“Stay here, Steve,” Temple commanded, as he raced down the flight of stairs and through the tables of the snack- bar.
He had to step across the fallen waitress and the scattered dishes to push open the door leading to the kitchen. The chefs in their white coats and cylindrical hats had stopped work and were gaping at the wild figure which was already at the tradesman’s entrance, struggling with one hand to open the door.
Temple gained ground on his quarry through the kitchen. Outside on the pavement he had to pause for a moment. Which way had the man with the suitcase gone? Then he saw him, twenty yards away, heading for the busy High Street. For someone burdened with a heavy suitcase he was moving fast. Temple gained on him again during the short sprint to the main thoroughfare. The entrance to an Underground station yawned invitingly beyond the stream of traffic. The man threw one backward glance over his shoulder, then made his fatal mistake. Missing the warning painted on the roadway to LOOK LEFT, he looked right and walked straight into the path of a taxi bowling fast along the bus lane against the stream of traffic.
The taxi driver slammed on his brakes but it was too late. The man was caught by the front mudguard and slammed against a lamp standard. Temple heard the sickening crunch of his head against the solid metal. The suitcase was projected fifteen feet along the gutter.
“Sorry we’ve been so long, Steve.”
Half an hour had passed before Temple and Forbes were able to rejoin Steve in the snack-bar. They found her starting on her third cup of coffee.
“What happened?”
“He was killed, Steve,” Forbes told her. “Went straight under a taxi. It must have been instantaneous.”
“Oh Paul, I feel awful.” Steve shook her head, near to tears.
“Now Steve, listen, there’s no point in reproaching yourself about this,” Forbes reassured her. “If he hadn’t run for it this wouldn’t have happened.”
“No, I suppose not. Who was he, do you know?”
“According to this diary which we found on him, his name’s Mark Kendell.” Forbes had the diary open at the first page. “78A Nelson Towers, Chelsea. I’ll get Vosper to check that.”
“Anything else of interest?” Temple had sat down beside Steve and put a hand on her arm to comfort her.
“No, there doesn’t seem to be. Just a minute.” Forbes was flicking through the pages of the diary. “Apparently he had a date this evening. October 19th 8.45. The Manila. Appointment with C.B.”
“The Manila?” Temple echoed. “That name’s familiar.”
“Yes, don’t you remember, darling? Mrs Portland mentioned it. She said that her step-daughter was engaged … Now that’s funny. She said that her step-daughter was engaged to a man called Chris Boyer, who regularly frequents the Manila Club.”
“C.B.,” said Temple. “Don’t you think there are too many coincidences here, Sir Graham?”
“M-m,” Forbes conceded. “It looks as if Kendell really was mixed up in the Portland affair.”
“And he broke into our flat thinking we had the watch-chain?” Temple saw, not without alarm, that his wife’s face had an expression which he knew all too well. It meant she was hot on the scent of something.
“Paul, wouldn’t it be an idea if we went along to the Manila Club tonight and simply asked Boyer if he had an appointment with this man Mark Kendell?”
“Quite an idea,” Temple said without enthusiasm, “but unfortunately neither of us happens to be a member of the Manila.”
To his exasperation, Forbes said with a grin, “We can easily get over that, Temple.”
“Don’t say you’re a member, Sir Graham,” said Steve.
“No, but Archie Brooks is. He’ll fix you up all right.”
“Who’s Archie Brooks?”
“One of our best undercover men. We keep him on tap for occasions like this. I’ll tell him to meet you both at the Manila at ten o’clock. Is that all right?”
“Fine,” said Temple with a resigned shrug.
“Well, I’ll get back to the Yard.” Forbes was turning away when a uniformed constable came into the snack-bar. He was carrying the Samsonite suitcase. “We found the key to this in the deceased’s pocket, sir,” he told Forbes. “The Inspector said he’d prefer you to open it.”
The PC handed the suitcase over. Forbes was taken unawares by the weight. It dragged his arm and shoulder down.
“I say, it’s pretty heavy, isn’t it? I wonder what the fellow was carrying in it.”
Forbes heaved the case up onto the table. Temple, Steve and the PC crowded behind him as he inserted the key in the lock. It opened with a snap. Forbes released the two side catches and lifted the lid.
“By Timothy!” Temple whispered.
Inside, tightly packed, were row upon row of neat bundles of notes. Forbes picked one of the packets up, stared at the top note for a moment then silently handed the bundle to Temple.
Temple took it and whistled.
“What are they, Paul?”
“Hundred dollar bills, Steve. Brand new ones. There’s a small fortune here.”
The Manila Club was at the western end of the King’s Road, Chelsea. The entrance was unostentatious. The heavy panelled door had once been that of a private town house. It was permanently closed and only opened when arrivals identified themselves on the entry ’phone.
“Mr and Mrs Paul Temple.”
“Are you a member, sir?”
“No, but I’m meeting Mr Brooks.”
The door buzzed and swung open. At once the muffled thud of amplified dance music became audible. The sound was to be a background to every conversation in the club, even drowning the babble of voices from the crowded rooms. A dark muscular man in a purple velvet jacket was coming down the passage to meet them as the door clicked shut again.
“Mr Brooks is expecting you, sir. He’s in the cocktail bar. You can leave your coats here.”
There was a hatch half way down the passage, where a pretty girl wearing a tambourine-shaped hat exchanged numbered tickets for their coats. Temple folded both tickets and put them in his waistcoat pocket.
“I’ll be with you in a moment, Paul.” Steve had seen the sign indicating the ladies’ powder room. It depicted a Spanish senorita in a swirling flamenco skirt.
Left to kick his heels Temple was staring over the heads of the crowd in the cocktail bar when he heard a familiar voice behind him at the cloakroom hatch.
“My hat and coat, please,” it said in peremptory tones.
“Have you got the ticket, sir?”
“I’ve got the thing somewhere,” the man said, searching his pockets. “It was number 74 … Ah, here it is!”
Still unruffled the girl took the ticket and disappeared to fetch the coat and hat. Drumming impatiently on the counter with his fingers, the man half turned and Temple saw who it was.
“Oh, hello, Greene. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Hubert Greene was equally surprised but he covered it quickly. “Oh, hello, Temple. What are you doing here?”
“Strange though it may seem, I sometimes frequent this type of establishment.”
“You’re welcome, it’s not my idea of fun and games.”
“No. What is your idea of fun and games?”
Greene gave Temple an amused look. “Reading Shakespeare and playing chess. Do you play chess, Mr Temple?”
“Indifferently, I’m afraid.”
“Well,” said Greene blandly, “that’s my idea of fun and games.”
The brief exchange had had the flavour of a verbal duelling match. The voice of the cloakroom girl cut cheerfully into it.
“Your hat and coat, sir.”
“Oh, thank you.”
Greene took the coat and hat but did not put them on. He seemed to be waiting for someone. His eyes searched the crowd behind Temple.
“Are you a member here?” Temple inquired.
“No, but Moira Portland is. I dropped in to have a word with her.”
&nbs
p; “Is she here tonight?”
“Yes, she’s with her fiancé, Chris Boyer. The silly girl’s here every night. I wish to goodness someone would talk to her, Temple.”
Temple wondered if he was supposed to fulfil that role. “Oh, what about?”
“She doesn’t seem to realise that now the old man’s dead a great deal of responsibility’s going to fall on her shoulders.” Instead of making for the door Greene began to walk back towards the cocktail bar. Temple fell in beside him, still keeping an eye open for Steve.
“There’s going to be a lot of work to do during the next three or four months. This is no time for fooling around. I am afraid this chap Boyer is a very bad influence on her.”
“Is that what you’ve been telling her?”
“No, I’ve been trying to persuade her to come down to my place for the weekend. I’ve got Mrs Portland staying with me and the old boy’s secretary, George Kelly. There’s a great deal to discuss, Temple.”
“Yes, I can well imagine it,” Temple murmured. He was still wondering why Greene was confiding the family’s problems to him.
“Moira refuses to come unless I invite Chris Boyer. Why the devil should I invite him?” Greene threw Temple an angry glance. “Quite apart from the fact that I can’t abide the fellow, he’s not a member of the family and he’s got nothing whatever to do with the business.”
“Well, it looks as if he’s going to be a member of the family, doesn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. This isn’t the first boy friend Moira’s lost her head over.” Greene lowered his voice. “Hello, here they are.”
Temple had no trouble in picking out the couple who had come up the stairs from the disco in the cellar. The girl was about twenty-six, with attractive features and a good figure. She was laughing excitedly as she looked up into the face of the man beside her. He was very tall, very dark, very slim, with Mediterranean good looks.
Moira’s face became half amused, half defiant when she saw Greene.
“Hello, Hubert, I thought you’d gone.”
“I’m just leaving, Moira. This is Mr Temple.”
“Hello,” said Moira, hardly glancing at Temple. “We’re just going to have a drink, Hubert. Won’t you join us?”
“No, thank you.”
Moira laughed at him mockingly “You can have an orangeade, darling.”
“I don’t like orangeade,” said Greene quietly.
“Oh, I quite forgot. It’s ginger-ale, isn’t it?” Moira smiled up at Boyer. Her little performance had been put on for his benefit.
“Goodbye, Mr – “ She was looking at Temple directly for the first time. “Did you say your name was Temple?”
“Mr Greene said so – yes.”
“I’ve heard Stella talk about you.” Moira’s manner was suddenly serious. “You know who I mean, don’t you? Stella Portland, my step-mother.”
“Yes, we met on the boat coming over from America.”
“That must have been cosy,” said Moira sarcastically “Oh, this is my fiancé Chris Boyer.”
Boyer nodded his head respectfully. “Glad to know you, Mr Temple. This is quite an honour. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
“From Mrs Portland?”
“No, no. I mean I’ve read about you in the newspapers. I gather you’re the best known private eye in Europe.”
“Private eye isn’t a description I care for,” said Temple. “But I wonder if Mr Madison shares that opinion?”
“Mr Madison?”
“He’s a private detective. You haven’t heard of him?”
Boyer shook his head and turned to Moira for enlightenment, but the name had obviously meant nothing to her either.
“Come on, Chris.” Moira grabbed her fiancé’s arm. “You dance divinely but, boy, it does make a girl thirsty.”
“Goodbye, Moira,” Greene said, with a last attempt to be friendly. “I hope I shall see you at the weekend - both of you.”
It was Boyer who had the grace to acknowledge the invitation. “That’s nice of you. We shall be delighted, shan’t we, Moira?”
But Moira was not listening. Greene turned to Temple with an exasperated expression, as if to say “You see what I’m up against!”
Temple had at last spotted Steve coming out of the powder room. As he watched her coming through the crowd towards him he thought how favourably she compared with Moira’s somewhat exaggerated prettiness. Greene nodded to Steve, barely acknowledging her presence, then made his excuses and departed.
“Is he a member here?” Steve asked as she watched him go.
“No, he only dropped in to have a word with Moira. Now, I believe we’ll find our man in the cocktail bar. I’ll lead the way, you follow me.”
There was such a crush that Temple had to literally force his way into the bar. A row of freakishly dressed young men were propping up the bar and obviously enjoying themselves.
“I wonder which of these characters is Archie Brooks?” Temple said over his shoulder.
“I’ll bet a tenner that’s him.”
“Where?”
“Second from the left. He’s an Archie if ever I saw one!”
“Well, you’ll lose your tenner!” Steve’s head jerked round at the voice from behind her. “I’m much better looking than that.”
She was looking into a jovial, friendly and slightly chubby face.
“Mrs Temple?”
“Yes,” Steve admitted, deeply embarrassed.
“I’m Archie Brooks.” Her hand was seized in a strong, dry hand-clasp. “Is this your husband?”
“Yes.”
“Glad to meet you, Temple. Heard an awful lot about you from Sir Graham. Odd we haven’t met before.”
“Yes, it is. I hope this date hasn’t inconvenienced you?”
“Not in the slightest.” Archie Brooks raised his voice to over-ride the din. “By the way, shall we go straight to our table? This place is a bit like a bear garden.”
“Yes, I think it’s a good idea,” Steve said with relief.
“Can you push your way through the bods, Mrs Temple, or shall I shout fire?”
“I think I can manage.” Steve began to push her way towards the door that led to the restaurant.
“Hello, Chunky.” A young man with a military style moustache wearing an unsuitably loud check jacket had spotted Brooks and bull-dozed his way towards him. “How are you?”
“Hello, George.” Brooks took it calmly. “How’s things?”
“Ghastly!”
“Where’s Edith?”
“She’s in Tenby, old boy. Been there for six months.”
“Tenby?”
“Yes.”
“How very odd.”
“It’s all very difficult, Chunky. Tell you next time we meet.”
George melted back into the crowd. Archie waited till they were clear of the cocktail bar before explaining. “That was George Denson.”
“I gathered that.” Steve was still smiling.
“We were at school together,” Archie said, as if that explained everything.
“Why did he call you Chunky?”
“Everybody calls me Chunky, Mrs Temple.” Archie laughed. “Do you know those tins of beautiful pineapple chunks – delicious?”
“Yes,” Steve nodded. She could not help liking this ebullient character.
“Well, I used to eat thousands of ‘em when I was at school. Simply couldn’t stop. Tin after tin.” Archie shook his head in wonderment at his own prowess. “By golly, I’ve eaten some pineapple chunks in my time.”
The policy of the new owners of the Manila had been to broaden the appeal of the club and to encourage members to dine there instead of coming along later in the evening after eating in a restaurant. Acquisition of a neighbouring house had enabled them to knock a wall away and provide full catering facilities on the ground floor.
Archie Brooks was in generous mood. They had an excellent dinner and he chatted away amicably, giving th
em a running commentary on the people at the other tables. Not till the coffee was served was any reference made to their reason for being there.
“Are you sure you won’t have a liqueur, Mrs Temple?”
“Quite sure,” said Steve.
“What about you, Temple?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, we’ll have a cigar anyway.” Brooks reached one hand backwards to interrupt a passing waiter. “Robert, fetch us a couple of decent cigars, will you?”
Temple felt it was time to broach the matter uppermost in his mind. “Did Sir Graham tell you why we wanted to come here tonight?”
“He said you wanted to see Chris Boyer. I can’t imagine why.”
“Do you know him well?” Steve asked. Moira and her fiancé had come into the restaurant late and were sitting at a table across the room. She could see Chris Boyer in profile and could not help being fascinated by his good looks.
“Vaguely. I know everybody vaguely, Mrs Temple, that’s my job.”
“What exactly is your job?”
Brooks raised his eyebrows at Temple’s question. “Didn’t Sir Graham tell you?”
“No.”
“Then I should ask him,” said Brooks, smiling pleasantly. “You see Chris Boyer and Moira are over there. Shall I invite him over for a drink?”
“No, that might look a bit obvious. Tell him …” But Boyer had seen that they were talking about him and he was well aware that Steve had been watching him. He pushed his chair back, said something to Moira and stood up.
“He’s coming over,” Steve said, smiling to herself.
Boyer weaved his elegant way between the tables. He made an art of the simple act of walking.
“Hello, Chunky, how are you?”
“Fine thanks. I’d like you to meet some friends of mine - Mr and Mrs Temple. Chris Boyer.”
“Mr Temple and I have already met.” Boyer merely glanced at Temple then turned the full charm of his smile on Steve. “But this is an unexpected pleasure, Mrs Temple.”
Paul Temple and the Madison Case Page 5