Paul Temple Intervenes

by Francis Durbridge

  At that moment, Steve came in with his drink. He took a sip, then asked: “Did you tell Storey about that letter, Steve? The one Sir Graham mentioned?”

  Steve shook her head. “We were so busy discussing the new play at the Lyric.”

  “What was this letter?” put in Storey, quite eagerly. Temple placed his glass on the table.

  “Apparently, your friend Serflane has received a second communication from The Marquis. I’m surprised he hasn’t been in touch with you about it.”

  Roger appeared quite startled.

  “They did tell me there were several telephone calls from a man who would leave no name or message – that was when I was out trailing Ross,” he told them. “But I thought that business was just a rag when it fizzed out. I took it for granted that it was somebody calling himself The Marquis for a lark.”

  Temple sipped his gin and tonic appreciatively.

  “On the contrary,” he declared, “The Marquis has promised to appear in person tonight at eight o’clock in the lounge of the October Hotel, Kensington.”

  Roger’s amazement grew. “I say, Temple—you’re pulling my leg,” he protested.

  “Not at all,” replied Temple quietly.

  “But damn it, The Marquis wouldn’t walk straight into that hotel with his eyes open.”

  “Why not?” asked Temple mildly. “If he thought that Serflane was the only person likely to be there, he wouldn’t be taking much of a risk. Particularly for a return of seven thousand pounds.”

  “Or even if there were a risk,” put in Steve, “he might be one of these people who enjoy that sort of thing.”

  She was interrupted by the telephone. Temple put down his glass and went over to the instrument. It was a call from Sir Graham Forbes, who detailed the night’s programme in some detail. While he was still talking, Temple felt a touch on his elbow, and Roger whispered: “Ask him if I can come with you tonight.”

  There was a look of such urgent appeal in his eyes that Temple nodded and spoke into the receiver.

  “Sir Graham, Storey’s here. Yes, he’s very keen to come along.”

  There was the sound of a small explosion in the earpiece.

  “All right, Sir Graham,” said Temple, soothingly, “I’ll guarantee he won’t be a nuisance—yes, I’ll make him my personal responsibility! Goodbye!”

  Meticulously, he replaced the receiver, then turned to Roger.

  “He’ll be here soon after seven, just to make sure of the layout, so perhaps you’ll join us then. I understand Ross will be in the party, so you can keep him under observation.”

  “Right,” said Roger with alacrity, as he collected his hat. “I’d better be off now. I have a lunch appointment, and after that I can pick up Ross at the Yard. He leaves there about two o’clock this week …”

  “No,” Temple decided, “leave Ross alone for this afternoon at any rate. I happen to know he’ll be busy checking up some reports at Bow Street.”

  Storey fingered his hat rather uncomfortably.

  “I say, Temple, you don’t seriously suspect Ross, do you? I mean … well, you might just as well suspect Superintendent Bradley.”

  “I do,” retorted Temple, with emphasis. “As I told you before, I suspect everyone. I have a highly suspicious nature, haven’t I, Steve?”

  “Yes, I think that would be an accurate description,” decided Steve.

  Temple took a gulp at his drink and pulled a wry face.

  “M’m, and I suspect that there wasn’t much gin in this to start with!”

  When Storey had gone, Temple opened his wallet and handed Steve a green slip of paper.

  “Before I forget, Steve,” he said, in a business-like tone, “here’s your ticket for tonight.”

  “What ticket?” asked Steve, mystified.

  “For the theatre, darling. You said you wanted to see the show at the Savoy.”

  “But I can’t go there tonight,” she interrupted.

  “Why ever not?”

  “Because,” she announced, decisively, “I’m coming with you to Kensington.”

  “Oh, no, you’re not!” snapped Temple.

  Her eyes widened. “Darling, you’re not serious,” she protested with an injured air.

  “Perfectly serious!”

  With some reluctance, she took the ticket and regarded it dubiously.

  He sat down at a small table and made some notes in the small black book he always carried. Steve lit a cigarette and fidgeted about the room, moving a vase here and an ornament there. At last she asked:

  “Paul, what’s going to happen at the hotel tonight?”

  He shook his head.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” he replied, gravely. “But I have an idea it will be calculated to upset even the most hardened lady reporter.” He finished off his drink, and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Take my word for it, darling, you’ll be much more comfortable at the theatre.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE OCTOBER HOTEL

  Kensington after dark presented a slightly sinister aspect to Temple’s imagination. What tragedies, he reflected, were being enacted behind those gaunt, moribund Victorian frontages, with their high windows, massive porches and peeling plaster. Road after road took on a similarity that was almost alarming. Temple often wondered how its inhabitants found their way back to the right house amid those arid plains of masonry. On the surface, it was all so highly respectable, even genteel.

  But the October Hotel was making a bold effort to escape from the Kensington tradition and to cater for the youth of today. Particularly the well-endowed youth. It had been rebuilt in bright red bricks on the site of an ancient hostelry formerly known as The Bear and Staff. Its windows were squat; its doors chromium-plated; its furniture upholstered in striking red leather. Its barmaids, without exception, were platinum blondes of a simply dazzling quality. The hotel had few regular guests of the en pension type so favoured by its local competitors. The October Hotel made its money from the two hundred per cent profit on short drinks served to the younger generation, who made a lot of noise, but emptied their pockets without a thought for the morrow. Just lately, the hotel’s reputation had been in question once or twice, but so far the police had nothing definitely against the management.

  When the police car drew up outside, they could hear an automatic gramophone blaring noisily, and there were gusts of high-pitched laughter. Before starting out, the familiar blue Police sign had been removed from this car and all the others which followed.

  “Shall we go in?” asked Forbes, who was impatient to ascertain the lie of the land.

  “No, let’s wait here for a little while,” decided Temple, lighting a cigarette.

  “All right,” agreed Forbes, with some reluctance, as the driver switched off his engine. “Keep her warm, Johnson,” he advised, “we might want to get off the mark with a rush.”

  “Very good sir,” nodded the driver.

  “Wasn’t Storey supposed to be coming along?” asked Forbes, presently.

  “Yes, he phoned to say he couldn’t meet us at the flat, but he’d come straight on. He’ll be along presently,” said Temple.

  “H’m,” grunted Forbes, without much enthusiasm, “I think we can manage without him. Where’s Steve this evening?”

  “She’s gone to the theatre.”

  “Just as well,” agreed Forbes. “Shouldn’t be surprised if we had a rough house. I’ve got a feeling that The Marquis is going to force the issue tonight.”

  They were silent for a few moments, each brooding upon the train of events which the night would bring forth.

  “Careful with that cigarette,” advised Forbes suddenly, when the glow lit up the inside of the saloon. “We don’t want to advertise ourselves any more than we can help. Never know who might be on the lookout for us. The fellow’s bound to take precautions, and pretty thorough ones too, if his previous jobs are any indication.”

  A figure loomed in the darkness, a
nd exchanged a word with the driver.

  “Who’s that?” demanded Forbes, sharply.

  “Sergeant O’Brien, sir,” said the man outside in a hearty Irish accent.

  “Anything to report?” asked Forbes.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Better get inside the car for a minute,” suggested Forbes, opening the door.

  The bulky form of Sergeant O’Brien made its presence felt in the back seat.

  “I’ve been making a few inquiries, sir,” he announced, expansively, “and, would ye believe it, the hall porter at this place is a fellow named Bertram Carter.”

  “The name’s familiar,” murmured Temple.

  “Yes,” said Forbes swiftly, for he possessed a remarkable memory for names of men with a criminal record. “There was a Bertram Carter in that big arson case at Birkenhead four years ago.”

  “That’s the man, sir,” assented O’Brien. “He was only one of the stooges, as you might say, in that case, as far as we could prove, so he got off with a couple of years penal. I ‘phoned the Records Department and they checked up on him.”

  A torch flashed suddenly near the curbside.

  “Who the devil’s that?” snapped Forbes, irritably. Then he recognised the stocky form. “Oh, it’s you, Bradley.” He lowered the window, and Bradley’s head appeared inside.

  “Have you seen O’Brien, sir?”

  “Yes, he’s in here.” Forbes turned to O’Brien. “Is that all you have to report, Sergeant?”

  “That’s all, sir,” O’Brien heartily assured him.

  “All right, you can go.” O’Brien clambered heavily out of the car and joined Bradley on the pavement.

  “Turner’s waiting for you,” the Superintendent told him. “Know where he is?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “All right, you’ve got your orders. And mind you keep your eyes skinned.” O’Brien saluted and disappeared into the darkness.

  Bradley leaned in through the open window on Forbes’ side, and spoke in a low voice.

  “Did O’Brien tell you about the hall porter?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Forbes. “What d’you make of it?”

  “I don’t like it at all,” Bradley admitted. “He’s a dangerous devil. Arson seems to have an attraction for him. That was the fourth case he’s been mixed up with, but we’ve never been able to pin anything really definite on him. A couple of hundred years back he’d have been hanged right off, and a good riddance if you ask me.” He relapsed into a gloomy silence, for Bradley was a disappointed man since he had just failed to make Lannie Dukes reveal the identity of The Marquis. Moreover, he was not altogether looking forward to the inquest on Dukes, for he was the only witness of the death, and would be called upon to answer some extremely pertinent questions, if he knew anything about that particular South London coroner.

  “What time will Ross be here?” asked Temple, who had not spoken for some minutes.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” said Forbes. “We overlooked the fact that it’s his night off. He left Bow Street about four o’clock, didn’t he, Bradley?”

  “Yes sir. I rang him at four fifteen, and he’d just gone.”

  A moon began to rise behind a heavy black cloud, and a chilly east wind swept along the street. The Superintendent shivered and turned up his coat collar.

  “How many men have you got on the job now, Bradley?” asked Forbes.

  “All the entrances are well-covered, sir,” Bradley assured him. “Nothing to worry about there.”

  The moon came from behind the cloud for a moment or two, then vanished again.

  “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll go and make the round now,” said Bradley, gripping the heavy automatic which lay snugly in his overcoat pocket. With a leisurely tread he moved towards the back entrance of the hotel.

  Barely two minutes elapsed when there was a sound of running footsteps, and Sir Graham, who had just raised the window, lowered it again rapidly.

  “Stand by, Johnson,” he snapped, peering in the direction of the footsteps. He was about to open the door when he relaxed and said in a disappointed tone: “Oh, it’s you, Storey, I might have known it wasn’t one of our men rushing about like that.”

  Storey had apparently run some little distance, for he was quite out of breath. He wore no hat, and his hair had been ruffled by the wind, as Temple revealed when he ignited his lighter to start another cigarette.

  “Sorry I didn’t get to your place, Temple,” panted Roger, “but Ross passed me in a car when I was on the way there. I jumped into a taxi right away and followed him – I felt somehow he was up to something, and I was right.” He paused to regain his breath.

  “Then where the devil is Ross now?” demanded Forbes suspiciously.

  “He’s here, sir. He drove up the side entrance, parked his car and—”

  He was interrupted by several police whistles and the sound of excited voices. Some sort of struggle was obviously taking place not far away. Without any further ado, Forbes and Temple rushed in the direction of the noises. They found Ross struggling in the grip of O’Brien and a plain clothes detective.

  “Take your hands off me!” Ross was shouting.

  “Easy there, sir,” said O’Brien apologetically, his honest Irish features a trifle bewildered, but quite determined. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ross, but my orders are to stop everybody at this entrance, even if it’s the King himself!”

  “To hell with your orders!” stormed Ross. “I’m giving you orders, and you’ll obey them or lose your stripes!”

  “I’ve got my orders from the Superintendent,” persisted O’Brien doggedly, as there was a sound of footsteps, and men converged on them from two different directions. A moment later, Forbes and Temple arrived.

  “What’s wrong, O’Brien?” demanded Forbes, flashing his torch on the group.

  “I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” cried Ross, struggling to free himself of the sergeant’s grip. “By God, if you think—”

  “You’re under arrest, Ross,” snapped Forbes, curtly. “And I warn you that anything you say will—”

  A noisy clanging of a fire alarm at the back of the hotel completely drowned his voice.

  “Good God!” cried Storey, who had come up behind them. “Look!”

  They all turned and stared in the direction of his pointing finger. On the top floor of the hotel they saw an ominous glow flickering behind two of the windows. Even as they watched, the curtains at one window caught fire. The alarm bell continued its deafening clangour, and people began running in all directions, rendering it quite hopeless for the police on duty to obey their instructions in the face of this confusion.

  “Take Ross back to the car, Sergeant,” ordered Forbes briskly, and as O’Brien and his colleague made to obey, Ross started to struggle again. Realising that the Inspector had reached a certain pitch of desperation, and was likely to commit some action he might later regret, Temple stepped forward and confronted Ross abruptly.

  “Don’t be a damn fool,” he said. “Go back to the car.”

  Ross snarled some indistinct reply.

  Temple put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Go back to the car, Inspector. When I get a chance I’ll tell you more about Lydia Staines. All that need concern you now is the fact that she’s dead – died on October the ninth, nineteen thirty-five.”

  Ross stood transfixed, unable to make any reply.

  “Now for heaven’s sake go and sit in the car,” urged Temple. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  Like a man in a dream, Ross turned and accompanied O’Brien.

  “Who the devil is Lydia Staines?” growled Forbes, as they moved towards the front of the hotel.

  “It’s a longish story, Sir Graham, and there’s no time now,” was the reply. “Let’s get round the other side if we can and see what’s going on.”

  A fire engine came rattling down the street and pulled up with screeching brakes. By now, the roof had caught fire, and without any delay the
escapes began to rear their gaunt framework towards the blaze. There was a little delay in locating the nearest street hydrant, but this was soon connected to the snakelike coils of hosepipes.

  “Looks as if it’s getting out of control,” commented Forbes, shouting instructions to his men to keep a clear space free of spectators. At that moment, a huge piece of masonry detached itself from the gable and came hurtling downwards, to fall only a few yards away.

  “Nasty business altogether,” said Temple, as they walked round to the yard of the hotel. Another fire brigade arrived and feverishly began operations.

  They came up to one of Forbes’ men who was busily pushing back a fair-sized crowd of people who were flocking from the nearby houses.

  “What’s going on round here, Turner?” asked Sir Graham.

  “Things are serious, sir,” panted Turner. “Several people trapped on the third floor! The fire seems to have been started in two or three places simultaneously and one or two folks have panicked …”

  Temple and Forbes looked at each other and formulated the same thought. Arson!

  Forbes was the first to act.

  “Keep a sharp look-out for that hall porter, Turner. You know the fellow I mean?”

  “Yes sir, Superintendent Bradley passed the word round. But the man seems to have disappeared.”

  “If you find him, be sure to hold him.”

  “Yes sir.” Turner resumed his unpleasant task.

  By this time, the fire had penetrated the outer walls, and the fierce jets of flame illuminated the surroundings for some distance. In this strange glare they distinguished Bradley rushing round as if he were searching for someone.

  “Bradley!” called Forbes sharply. “What’s the matter?”

  The Superintendent came running across and recognised Temple with some relief.

  “Thank heaven I’ve found you!” he gasped.

  “But I’ve been here all the time,” said Temple. “Anything wrong?”

  “I—I thought you told me Mrs. Temple was at the theatre,” panted Bradley.

  “So she is.”

  Bradley gulped but did not speak for a moment. Temple noticed his distracted expression, and seized his arm.