Paul Temple and the Madison Case

by Francis Durbridge

  “No, she’s in her room,” Stella replied. “Do you want her?”

  “Sir Graham would like to have a word with her. He’s in the library.”

  “I’ll tell her,” Boyer offered, moving away from the window.

  “No, that’s all right, Boyer,” Temple said firmly. “Would you mind fetching her, Mrs Portland?”

  “No, of course not.” Stella rose and went out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  “Temple, I’m not trying to be difficult,” Kelly complained, “but when’s Sir Graham going to let us go? He does nothing but ask us the same questions over and over again.”

  “You seem to forget, Mr Kelly, a murder has been committed.”

  “I know a murder’s been committed. We’re not likely to forget it, any of us. Look, Temple, let’s put our cards on the table. I know why the Yard have got their eye on me. Mrs Greene was stabbed, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes. And so was Archie Brooks.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I may be dense, Temple,” Boyer cut in, “but I don’t see the significance.”

  “I used to do a knife-throwing act,” Kelly told him with a grin. “They still think I’m doing it. Catch on?”

  “But that’s nonsense!” exclaimed Boyer. “Why on earth should you want to murder Eileen?”

  Temple produced the knife he had been holding behind his back. “Kelly, does this knife belong to you?”

  “Why, yes. I’ve got several knives like that. I told you, I used to do a circus act.”

  “But you don’t still do it?”

  “Only as a gag. I take the knives with me when I’m invited anywhere.” Kelly saw the expression on Temple’s face. “Well - you know how it is – some people like to do conjuring tricks, others do card tricks …”

  “And you throw knives?” Temple was holding the knife by the tip of the blade, as if he was contemplating throwing it at Kelly. “Did you throw this last night?”

  “Good Lord!” Boyer had been staring at the knife in fascination. “You don’t mean this is the knife that killed Eileen Greene?”

  “No, Boyer. This knife was thrown at my bedroom door just after three o’clock this morning. There was a note attached to it which said ‘Go down to the boat-house ’. Greene and I went down – and found Eileen.”

  Boyer stared at Kelly with a new expression on his face. From now on he was less inclined to ridicule Temple’s suggestion. Temple turned to Kelly again.

  “So you see, Kelly, I’m not accusing you of murder.” Temple lowered the knife. “I’m simply asking you …”

  “If I got up at three o’clock in the morning and threw a knife at your bedroom door?”

  “Exactly.”

  “The answer’s no.”

  “Then somebody must have stolen the knife from you?”

  “That seems to be the obvious explanation.”

  “How many knives have you?”

  “I arrived at Southampton with four.”

  “That’s not what I asked you. How many knives have you now?”

  “There should be three in my room – the one you’ve got there makes four.”

  “How do you know you’ve still got three?”

  Unsettled by Temple’s quick-fire questions Kelly stared at his glass. He was regretting the two double whiskies he had swallowed.

  “Because I was looking at them this morning and …”

  “You were? Then you must have noticed that this one was missing?”

  “Yes, I did – “ Kelly began, then added lamely. “I thought I’d left it in town.”

  Stella, entering the room at that moment, stopped on the threshold. She had picked up the tension between the two men facing each other.

  “Moira will be down in a few moments.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mrs Portland.”

  Stella came forward nervously into the room. She glanced at George, who was trying to convey a silent message to her.

  “Mr Kelly and I would like to catch the two forty-five back to town. Is that possible?”

  “I don’t see why not,” said Temple pleasantly. “I’ll have a word with Sir Graham.”

  “Thank you. And, Mr Temple … Do you know where Hubert is? We haven’t seen him since breakfast.”

  “He’s in his room.”

  “How’s he taking all this?”

  “Well, naturally, he’s very distressed.”

  “Yes, of course.” Stella’s eyes toured the room, as if visualising Eileen welcoming her guests on the previous morning. “What a dreadful thing to have happened - really dreadful. Have you any idea who did it?”

  “Yes, Mrs Portland, I have.” Temple moved to the door. “I’ll ask Sir Graham about the train.”

  As he went out he could feel three pairs of eyes boring into his back and not one of them was friendly.

  Moira had still not come down when Temple rejoined Forbes and James in the library. James had taken over the long table in the middle of the room. It was already littered with statements. Forbes, his usual restless self, was prowling the room, pausing from time to time to peruse the titles of the rows and rows of leather-bound classics. Lord Dalesdon had obviously been something of a scholar. The bright sunshine sparkling on the flowers and shrubs outside the window was in sharp contrast to the gloomy atmosphere inside the house.

  James had his back to the door and was arguing his point of view as Temple entered the room.

  “The whole point, Sir Graham, is – if she was murdered in the house and carried down to the boat-house we would expect there to be blood-stains and a trail …”

  He broke off as he realised Temple had returned.

  “Am I interrupting?”

  “No, of course not, Temple,” Forbes assured him. “We were just discussing whether this murder really has any- thing to do with the Archie Brooks business.”

  “I think it’s all part and parcel of the same case, Sir Graham.”

  “Then why was she murdered? We’ve got a pretty good notion why Brooks was taken care of, but this affair isn’t quite the same.”

  “If Temple’s right, Sir Graham – and I must confess, I’m inclined to agree with him – then it seems to me that this Madison …” James broke off at the sound of the door closing. Moira had come into the room without knocking.

  She was wearing the same denim skirt and her manner was as defiant as ever.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Oh yes, come in, Miss Portland.” Forbes was courteous, as he always was with women. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “I should prefer to stand, if you don’t mind.”

  “Just as you wish.” Forbes went to sit in the chair beside James. He picked up half a dozen sheets of A4 paper clipped together. “I’ve been reading through your statement, Miss Portland. There are one or two points I’m not quite clear about.”

  “Well?” Moira had clasped her hands behind her back. Temple could see that her fingers were clenching and unclenching.

  “You say you went to your room last night at about a quarter past eight – before dinner – you took a sedative and went to bed.”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand from Mr Temple that earlier in the evening you caused rather an unpleasant scene.”

  “Yes, I was tight.” She said it in a voice that expressed no compunction. “I’m afraid I behaved very badly.”

  “Well, you made rather a remarkable statement.”

  “Did I? I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

  “You said that Archie Brooks was a friend of yours and that he’d been murdered by ‘someone in this room’.” Forbes lifted his eyes from the paper and levelled them at her. “It was obvious that you were referring to one of five people – Mr and Mrs Greene, Mr Kelly, Mrs Portland, or your fiancé, Mr Boyer.”

  “I’ve told you I don’t remember making such a statement.”

  “Nevertheless, you made it.”

  “I was drunk. I just didn’t know what I was sayi
ng.”

  “Was Archie Brooks a friend of yours?”

  Moira’s eyes had shifted to James. He was ostentatiously noting down her answers.

  “Yes.”

  “A close friend?”

  “It depends what you mean by a close friend.” She managed to imply that Forbes would know what a close friend meant.

  “Well, did you see a great deal of each other?” persisted Forbes patiently.

  “No, he came to the Manila once or twice and …” she shrugged, “we had a few drinks together. That’s all.”

  “You seem to be fond of having a few drinks.”

  Moira’s resentment was beginning to show. She half turned as if to walk out. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

  “Yes, there is.” Forbes took an object from a white plastic bag lying on the table. “Have you seen this knife before?”

  Moira barely glanced at the murder weapon. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  Forbes put the knife back in the bag. He glanced inquiringly at James. James shook his head, implying that he had no questions. Forbes continued his interrogation. “When did you first hear that Mrs Greene had been murdered?”

  “My fiancé told me. He came to my room.”

  “What time would that be?”

  “About half past four.”

  “Were you surprised?”

  “Of course I was surprised!” Moira turned her head towards Temple, who had walked into her field of vision. “I was stunned. I just didn’t believe it.”

  “Is this the first time you’ve been down here – to ‘Brown Acres’?”

  “No. I’ve been down several times.”

  “Mm. I understand you work for Mr Greene?”

  “I’m attached to the London office of the Portland Yeast Company, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Mr Greene’s office?”

  A faintly disdainful smile tugged at Moira’s lips. “Mr Greene is in charge of the office, yes.”

  Forbes had temporarily run out of questions and James did not seem inclined to take over from his superior. Temple took the opportunity to put his question.

  “Miss Portland, when I met your father on the boat, coming over from America, he told me that Mr Greene had made arrangements for him to meet a man called Madison. Have you heard of Mr Madison by any chance?”

  Moira had turned to face him. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  “I see. Mr Greene doesn’t seem to have heard of Madison either. It’s most odd.”

  “You must have misunderstood my father,” she said, her tone less hostile than when she had been answering Forbes.

  “No, I don’t think I did.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you.” She switched back to Sir Graham. “May I go now?”

  “Yes, you can go.”

  “Oh, just a moment.” Moira was heading for the door when James’ voice stopped her. “You said last night you’d been down to the village, to the local pub.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which one did you go to?”

  “There’s only one. The White Horse.”

  Temple murmured, “The White Swan.”

  “I mean The White Swan,” Moira corrected herself angrily.

  “If I remember rightly, you had three pink gins.” James had been consulting his notes. “Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you account for the fact that no one seems to remember serving you, Miss Portland?” Moira did not answer. “Now, I ask you. A very pretty, well-dressed girl strolls into a quiet bar and orders three pink gins and yet no one seems to remember. Most odd.”

  “I can’t see why,” said Moira, but her defiance was crumbling.

  Temple asked her quietly, “Did you really go down to the village last night?”

  “Of course I did! How else did I manage to get drunk so quickly?”

  “I don’t think you were drunk, Miss Portland.”

  Moira was startled by Temple’s remark, but she managed to greet it with a look of ridicule.

  “Sir Graham, I’m going back to town this afternoon - have you any objection?”

  “None whatever.” He looked at James. “We’ve got her address, I take it?”

  “Yes sir, we’ve got her address.”

  Moira turned at the door. “If you want to get in touch with me during the week you can find me at the office.”

  “Thank you,” said Forbes, still polite.

  The door closed on Moira. Immediately the tension level in the library dropped. James leant back, stretched his arms and exhaled a long breath. “That was a bit like interrogating a spitting cobra. What did you mean, Temple, you don’t think she was drunk?”

  Forbes forestalled Temple’s answer to James’ question.

  “Temple, you don’t think she overheard our telephone conversation, got scared and had to pretend she was tight to conceal her feelings?”

  “It’s a possibility, Sir Graham,” Temple said non-commitally. Then changing the subject, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that ’phone call. Was that a lot of nonsense about Dr Elzec or did you really come across his photograph?”

  “Oh, we came across it all right. It was in the snapshot album you found at Brooks’ place. Elzec, or Wilderhof as he called himself in ‘84, seems to be quite a character. He’s been mixed up in all sorts of rackets.”

  “Is he a doctor?”

  “Not a medical doctor. He’s a doctor of music.”

  “Oh, I see. Why did you tell me about him over the ’phone – wasn’t that risky?”

  “I wanted whoever was listening to know that we were on to him. I believe that if Elzec really is mixed up in this business they’ll either go for him or drop him like a hot potato. Don’t worry, we’ve got our eye on Dr Elzec. With a bit of luck he might turn out to be a first-class decoy.”

  “I hope you’re right, Sir Graham. I sincerely hope you’re right.”

  Steve and Temple were back in Eaton Square by late afternoon. Steve carried her beauty case and a small flight bag into the hall, leaving Temple to take their two suitcases from the boot. The lift was at the second floor. She pressed the button to bring it down and watched the panel of numbers. The lift had reached the ground floor and the automatic doors had opened by the time Temple came into the hall. He put the two suitcases into the lift and Steve followed with her beauty case and flight bag. She was just about to press the touch button for the third floor when the hall doors were pushed open.

  “Hold it, Steve.”

  The tall blond man who had come in quickened his step when he saw that the lift was about to ascend.

  Temple put out an arm to prevent the door closing.

  “Good evening, Dr Elzec. You’re going up?”

  “Oh, good evening, Mr Temple. There is room for one more?”

  “It’s a bit of a crush with all our luggage but – ”

  Elzec was tall but not stout. He was mackintoshed and bare-headed and was carrying a black Samsonite brief-case.

  “I don’t think you’ve met my wife.”

  While Steve and Elzec exchanged civilities Temple pressed the touch button. The lift began to ascend.

  “Have you been away for the weekend?” Elzec inquired conversationally.

  “Yes, we’ve only just got back.”

  “I’m rather glad I bumped into you, Mr Temple, there’s something I wanted to speak to you about. You’ll probably think it’s a lot of nonsense, but …”

  “No, no, go on, Doctor.”

  “Mr Temple, if I wanted to speak to someone at Scotland Yard, do you think you could arrange it for me?”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Well, the fact of the matter is, Mr Temple,” said Elzec, looking embarrassed, “I think I’m being followed.”

  “Being followed?” Temple repeated with incredulity.

  “Yes. The first time I noticed it was yesterday morning. I had an appointment in Re
gent Street and I picked up a taxi just outside the flat. When I was getting into the taxi I noticed a man standing in one of the doorways.”

  “Yes?” prompted Temple, his tone still sceptical.

  “Later, the same morning, when I was walking down Oxford Street, I noticed the same man. He was on the opposite side of the road but I’m sure he was watching me.”

  Temple smiled reassuringly. “It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re being followed just because you see the same man twice in one day.”

  “But I saw him again this afternoon. I had an appointment in Knightsbridge. I caught the tube from Green Park. When I got into the train he was already there, sitting in the corner, watching me …”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Have you any idea who he is - or why he’s following you?”

  Elzec gave a shrug. “No, not the slightest.”

  The lift had bumped to a stop at the third floor. As the door opened Elzec stepped out to allow a clear passage for the Temples to extract their luggage.

  “All right, I’ll have a word with the Yard about it,” said Temple. “If you see him again or anything else develops give me a ring.”

  “Thank you, Mr Temple. That’s very kind of you.”

  Elzec got back into the lift just in time to stop the doors closing on him. He was still clutching his brief-case. He touched the button and turned to give the Temples a good-neighbourly smile.

  Temple had just finished his unpacking when he heard the door bell ring - or rather it would be true to say that he had turned his suitcase upside down and emptied the contents onto the bed. There was only one thing he hated more than packing and that was unpacking. Glad of the excuse to leave Steve to sort his things out and put them away neatly in drawers and wardrobe, he went through the hall to open the door. Monday was Charlie’s evening off, or one of them.

  Temple already had a shrewd idea who his caller was and it was no great surprise to see Sir Graham on the doormat. He seemed very pleased with himself as he hung his coat and hat up and followed Temple into the drawing-room.

  His first question, when he saw that there was no one else in the room, was, “Is Steve in?”

  “Yes, she’s unpacking, she’ll be here in a minute. Now, what can I get you to drink, Sir Graham?”

  “Nothing, thanks.”