Lannie nodded, but did not speak.
Bradley paused before going on. “There’s only one more question I want to ask you, Lannie.”
“Yes, sir, I think I know …”
“You’ve seen The Marquis? You could recognise him? You know who he really is?”
“Yes,” replied Lannie slowly. “I know ‘im all right, and you wouldn’t ever guess who ‘e was—not in a hundred years.”
Once more, he looked round anxiously, and then whispered: “The Marquis is called …”
But before he could finish his sentence, the lights had snapped out; there was the muffled report of a silenced revolver, and Bradley felt Dukes’ body crumple beneath his grasp. A door slammed. Bradley fumbled for the small torch he always carried and ran to the nearest door. He thought he heard footsteps along the corridor, then there was silence except for the raucous cacophony of the loudspeakers in the arcade.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CONCERNING INSPECTOR ROSS
The telephone went on ringing for quite two minutes, while Steve and Temple struggled to lift Sir Graham into an armchair. They discovered that moving an inert body of some fourteen stone calls for a certain amount of expert knowledge and not a little brute strength. Finally, Temple placed his hands under Forbes’ armpits, told Steve to grasp his feet, and with a concerted effort they managed to heave him into the chair.
After a moment Steve went across to the telephone and lifted the receiver.
“Hello? Oh, just a minute, Mr. Storey!”
She placed a hand over the mouthpiece.
“Ask him to meet me here at twelve-thirty,” Temple called to her. Steve gave the message, while Temple picked up Sir Graham’s cigarette again, and once more studied it suspiciously. The cigarette had gone out now, and Temple detected a faint odour that was familiar. He went and poured out a cup of strong black coffee, which he brought back to the Chief Commissioner, who sighed and showed some signs of returning to consciousness.
“You must drink this, Sir Graham,” he urged. Forbes stirred slightly as the hot cup touched his lips. In small sips, he slowly swallowed about half its contents. Then he took a deep breath, sat up and looked round.
“I’m all right now,” he announced presently, and Temple noted that he was breathing more easily and that his normal ruddy colour had returned. “That was a nasty turn, I wonder how—” he was beginning, but Temple interrupted.
“Better finish this coffee,” he advised. Forbes drained the cup, while his hosts watched him anxiously. At last, he set down the cup and saucer, and began to fasten his collar which Temple had loosened.
“I couldn’t get my breath,” he told them. “It was a most extraordinary sensation, worse than ordinary choking.” He felt the muscles of his throat in a tentative manner.
“You’ll be all right in a few minutes,” Temple assured him.
“Yes, but what the devil was it, Temple?” persisted the Chief Commissioner.
“As you diagnosed before you went unconscious, Sir Graham, it was the cigarette.” Temple picked it up and handed it to him. Forbes sniffed it, wrinkled his forehead, but seemed very little the wiser.
“Where did you get them, Temple?”
“From my usual tobacconist in Regent Street.”
“But dammit man, we’d better ‘phone him! If all this new brand is poisoned …”
“Calm yourself, Sir Graham. They aren’t. That particular cigarette was poisoned for the very special benefit of Steve or myself.”
“But who the devil would do that?” demanded Forbes in some mystification.
Temple smiled enigmatically. He found a small tin, and placed the cigarette inside it.
“I can think of one or two people who imagine they owe me a slight grudge,” he murmured. “All the same, it was lucky you were drinking coffee, Sir Graham. The drug in the cigarette is rather a rare one. It’s called Lokai – I believe its history goes right back to ancient days in Egypt.”
“Egypt?” repeated Forbes, sharply.
“No, no, Sir Graham, don’t start that tack again. I can assure you that Sir Felix Reybourn hasn’t been near this place since I bought the cigarettes.”
“Humph—you aren’t obliged to see everyone who sneaks in while you’re out!” retorted Sir Graham. “But why was I lucky to be drinking coffee?”
“Because, strangely enough, black coffee is about the only antidote to Lokai,” Temple explained.
“In that case,” said Sir Graham, somewhat hastily, “if it’s all the same to you, I’ll have another cup—just to make quite sure.” He passed his cup to Steve, who refilled it.
“Did Storey say he’d be here at half-past twelve?” asked Temple, also deciding to have another cup of coffee.
“Yes,” replied Steve. “He seemed as cheerful as usual.”
Forbes looked across at Temple.
“Did you make those arrangements with Storey that you mentioned yesterday?” he asked.
“Yes, just as we agreed, Sir Graham,” replied Temple, diplomatically.
Forbes shook his head dubiously.
“Well, Ross isn’t a fool, Temple. He’s done some pretty smart work for the Special Branch at one time and another. It won’t take him long to realise that Storey’s trailing him.” He narrowed his eyebrows in perplexity. “I can’t think why you had to pick on an amateur like Storey. If you wanted Ross trailed, I’ve half-a-dozen first-class men right to hand …”
“It’s all right, Sir Graham,” said Temple, calmly. “There’s such a thing as killing two birds with one stone.”
Forbes shrugged. “Well, it’s your idea, and I hope it works. At least it gets Storey from under our feet for a while.”
“Poor Mr. Storey,” said Steve. “He tries so hard, and I’m sure he means well.”
“Pity he hasn’t a regular job to keep his mind occupied,” snorted Sir Graham, who was getting a little tired of Storey’s persistent methods. “What chance has he got against an experienced man like Ross?”
“How long have you known Inspector Ross?” asked Temple.
Forbes considered a moment. “Let’s see—he came to the Yard about 1930, must be fourteen years or more since I first met him. He’s a Wimbledon man originally – started in the Force there – then went to Liverpool. Did rather well with those Lascar murder cases at Bootle.”
“How old is he?”
“I looked that up yesterday. He’s forty-seven.”
“Married?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t know anything about his private life?”
Forbes shook his head. “No, he’s rather secretive in that direction. Likes to keep to himself when he’s away from the office.” He lit one of his own cigars.
“Better relax for a little longer before you go to the Yard, Sir Graham,” Temple advised. He turned to Steve.
“I’m going to see Sir Felix this morning,” he told her. “I’ll be back about twelve. If I should be a little late, keep Storey here if you possibly can.”
“All right, darling,” Steve agreed.
“And talking of Sir Felix,” said Forbes, “I see the papers are still kicking up a fine old fuss.”
“It’ll die down,” Temple assured him. “The papers can’t afford to flog a dead horse – even when it comes to life!”
Forbes frowned.
“I wish you’d argue that out with the Home Secretary. I had an unpleasant five minutes on the telephone with him last night. Seems one or two M.P.s have threatened to ask a question about Scotland Yard’s unorthodox methods.”
“Why not remind him that every question asked by an M.P. costs the country five pounds?” laughed Temple.
“H’m … well, as long as we get results,” grunted Forbes, rather dubiously. “Now, what about this letter to Serflane? I gather you’re inclined to take it seriously.”
“That’s so, Sir Graham. We shall have to lay our plans very carefully – and moreover the details must be kept secret.”
Fo
rbes sat for a couple of minutes with a far-away look in his eyes as if he were deliberating on a plan of campaign. Suddenly, he sat up.
“I must be off,” he decided, briskly, rising from his chair. “I’ve a devil of a day in front of me, mapping out this business. I’ll let you know about tonight’s arrangements later.”
Forbes moved towards the door a trifle uncertainly, then paused and inquired: “By the way, where is Sir Felix? You never told me.”
“He’s staying at The Clockwise—you know—the night club.”
“The Clockwise?” echoed Forbes in complete amazement. “Not Maisie Delaway’s place?”
“Exactly.”
“Good heavens,” Forbes chuckled. “We should never have found him in a thousand years!”
The humorous side of the situation seemed to strike the Chief Commissioner, who had always been inclined to take rather an exaggerated view of the risqué qualities of Maisie’s entertainment.
“It must be quite an experience for the old boy,” he ruminated, with a wintry smile.
A night club in the cold, hard light of morning is hardly an edifying spectacle, and one that would probably alienate at least fifty per cent of its patrons. The Clockwise proved no exception to this rule when Temple strolled in just after eleven a.m.
The tables had not been cleared, there were many dejected-looking streamers straggling across the room – the previous night had been a gala night – two ancient cleaners were struggling to restore some order from chaos, and in a distant corner four very tired dancers were rehearsing a new routine to a staccato piano accompaniment. Time and again, they repeated the same break until they performed like automata.
Temple went through the dance hall into the office, where he found Gus laboriously counting a huge pile of bank notes and a heap of silver in an audible voice. He looked up suspiciously as the door opened, then smiled expansively as he recognised his visitor.
“Why hello Mr. Temple, this is a surprise.” He pushed the notes aside as if he were glad of an excuse to postpone his calculations.
“Where’s Maisie?” asked Temple, having acknowledged his greeting.
“Maybe she’s up—maybe not. It’s early for her,” said Gus. “Want to see her?”
“If possible.”
Gus pressed a button and when a diminutive page appeared, sent him to find Maisie. Then he resumed his counting with a sigh.
“You won’t mind if I finish this?” he asked Temple. “I like to get it round to the bank before twelve if I can.”
Temple nodded and perched on the arm of a chair.
When Maisie arrived, Gus showed them into a little private sitting-room behind the office.
She accepted a cigarette, sank into a chair, and placed a pair of neatly slippered feet on another chair.
“Well, Paul,” she smiled, “what’s the trouble?”
“No trouble, Maisie,” he assured her pleasantly. “I just called in to see your guest. How is he?”
The humorous eyes twinkled.
“Oh, he’s fine. Still the perfect gentleman, and no trouble at all. He’s kind of getting to like the place – shouldn’t wonder if he became a regular customer. He’s broad-minded too – thinks my song about the two elephants is just cute – though he says it couldn’t have happened with real elephants.”
She paused, and a thoughtful expression flitted across her well-moulded features.
“Say, Paul, why didn’t you put me wise to this Egyptology? I believe there may be something to it.”
Temple laughed. “You’ve plenty of time before you to explore all the mysteries of the Pharaohs.”
She tossed her head.
“You can laugh, Mr. Temple, M.A., but Sir Felix has as good as promised to take me on his next little trip, believe it or not.”
“I must put a stop to this,” Temple rallied her. “We can’t have our experts diverted from their excavations by glamorous red-heads.”
“Says you!” retorted the red-head in question with a grimace.
“Where is the old boy?” asked Temple.
“He’s in the same room—want to see him now?”
She jumped to her feet. They found Gus had left the outer office, presumably to deposit his precious burden at the bank. With his hand on the door-handle, Temple paused. Having made certain there was no one within earshot, he murmured: “Before I forget, Maisie, I want you to try and find out something for me about a girl named Lydia Staines. She was a dancer; went to America about 1929 and worked at the Miami Club on Forty-Second Street for some months.”
Maisie puckered her lips thoughtfully.
“The Miami? That was Harry Van Delson’s place in those days,” she called. “Looks like you might be in luck …”
“Why?”
“Harry’s over here—on the Sanderson Commission.”
“The point is, would he know anything about Lydia Staines?” said Temple.
“When it comes to dames, Harry’s got all the telephone numbers,” she informed him with her expansive smile.
“Yes, but have you got his phone number?”
“No,” said Maisie, “but he’s got mine!”
“And who can blame him?”
She tossed the celebrated mane of titian curls. “I guess I’ll run him to earth before the day’s out,” she asserted confidently.
They parted at Sir Felix’s door.
When Temple entered, the Egyptologist seemed to be doing his best to pacify a distinctly irate Mrs. Clarence.
“It’s no use arguing, Sir Felix,” came the rich, penetrating voice, “you’ll get that liver trouble again, stopping in a harum-scarum place like this. Why, just as I came in, I saw a lot of young hussies with nothing on but … well, you’re coming home!”
Mrs. Clarence thumped her substantial umbrella on the floor to emphasise her argument. Sir Felix only smiled as if he were enjoying some secret joke.
“Here’s Mr. Temple. He’ll answer all your questions, Mrs. Clarence.”
Temple came in and closed the door.
“Hello, Sir Felix. Hello, Mrs. Clarence, what’s the trouble?”
“Trouble enough, if you ask me, Mr. Temple,” replied the good lady indignantly. “This is no place to bring the likes of Sir Felix to – and I’d say the same to the King himself.”
“That’s all right, Mrs. Clarence,” the detective reassured her. “Sir Felix hasn’t got to stay here any longer. You can go now, just as soon as you’re ready, Sir Felix.”
“Well, I hope that will set Mrs. Clarence’s mind at rest,” said Reybourn, faintly amused. “By gad, some people are going to get a surprise when they find I’m alive and kicking. I hear they’d nominated my successor on the committee at the Institute of Egyptologists.”
“They soon cancelled that, Sir Felix, thanks to Mrs. Clarence,” said Temple meaningly.
“Eh? I don’t quite follow you.”
“I’m afraid Mrs. Clarence has disapproved of this scheme right from the start. Furthermore, she felt it her duty to put a stop to it, in the interests of your liver. Sir Felix.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Mrs. Clarence has a young nephew named Ernest Wingby, who is a copy boy on the Morning Express,” proceeded Temple evenly. “A very ambitious lad is young Ernie, he wants to be a reporter. And his idol is a certain Jimmy Fane, the Express’s star reporter. Young Ernie tries to copy every original turn of phrase that Jimmy ever used, and I must say he does it very well. In fact, he did it well enough to fool the chief sub, and that’s saying a lot.”
“Yes, but how—”
“Mrs. Clarence gave her nephew the story of your faked accident,” announced Temple calmly.
The buxom lady closed her lips in a firm line, and did not attempt to deny the accusation.
“Young Ernie knew very well that the news editor wouldn’t let him handle a story like that, and would only send a reporter out on the job. But if the story came from the redoubtable Jimmy Fane, that would be different
. So Ernie faked his idol’s initials – and hoped that the news editor would relent when he found he’d landed a real scoop.”
Temple shook a warning finger at Mrs. Clarence.
“It was very naughty of you, Mrs. Clarence. I’ve had to waste a couple of valuable hours making all these inquiries round at the Morning Express office. And time is very valuable just now.”
But Mrs. Clarence was quite unrepentant.
“I never could understand why Sir Felix had to go hiding and pretending he was dead,” she declared stoutly. “A lot of nonsense, if you ask me!”
Reybourn smiled in some amusement. “It was Temple’s idea, not mine,” he reminded her.
“And what about it?” she persisted. “What was the good of it all?”
“It served a very useful purpose, although you nearly ruined our plans,” said Temple quietly. “In fact, it was a vital necessity.”
Reybourn looked up quickly.
“What do you mean, Mr. Temple?”
“I mean,” replied Temple, deliberately, “that beyond any shadow of doubt, I now know who is The Marquis.”
Temple found Roger Storey in the drawing-room animatedly discussing a recent play with Steve.
“I’m awfully sorry I’m late, Storey,” he apologised. “Have we any sherry, Steve?”
“Sorry,” said Steve.
“Then mix me a gin and tonic, darling.”
When she had gone to get a fresh bottle of gin, Temple turned to Storey.
“Well, anything happen last night?”
“Nothing very much, I’m afraid,” replied Roger, who was wearing a very expensive Raglan coat.
“You managed to find him all right?”
“Yes, I picked up Ross at Wimbledon, then followed him to a house in Stepney. Apparently, he has a married sister there.”
“How long did he stay?”
“About an hour and a half. I was nearly frozen waiting for him to come out. On the way back to Wimbledon, he popped into a Lyons’ cafe and had a meal. Incidentally, I’ve got a feeling he spotted me. He’s rather shrewd, you know.”
“Yes,” said Temple thoughtfully, “he’s shrewd all right.”
Paul Temple Intervenes Page 16