Greene shook his head, more bewildered than ever. “Whose identity? Portland’s?”
“Yes.”
“Look here, I don’t want to be rude, Temple, but have you been drinking?”
“You’ve never heard of Madison?”
Greene met Temple’s level gaze steadily. “I’ve already told you that I haven’t.”
“Then why was Sam Portland in such a hurry to get to England?”
Greene reached into his pocket and brought out a packet of cigarettes. The librarian, standing on his library steps above and behind him, gave a loud cough. The library was a ‘No Smoking’ area. Greene put his cigarettes away again. “I thought you knew why. You said he told you. I was having trouble with Moira. I’ve been having trouble with her for weeks now. The girl’s a little bi- well she gets completely out of hand. I tried to keep it from Sam but in the end it was quite impossible. Three days ago I made up my mind that I wasn’t going to stand any more of her damned nonsense. I telexed her father and offered my resignation.”
“I see.”
“If you don’t believe me, ask George Kelly.” Greene had already stood up. “He knows about Moira, he knows what’s been going on. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to see if Mrs Portland is ready to be taken down to the car.”
Temple did not stand up. He responded in kind to Greene’s curt nod. His head did not turn as the other man walked past him and out through the door behind. He sat there quite still for several minutes before he stood up and followed Portland’s London representative.
“Paul, I do wish you’d get out of my way.”
“Now don’t be irritable, Steve!”
“Darling, we’ve been away for two weeks and I’m trying to unpack!”
The Temples were back at their flat in Eaton Square by seven o’clock. Charlie had prepared a special welcome-home dinner, which the Temples had felt bound to savour to the full. Then there had been the inevitable pile of correspondence which Temple had sifted through to find out if there was anything of immediate importance. In the end it was ten o’clock before they even started to unpack their suitcases and the extra packages of duty-free goods they had bought on board ship.
“Yes, all right! All right, Steve! Where’s that bow tie - the one I bought in New York?”
“Now what on earth do you want that for?”
“I want to try it on.”
“You can’t try it on now, not in your pyjamas, you’ll look ridiculous. Besides, you’ve been trying it on ever since you bought it!”
“Oh, here it is!” Temple deftly tied the bow and studied the effect in the mirror. His expression changed from enthusiasm to gloom.
“I think it’s a bit bright.”
“Of course it’s too bright, I told you that in the shop.”
“It looked all right in New York.”
“Yes, well, we’re not in New York! Paul, go into your study and read a book or get into bed or have a bath or something!”
“By Timothy, I am popular!”
“You’re just getting in my way, darling! Now where did I put that blouse? Oh, here it is … Come in, Charlie!”
Charlie was the Temples’ Jack-of-all-trades – cook, housemaid, watch-dog and even driver, but the latter only in time of dire necessity. He stood five-foot six in his socks, which were all he had on his feet now. Above them he was wearing a pair of over tight chefs trousers and an old cardigan that had been buttoned up skew-whiff. He stared goggle-eyed at his master in pyjama top and dazzling bow tie.
“What is it, Charlie?”
“Sir Graham Forbes is here, sir. He’d like to have a word with you.”
“Sir Graham? I didn’t hear the door-bell.”
“No, sir. You and Mrs Temple was kickin’ up quite a racket. I put him in the living room, was that all right, sir?”
“Yes, that’s all right, Charlie.”
Still mesmerised by the tie, Charlie withdrew. Steve exchanged a worried glance with her husband.
“Paul, what does he want - do you know?”
“No, darling. Where’s my dressing-gown?”
“It’s on the bed.”
“Oh, thanks …”
Temple put on his dressing-gown and thrust his feet into slippers. Steve’s voice stopped him when he was at the door.
“Paul.”
“Yes?”
“I shouldn’t wear the tie, darling.”
Sir Graham Forbes was the kind of man who seemed to fill any room he was in. Broad shoulders, a trim moustache and bushy eyebrows enhanced his commanding features. He was old enough to treat women with an avuncular protectiveness to which they reacted favourably. Steve always flirted with him shamelessly, knowing that he would never overstep the bounds of correctness.
“Hello, Steve!” he greeted her, as she came into the sitting-room a minute or two after Paul. The two men already had glasses of whisky in their hands. “My word, you do look well!” His eyes ran appreciatively over the silk house-robe she had put on. “Are you glad to be home?”
“Well, I don’t know, Sir Graham. It all depends what you’ve got up your sleeve!”
“I haven’t got anything up my sleeve,” Forbes protested, a little too emphatically. “So don’t worry, my dear!”
“Well, Sir Graham, is this a social call?” Temple asked, waving his guest to a chair.
“Not exactly. I want some information.” Forbes sipped his whisky appreciatively and put the glass down on a low table beside his chair. “When you were on the boat coming over from America did you meet a man called Portland – Sam Portland?”
Temple nodded. “Yes, we did.”
“Did you see much of him?”
“Well – I had quite a chat with him. As a matter of fact I was going to ’phone you. There’s something about Portland you ought to know.”
Steve was standing behind the sofa. “Don’t you think you ought to start the story at the beginning, darling?” she suggested.
“Well,” Temple began, “we left America last Friday evening. I was feeling rather tired because I’d had a pretty hectic time. It was just after six o’clock when the boat sailed. Steve was on deck staring at the skyscrapers and waving a last farewell to New York …”
Sir Graham listened without interruption while Temple told him in detail what had occurred on the Princess Diana. He ended with an account of his conversation with Hubert Greene.
“Did you speak to George Kelly?”
“Yes. He confirmed Greene’s story. He said he’d actually seen the telex from Hubert Greene offering Portland his resignation.”
“Did you ask him about Madison?”
“He’d never heard of him.”
“M’m.” Forbes sounded sceptical about that. He picked up his glass and tipped his head back to empty it. Temple stood up to replenish both their glasses.
“Sir Graham, how does Scotland Yard come into this?”
“Just over a week ago one of my men – Chief Inspector James - received this note. Here we are, Steve, read it.”
Steve had seated herself on the end of the sofa. She reached over for the note and slowly read it out. “ ‘An American multi-millionaire called Sam Portland intends to visit England. He must be stopped from doing so – if he isn’t … a… murder… will… be … committed.’ ”
“Is there a signature?” Temple asked.
“No, it’s typed, darling. There’s no signature.”
“At first we thought it was a hoax,” Forbes said, recovering the note from Steve. “Then something came up which made James decide to take it seriously. He contacted New York. They checked up and told him that Portland apparently hadn’t the slightest intention of coming to England.”
“He probably hadn’t at that time.”
“We kept the file open but took no further action until we heard that Portland was on his way over here …”
“… and had died of a heart attack,” Temple finished for him.
“Precisely. Naturally we obtai
ned a list of passengers and when I saw your name on it I was confident you could fill us in. There will have to be an inquest, of course, even though the doctor appeared quite happy to sign a death certificate attributing the cause of death as … “ Forbes paused as there came a knock on the door and Charlie poked his head in.
“Excuse me, sir.”
“What is it, Charlie?” Temple asked with ill-concealed impatience.
“There’s a Mr Greene to see you, sir. I didn’t say you was in.”
“Surely it’s a bit late for a social call,” Steve protested.
“That’s all right, Charlie,” Temple said with resignation. “I’ll see him.”
Steve stood up and adjusted her house-robe more carefully. “What can Greene want, Paul?”
“We’ll soon see,” Temple murmured. He just had time to put the whisky glasses away before Charlie showed the visitor in. “Hello, Greene! Come in! What can I do for you?”
Greene was taken aback to find his hosts in night attire. “I’m awfully sorry to disturb you, especially at this time of night, but …” He was staring at Sir Graham, who had remained seated. “I beg your pardon, sir, but haven’t we met before?”
“My name is Forbes,” Sir Graham told him bluntly, as if that precluded any previous acquaintance.
“This is Sir Graham Forbes of Scotland Yard,” Temple explained tactfully.
“Oh, I beg your pardon! I was under the impression that we’d met somewhere. How do you do, sir?” Greene was ready to follow up the introduction with a handshake but Sir Graham made no move to respond in kind, contenting himself with a nod.
“I think you’ve met my wife.”
“Yes, we met at Southampton.” Having been rebuffed once Greene did not offer to shake hands with Steve. “Good evening, Mrs Temple. Temple, I’ve just left Mrs Portland. She’s in a pretty bad way, I’m afraid, and she seems very upset about – well – what seems to me rather a trivial matter.”
“What is Mrs Portland upset about?”
“Well, it seems that somebody’s stolen Mr Portland’s watch-chain.”
“Stolen his watch-chain?” It was Sir Graham that spoke.
“Yes.”
“Was it very valuable?”
“From the way Stella’s going on about it I should say extremely valuable.”
Steve guessed that Mrs Portland had recovered from her shock sufficiently to give her late husband’s London representative a very difficult time.
“She’s probably thinking of the sentimental value.”
“I daresay she is, Mrs Temple, but surely at a time like this … to bother about a watch-chain … it seems most odd.”
“Have you been in touch with the shipping line?” Temple asked.
Greene was turning his head this way and that as questions came from three different directions.
“Yes, I’ve even been on to Southampton!”
Temple had deliberately not offered Greene a drink nor invited him to sit down. He had not forgotten the abrupt way the man had ended their conversation on Princess Diana.
“Well, quite frankly, I don’t see what I can do.”
“I was wondering if by any chance you can recall seeing the chain. If I remember rightly you saw Sam shortly after - after he died.”
“The only time I saw it was the morning he introduced himself to me. It was a thin gold chain with an English penny on the end. He kept the penny in his waistcoat pocket.”
“I don’t know anything about that. All I know is I wish to goodness we could find the chain!”
“Where is Mrs Portland staying?”
“She’s at the Ritz but there’s some talk of her coming down to my place for the weekend.”
“Is she alone?” Steve asked with some concern.
“No, George Kelly’s with her and Moira’s moving in tomorrow morning.”
“Who’s Moira?” Forbes wanted to know.
“It’s her step-daughter.”
“Have they met before, by the way?” Temple asked.
“Yes, they met about six months ago in New York.”
As no one else had made a move to sit down Forbes abandoned his chair and got to his feet.
“Mr Greene, I understand from what Temple tells me, that you’re in charge of the Portland Corporation in this country.”
“Yes, Sir Graham.”
“When did you last see Portland?”
“About four years ago.”
“Was Portland over here?”
“No, I was in America. So far as I know this was Sam’s first trip to Europe.” Greene had got the message that his intrusion so late in the evening had not made him exactly popular. He began to move towards the door. “Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mr Temple. I thought perhaps you might be able to throw some light on the missing watch-chain.”
“If I were you I should try and get in touch with the Purser.”
“Yes, I’ll do that.”
“Can I give you a lift?” Forbes offered surprisingly. “I was just about to make a move.”
“Well, actually I’m on my way to Park Lane. If you could drop me I’d be very grateful.”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Paul …” Steve had waited till she heard two doors closing, the front door and that of Charlie’s own private little flatlet. “Do you think the doctor was mistaken about Portland? Do you think we’ve all been mistaken and - he was murdered?”
“No, I don’t. But there’s one thing I’m rather curious about, Steve.”
“What’s that – the watch-chain?”
“Yes. I’m going to have a word with Mrs Portland.”
“Oh, darling, not at this time of night!”
Temple was already at the telephone table. “I’ve got a hunch it’s important.” He opened the telephone book and ran his finger down the column till he found the number.
Shaking her head half in exasperation and half in affection, Steve went to the drinks cabinet and poured herself a small measure of brandy. Behind her she heard Paul stabbing the numbers, talking to The Ritz switchboard and finally getting through to Mrs Portland’s suite. Her voice came over loudly on the ’phone and Steve was able to hear both sides of the conversation.
“Mrs Portland? This is Paul Temple here.”
“Oh, good evening, Mr Temple!”
Temple quickly distanced the ’phone a few inches from his ear. “Forgive me ringing at this time of the night, Mrs Portland, but I’ve just been having a chat with Mr Greene. He tells me that you’ve lost your husband’s watch-chain.”
“Is Hubert with you at the moment?”
“No, he’s just this second left.”
“I’ve got the chain, Mr Temple, there’s no need to worry about it.”
“You mean you’ve found it?”
“No, I mean it was never lost. I - I had it all the time.”
“I see,” said Temple, trying to conceal his annoyance at the false alarm.
“I doubt very much whether you do see, Mr Temple.” Mrs Portland paused. “Are you likely to be passing my hotel tomorrow?”
“Yes, I might be. Probably in the morning.”
“I’d like you to drop in for a few moments.”
“Yes, all right. Shall we say eleven o’clock?”
“That will do nicely. Good-night, Mr Temple.”
“Good night, Mrs Portland.” Thoughtfully Temple put the receiver down. “You heard all that?”
“I couldn’t help it, Paul. Why did Greene lie to you about it?”
“I don’t think he was lying, darling. He really did think it was lost.”
The Temples’ flat was fitted with Banham double mortise locks on the front door and the latest burglar-proof double- glass windows. But Steve always insisted on having a window slightly open in the bedroom. She could not sleep unless she knew that there was an inlet for fresh air, even on the chilliest nights.
She had been the first to put her light out and soon afterwards Temple had closed his book a
nd followed suit. But his sleep was not deep. In his subconscious mind he kept running over the short conversations he had had with Forbes and Greene and checking back on his encounter with Sam Portland. He heard the gentle chimes of the clock in the sitting-room striking two and soon after that he must have dropped off completely.
Perhaps an hour later he woke up. The only sound was the muted hum of the radio-alarm on his bedside table and the echo of a car in the square below. He tried to recall the faint noise that had alerted him, more like a furtive creak than a sharp crack. He felt a stronger current of air on his face and the rustle of the curtains stirring at the window. Opening his eyes he saw pale moonlight slanting across the balcony outside. Was the chink in the curtains wider than when he had gone to bed?
Then for a moment the shaft of moonlight was broken as a shadow passed across.
Very quietly Temple pushed the covers back and swung his legs out of the bed. His movement woke Steve.
“Paul …”
“Sh,” he whispered. “There’s someone on the balcony. Don’t talk.”
She froze. He could sense her fear as she held her breath. There was no further movement at the window. Temple sat completely motionless for five minutes. Through the wall he could just hear a faint sound like waves on a pebbly beach. It was Charlie, snoring in his sleep.
At last that creak came again. The curtains swung slightly. Again the moonlight was broken by a shadow. Someone had come through the window and was standing behind the curtains. Temple still made no movement except to put a reassuring hand on Steve’s arm. All his antennae were on full alert. He sensed rather than saw the intruder move out from behind the heavy curtain, into the pool of darkness in the corner beside the door. He could smell the faint tang that always clings to clothes of a heavy smoker.
Reaching towards the bed-head he pulled the string to switch on his reading lamp. Sudden light flooded the room.
The man who already had his hand on the door-handle whipped round, blinking and momentarily dazzled. He was tall, fiercely moustachioed, heavily built, fortyish and scared. In his hand he gripped a stubby automatic.
Temple said, in his normal conversational tone, “Are you looking for anything in particular, my friend – or is this just asocial call?”
Paul Temple and the Madison Case Page 3