Paul Temple and the Madison Case

by Francis Durbridge

  “Stay where you are! Don’t move either of you!”

  Temple had faced men with guns before and he already had the measure of this one. By the way he was holding his weapon he was no trained marksman. But he was scared and that was always the danger.

  Temple did not obey the command. He shuffled his feet into the slippers he had discarded before going to bed, stood up and put on his dressing-gown.

  “Paul, he’s got a gun!”

  “Yes, darling. I can see it.”

  “Now don’t try anything!” the man warned. “I’m prepared to use it.”

  “I’m sure you are,” said Temple. “Just tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll try to help you.”

  “You can help me by putting your hands up and standing against that wall. No, facing it. And keep your hands up!”

  “Paul, for God’s sake do as he says!”

  Temple did as he was told, feigning submission. He heard the man padding across the room behind him, suspicious that he had some weapon in the pocket of his dressing-gown. This was almost too good to be true. The man was obviously a novice. He smelt the whisky on his breath as he came close. The nose of the automatic was pressed hard against the small of his back. A hand groped in the pocket of his dressing-gown.

  At that critical moment and in a lightning movement Temple’s arm flailed down like the blade of a propeller. The side of his stiffened hand connected brutally with the man’s wrist, knocking his hand sideways and loosening his grip. The automatic clattered to the floor. Temple’s movement had swung his body round to face his assailant.

  Paradoxically he was more dangerous now. Deprived of his gun he had to rely on weapons with which he was more familiar – his fists.

  Temple, himself no mean boxer, had aimed an uppercut at his jaw. The man parried it expertly, then jabbed Temple viciously low in the stomach. The blow doubled him up gasping for breath and he felt the side of an open hand smash down on his neck behind the ear.

  He saw a white flash and slumped to the ground.

  “I thought you were never coming, Paul! I’ve poured your coffee out.”

  “Oh, thanks, darling.”

  “I’ve told Charlie to make you an omelette. Is that all right?”

  “Yes, that’s fine.”

  “How does your head feel this morning?”

  “It’s not too bad. I could kick myself for letting that chap get away!”

  “Do you know, Paul,” she said now, remembering her behaviour with shame, “although I was worried I had a most terrible fit of the giggles. I just couldn’t help myself.”

  “I don’t know why the devil you didn’t hit him with something! I’m afraid you didn’t come up to scratch, darling!”

  “You didn’t exactly come up to scratch yourself!” Steve flashed back. Then she relented and put a hand on her injured husband’s arm. “Have you been in touch with the Yard?”

  “Yes, I spoke to Superintendent Vosper. He’s calling round after breakfast.” Paul cocked his ear at the sound of the front door bell. “Perhaps that’s him now.”

  A minute later Charlie appeared at the door of the dining- room. He looked haggard after his broken night’s sleep. “I beg your pardon, Mrs T.”

  “Yes, what is it, Charlie?”

  “There’s a Mrs Portland’s called – she wants to see Mr Temple.”

  Steve turned to Temple in surprise. “I thought you’d arranged to see Mrs Portland at her hotel?”

  “I did. I said I’d drop in about eleven.” Temple shrugged. “It’s all right, Charlie, you can show her in.”

  Steve would hardly have recognised the woman who walked in as the Stella Portland she had met on her second evening on board ship. She was wearing a dark grey costume, the nearest thing to black that she possessed, and had aged by ten years. Gone was her confident, contented manner. She clearly felt it was no longer worth while taking trouble over her make-up and her eyes were red from weeping.

  Steve rose to meet the American, her face showing concern.

  “Good morning, Mrs Portland. We’re just having some coffee, won’t you join us?”

  “That’s very sweet of you, Mrs Temple.” Stella’s voice was weary, drained of emotion. “A cup of coffee certainly would be very welcome.”

  “You look tired,” Steve said, pulling a chair back for her.

  “Yes, I’m afraid I didn’t sleep very well last night.” Stella made a great effort to pull herself together. She gave a pathetically forced smile. “I’ve just been for a walk in St James’s Park. It’s a lovely park, isn’t it? You know, there’s no place like London, is there? I don’t know why, but I always think the trees look different. Sam would have loved it over here … It’s an awful pity that…” The brief attempt at bright conversation had failed. She closed her eyes and choked back a sob.

  “Do sit down, Mrs Portland.”

  Stella took the proffered chair, as Charlie came in with another cup and saucer. No one spoke as Steve poured the coffee and pushed the milk and sugar towards her.

  Then Temple remarked pleasantly, “I think we had an appointment at eleven o’clock.”

  “Yes, we did, Mr Temple.” Stella was immediately contrite. “I’m awfully sorry dropping in on you like this.”

  “That’s all right,” Steve reassured her. “We’re delighted to see you.”

  “I thought we might be able to talk better here than at my hotel, You see …” A hint of desperation crept into Stella’s voice. “Mr Temple, did Sam talk to you about his watch-chain? Did he show it to you?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact he did. Mrs Portland, what is this all about?” Temple’s voice also betrayed him, showed his impatience. “Hubert Greene came here last night, he told me that you’d lost the chain and yet when I telephoned you at your hotel you …”

  “No, no, I haven’t lost it. It’s here. I want you to have a look at it, Mr Temple. Please …” Stella had opened her handbag. She produced a chain with a watch at one end and a shiny penny on the other. She handed it to Temple. “Is that the chain that my husband showed you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Yes, I’m reasonably sure. It’s got the penny on the end and it looks exactly the same. Yes, this is it all right.”

  “Did my husband tell you about the penny?”

  “He said it was in his pocket when a policeman called Dan Kelly arrested him for jay walking. That was in Chicago in 1952.”

  “That’s right,” Stella confirmed.

  “Your husband told me rather a remarkable story, Mrs Portland. He said that, from the moment he was arrested his memory was a complete blank and he simply couldn’t recall …” Temple, turning the penny over in his hand, had stopped dead and was staring at it.

  “Paul, what’s the matter?”

  Temple pushed the penny across the table. “Steve, look at the head on this penny!”

  Steve examined the penny and looked at Paul, puzzled. “What about it?”

  “That’s Queen Elizabeth. She had not come to the throne when Portland was picked up in Chicago. Look at the date on the back.”

  Steve turned the penny over and shook her head in bewilderment. “1957!”

  2

  The Manila

  “But that’s impossible!” Stella exclaimed. “If the penny wasn’t made until 1957 Sam couldn’t have had it in his pocket when he was arrested.”

  “Exactly, Mrs Portland. When I met your husband, the first morning we left New York, he told me that although he was known as Sam Portland, Portland was not his real name. He told me that he didn’t know his name, had no idea of his identity.”

  “That’s perfectly true.” Stella had added milk and sugar to her coffee. Now she began to stir it. “Thirty-five years ago a policeman called Dan Kelly found Sam wandering aimlessly down Portland Avenue in Chicago. He couldn’t even remember who he was or where he’d come from. Is that the story my husband told you?”

  “Part of it, yes. But he al
so told me that Hubert Greene, his London representative, had telexed him about a private detective called Madison.”

  “Madison?”

  “Yes. He was supposed to have discovered something about your husband’s past. When I spoke to Greene about this, he said it was nonsense, he’d never heard of Madison.”

  “I’ve never heard of him either! All this is news to me.”

  “Your husband went so far as to say that Madison was his sole reason for coming over here.”

  “But that’s ridiculous! We all know why Sam wanted to come to England. Moira – his daughter – works over here and the silly girl’s been making a fool of herself. She’s got engaged to a smooth young man called Chris Boyer who spends most of his time in night clubs. He’s forever taking Moira off to some place called the Manila. I know for a fact that Sam was very worried about it.”

  Stella lifted her cup and Steve thought that at last she was going to take a sip.

  “Mrs Portland, you still haven’t told us about the watch-chain.”

  “Oh yes, I was forgetting.” Stella put the cup down again. “Just before we left New York, Sam said rather a peculiar thing, as a matter of fact I thought he was joking. He said, ‘If anything should happen to me, Stella, take great care of my watch-chain. You’ll probably find it’s the most valuable thing I possess’.”

  “He didn’t mention the penny at all?”

  “No,” said Stella, at last putting the cup to her lips.

  “Mrs Portland,” Steve asked, “why did you tell Hubert Greene that the chain was missing?”

  “Because he was so curious about it. All the way back from Southampton he kept on about the chain, throwing out veiled hints that he’d like to see it.” Stella pursed her lips. “I made up my mind I wasn’t going to let him see it.”

  “Well, it looks a perfectly ordinary watch-chain.” Temple had continued to examine it carefully. “The only curious point is the date on the penny.”

  “Yes, that worries me. It almost makes me think that Sam wasn’t telling the truth, that the story about himself was a fabrication.”

  “Well, that’s one explanation, of course, but there is another, a very simple one. Somebody’s changed the penny.”

  The inquest on Sam Portland was held five days later at Southampton. Temple had been unable to attend as he was already committed to delivering a lecture that morning on the implications of genetic fingerprinting. Sir Graham Forbes had implied that he would be going down and had promised to call in that evening.

  Temple was in his study working on the first chapter of his new book when he heard the door-bell ring. He glanced at the wall-clock. It was only three-forty-five. Half a minute later he heard Forbes’ strong and clear accents in the hall. He pushed his chair back and went to the door.

  “Hello, Sir Graham. I didn’t expect you back so soon. Did you go to the inquest?”

  “No, I’m absolutely up to my eyes. I sent Raine. He ’phoned half an hour ago. I tried to call you but only got the ansaphone.”

  “Come on in and tell me what happened. I’m afraid I was working on my new book.”

  Forbes accepted the invitation and sat down on the button-upholstered armchair.

  “For your information Mr Samuel L. Portland died from natural causes. The Coroner was quite convinced there was no suspicion of foul play.”

  Temple had pressed the stop switch on his ansaphone and resumed his seat behind the desk. “Well, if the Coroner was convinced …”

  “Don’t you agree?”

  “There’s something behind this Portland business. I don’t know what but I’m quite sure there is.”

  “Now, take the facts, Temple.” Forbes sounded a little impatient. “Either Portland told you the truth about himself and about Hubert Greene getting in touch with him – in which case Greene lied to you when you saw him at Southampton - or Portland didn’t tell you the truth, in which case his story was a complete hoax.”

  “There are too many coincidences for my liking,” Temple persisted. “First of all you receive an anonymous letter saying that if Portland comes over here a murder will be committed …”

  “But a murder hasn’t been committed.”

  “One very nearly was committed, Sir Graham,” Temple pointed out quietly.

  “When?”

  “Five nights ago, here, in this very flat.”

  “Yes,” Forbes conceded, “But we’ve no evidence that had any connection with the Portland case.”

  Temple decided not to press the point. “Anyway, let’s forget it for the time being. Would you like a cup of tea, Sir Graham?”

  “No thanks. I suppose I’d better be getting back to the Yard. Heaven knows there’s enough to do.”

  “What are you on at the moment?”

  “What are we not on? Bomb scares, the state visit, a spate of armed robberies. We’re particularly worried about this counterfeit business. I expect you’ve read about it?”

  “No, but I’ve been abroad for two weeks.”

  “It’s serious, Temple. For several months now the Continent has been flooded with counterfeit notes – chiefly dollars, of course. About a week ago the French Sûreté said that in their opinion the gang were not actually working from the Continent but from England.”

  “Who are the people behind it - have you any idea?”

  “I wouldn’t say this to anyone else, Temple, but frankly, at the moment we haven’t a clue. So now you know why I’m not particularly interested in the late Mr Portland, to say nothing of the watch-chain.”

  The telephone on the desk had been ringing for several seconds. “Excuse me.” Temple said and picked the receiver up. “Hello?”

  “Paul, I’ve been trying to ring you but all I got was the ansaphone.”

  “I’m sorry, Steve. Where are you?”

  “Paul, listen.” Steve’s voice was excited. “I’m in Harridge’s. I want you to come here straight away. It’s urgent.”

  “What’s happened?”

  Forbes had made a valedictory sign to Temple and was moving towards the hall. Temple signalled him to wait.

  “I came back from Bramley on the 11.40. When I got to Waterloo I was just getting into a taxi when … Paul, are you listening?”

  “Yes of course I’m listening. You were just getting into a taxi.”

  “Yes, and I saw a man join the end of the taxi queue. At first I couldn’t place him. Then suddenly I realised who it was. Darling, it was that man.”

  “Which man?”

  “The man who broke into the flat, the man who knocked you out.”

  Forbes had come back into the room and was trying to hear what the caller was saying.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely sure.”

  “Go on, Steve …”

  “I didn’t know what to do. I made my driver wait a bit and then when I saw him getting into a taxi I decided to follow him. He’s here at Harridge’s.”

  “Where are you actually speaking from?”

  “I’m in a ’phone booth on the ground floor, you know, next to the flower stall.”

  “Where’s the man?”

  “He’s in the snack-bar. It’s all right, he can’t come out without my seeing him, in any case he’s only just given his order.”

  “Has he seen you?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “O.K., darling. Now, don’t do anything foolish. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Temple slammed the receiver down and stood up.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Get your hat, Sir Graham. I’ll explain in the car.”

  The lift was occupied. Rather than wait for it Temple raced down the stairs, with Forbes not far behind. His Jaguar was parked almost directly opposite the flat. He was in the driving seat and had the engine started before Forbes slid in beside him. The car had pulled out from the kerb before Sir Graham had time to fasten his seat-belt.

  “You’ll cover me if I get stopped for speeding, Sir Graham?”
/>
  “What’s this – “ Forbes was still regaining his breath. “What’s this all about?”

  As soon as he heard that Steve had spotted the burglar at Harridge’s Forbes used the in-car telephone to contact his office at Scotland Yard. Temple concentrated on his driving. The knowledge that Steve was perfectly capable of attempting to prevent her quarry from leaving made him take chances. Forbes closed his eyes as Temple raced across the King’s Road just as the lights went red. Through Belgrave Square the tyres were shrieking. Down the narrows of Pont Street he switched on his headlamps and used his horn ruthlessly to clear a passage. As he swung right into Sloane Street the car heeled over and Forbes was only prevented from falling into his lap by the seat-belt.

  Traffic was already building up to the evening rush hour and it was seven minutes before the tall Harridge’s building came in sight. There was no hope of finding a parking space anywhere near the store. Temple double-parked close to the entrance which he knew was nearest the flower stall. He left Forbes to deal with a scandalised traffic warden who was gesticulating wildly.

  He spotted Steve as soon as he burst through the swing doors. She was standing beside the flower stall at the top of the steps that led down into the snack-bar. She was pale with tension.

  “Thank goodness, Paul! You’ve been quick.”

  “Is he still here?”

  “Yes. At that table over by the window. He’s just paying his bill.”

  Using a floral display for cover Temple peered into the snack-bar. The man’s face was in profile. He had no doubt it was the intruder of five nights ago.

  Forbes had come in hot on Temple’s heels.

  “Hello, Steve. He’s still here?”

  “Yes, Sir Graham.”

  “Vosper’s outside. He’s putting men on all the exits. We’ll soon have this place sealed up.”

  “It’s our man all right,” Temple said, moving back out of sight.

  “Steve, is this the only exit from the snack-bar?”

  “Yes, I think – watch out, Paul! He’s coming this way!”

  The man had risen from his seat clutching a Samsonite suitcase. He started towards the steps at the top of which Steve and the two men were waiting. Whether he spotted Steve or was warned by some instinct no one would ever know. He halted abruptly, then turned on his heel and ran towards the door which led to the kitchen. A waitress entering with a loaded tray was bowled over by the heavy suitcase.