The Marquis murders.”
“I tell you I ain’t—”
“All right,” said Bradley curtly, “it’ll be the worse for you when we get definite proof. And I might tell you, Lannie, it’s only a question of a day or two before Mr. Temple settles this business.”
The mention of Temple’s name seemed to have more effect on Lannie than any of the previous threats. He licked his lips in nervous agitation, shuffled uncomfortably in his chair, looked round for some likely means of escape, but did not appear to find any.
“If I talk,” he suggested, “’ow do I know you’ll let me get off light?”
Bradley shrugged. “You’ve only got my word for it. But there’s trouble coming to you in any case, Lannie, so I reckon you might as well take a chance.”
Lannie looked round the room again, as if he was afraid of being overheard.
“What d’yer want to know?” he demanded in a voice that was almost a whisper.
“Who sent you to pick up Mrs. Temple?” asked Bradley swiftly.
Lannie licked his lips again, and hesitated before murmuring: “That was The Marquis.”
“And the Bombay Road place – was he running that?”
Lannie nodded. “I just did what ‘e told me—we all worked that way: ‘e give us our orders every two days—told us where to pick up the stuff and where to drop it. He was never there more than ten minutes—we ‘ardly set eyes on ‘im.”
“Then who killed the Cartwright girl?”
“That was The Marquis.”
Lannie wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand.
“And I suppose it was The Marquis who gave you the tip that we were looking for you, and told you to lie low?” queried Bradley, thoughtfully.
Paul Temple Intervenes Page 15