Paul Temple and the Madison Case

by Francis Durbridge

  “Sure?”

  “Quite sure, thanks.”

  Forbes was fidgety. Temple knew he had a great admiration for Steve, but he had never made it quite so obvious that she was the person he had really called to see.

  “I’m glad you called round, Sir Graham. I just bumped into Elzec.”

  “Oh, when?” asked Forbes, without any great interest.

  “About twenty minutes ago. He asked me to have a word with you. He’s under the impression that he’s being followed.”

  “Oh, Lord! You mean …”

  “Yes, he’s spotted your man. I’m afraid you’ll have to change him, put someone a little more discreet on the job.”

  “That’s annoying. Oh well, I’ll have a word with James.”

  “Hello, Sir Graham.”

  Forbes visibly brightened as Steve came into the room. “Oh, hello, Steve.”

  “You look rather pleased with yourself. What’s happened?”

  “We’ve had the break we’ve been waiting for, Steve. When I got back to the Yard I found that a message had come in from Interpol.”

  “Yes?”

  “It informs us that a man called Dordrecht has booked a flight from Amsterdam to London tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Dordrecht?”

  Temple was wondering why Forbes had reserved this information until Steve had appeared. “I haven’t heard that name before.”

  “Paul, haven’t you offered Sir Graham a drink?” said Steve reproachfully.

  “I’m not drinking, Steve, thank you. I can’t really stay. Dordrecht operates under several names, Temple. He’s ostensibly an import-export merchant and lives just outside Amsterdam, near the airport. The Dutch police are sure that one of his imports is counterfeit dollars. They’ve been watching him for months, waiting for an opportunity to drop on him.”

  Whilst talking, Forbes had gravitated by force of habit to the chair he always occupied when he was in this room. Steve gratefully followed his example and sat down on the sofa.

  “Our Dutch colleagues are confident that he’s coming over here to contact his head man – call him Madison, if you like – and collect a consignment of dollars. He’s only booked one way and the Dutch are curious to know not only who he contacts but how he plans to return home with his counterfeit dollars.”

  “What are you going to do – tail him at this end?”

  “Of course. From the moment he steps off the ’plane we’ll watch him like hawks. In my opinion there’s a very good chance that he might lead us straight to Madison.”

  “Yes, and there’s also a very good chance he might vanish into thin air.”

  “Yes, I’ve thought of that, Temple.” Forbes glanced uneasily at Steve. “As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here.”

  “Oh, you want me to pop over to Amsterdam and fly back on the same ’plane?”

  “No, I don’t want you to pop anywhere, Temple.”

  “Why not?”

  “Dordrecht is a man for the ladies,” Forbes explained, uncharacteristically apologetic. “He has a wife and family in Holland, but when he travels abroad he likes to have his little fling. He’s a very presentable chap and speaks excellent English and he fancies rather high-class goods.”

  Steve had been watching Forbes’ embarrassment with amusement. She was reading him like a book.

  “What Sir Graham means, Paul, is he wants me to pop over to Amsterdam …”

  “But that’s out of the question!” protested Temple.

  “Why, darling? You don’t think I’m sufficiently high-class goods?”

  “It’s not that,” said Temple, staring angrily at Forbes. “This is a job for one of Sir Graham’s women detective constables.”

  Forbes shook his head “They’re excellent girls, Temple, but they haven’t got Steve’s - well, I don’t know what to call it, style maybe.”

  “Yes, well I could never agree to it.”

  “You’re not supposed to, darling. Go on, Sir Graham.”

  “There’s absolutely nothing for you to worry about, Temple. You know Steve. When it comes to anything like this her head’s not only screwed on, it’s riveted on.”

  “What would you want me to do?”

  “Well, pop over to Amsterdam as you put it and catch the same ’plane back as Mr Dordrecht. We’ll try and get you the seat in front of him across the gangway. I should leave it to him to make all the running, which he will if his track record is anything to go on. But there’s no harm in making sure he notices you. Then you just play it by ear. If he tries to make a date…”

  “This just isn’t on!” objected Temple, jumping up from his chair.

  “Don’t worry, Temple, I’ll have half the Yard tailing her the moment she steps off the ’plane.”

  “Darling, I could do it standing on my head.”

  “What about her passport?” said Temple, clutching at straws. “If he sees the name Temple …”

  “He won’t. I’ve fixed that with the Foreign Office.”

  “Oh, you have?”

  “She’ll be travelling under the name of Gloria de Havilland.”

  “Gloria de Havilland. Mmm. I like that. Who on earth am I supposed to be?”

  “A very up-market interior decorator.” Forbes eyed the Temples’ drawing-room, which of course had been styled by Steve. “I’ll let you have the passport on Tuesday morning.”

  “Gloria de Havilland, Gloria de Havilland.” Steve was trying the name out for size. “I love Amsterdam. Will I have time to do some shopping?”

  Paul put a hand to his brow.

  “No problem, Steve,” said Sir Graham cheerfully. “We’ll put you on an afternoon flight from Heathrow tomorrow. You can spend the night in Amsterdam, have a morning’s shopping and be in plenty of time for your flight back. It’s not late. Seven o’clock - Dutch time. Flight KL 123.”

  Paul had turned to the drinks cabinet in frustration. He poured himself a stiff whisky and drank it neat, casting dark looks over his shoulder at the other two.

  Temple’s ordeal began the moment he kissed Steve goodbye at London Airport. As always the flat without her seemed terribly empty. Charlie’s efforts to cheer him up only made matters worse. He tried to get down to doing some work on his new book, but was quite unable to concentrate.

  He had hardly finished dinner when the telephone rang. He just beat Charlie in the race to answer. It was Steve, ’phoning from her hotel bedroom.

  “Yes, I have a lovely room overlooking the canal. Everyone’s being very nice to me. I’ve been asked out to dinner by a very charming man. He’s doing a research job for the European Commission.”

  “Not Dordrecht, by any chance?”

  “Dordrecht is for tomorrow, darling. Now don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

  But of course he did worry, and slept badly that night. Though he knew her return flight was not till ten past five, London time, he stayed in all day, just in case. Forbes had promised that he would keep him informed of all developments from the moment Steve boarded the ’plane.

  It was a quarter past five when Forbes made his first call from the operational headquarters he had set up at Scotland Yard.

  “Everything is going as planned, Temple. They’re both on the ’plane and it’s taxiing out now.”

  “Have you a man on the ’plane?”

  “Not necessary. We’ll pick them up when they clear Customs.”

  “I still don’t like it, Sir Graham.”

  After that call he paid a visit to the drinks cabinet but only for a glass of Malvern water. He wanted to keep a clear head.

  The flight was due to land at Heathrow at seven o’clock. It was twenty-five past when Forbes telephoned.

  “She’s brought it off, Temple! They’re sharing a taxi into town.”

  “You’re following it?”

  “Need you ask?” said Forbes and disconnected.

  At eight twenty-five he rang to report that Steve and Dordrecht were at the Kensington Garde
n Hotel. They had both booked in and were having a drink in the cocktail bar.

  “They’re both booked in?”

  “Yes, but separate rooms, don’t worry.”

  Ten minutes later Forbes came through again to report that the pair had taken a taxi and were heading towards Mayfair.

  “We’ll keep this line open, Temple. Stay on call.”

  “Mr Temple.” It was a nervous Charlie at the door. He had already discovered that his employer was excessively irritable. “I’ve cooked a nice steak for you – ”

  “Charlie, I’m busy! And I’m not hungry!”

  Temple had laid the ’phone down on his desk so that his hands were free to unfold a map of Central London. He heard the words “Park Lane” and picked it up again. For three minutes he listened to the murmur of laconic police voices in the office at Scotland Yard.

  Then Forbes’ voice, loud in his ear, “You there, Temple? Their taxi has stopped at La Reserve Grill. I told you Dordrecht liked to do things in style.”

  “Can you get a man in there?”

  “We’ll certainly try!”

  When confirmation came through that Steve and Dordrecht had been seated in the restaurant Temple relented and told Charlie to serve his meal.

  Temple had finished his dinner by a quarter past nine. Steve and Dordrecht did not finish theirs till a quarter past ten.

  At ten thirty, Forbes rang to report that Dordrecht had paid his bill and the pair were collecting their coats.

  “Looks as if he’s ’phoned for a radio cab. Taxis are at a premium this time of the night. Stay on call.”

  This time Temple did not put the phone down. He kept the earpiece tight against his ear. From the background noises he could hear there seemed to be a flap going on in the ops centre.

  “Sir Graham! Sir Graham! Answer me, please!”

  After an age the ’phone at the other end was picked up.

  “Temple! We have a problem. I was right. He did ’phone for a taxi. We checked its number with the Police National Computer. It’s a private vehicle, not a registered cab at all.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “We’re tailing it though. The driver’s going like the wind … What’s that, James? …” Forbes’ voice had gone fainter for a moment. “The Cromwell Road? That could mean the M3 or the M4 … Temple, James and I are moving out! We’ll establish a mobile HQ in a patrol car. I don’t want to get left behind.”

  “Sir Graham, pick me up straightaway!”

  “I don’t want to do that, Temple. It might …”

  “Straight away, Sir Graham!”

  “Very well. Be outside your flat in five minutes!”

  Temple could hear the squeal of tyres echoing round the streets of Belgravia before the unmarked police car came in sight and braked to a halt. A door at the back was opened. He scrambled in and the car shot away again.

  Forbes and James were in the back seat. Two policemen sat in front. Both were bareheaded, with crisp haircuts. One concentrated on driving. The other kept up a continuous dialogue in the radio.

  “Where are they now?” was Temple’s first question.

  Forbes did not answer. It was James who spoke up. “We’ve lost them.”

  Temple bit his tongue to stifle the explosion.

  “He must have realised he might be tailed. He turned off at North End Road and got lost in a maze of little streets.”

  “We have the number though,” Forbes said tersely. “Every patrol car in the West London area has been alerted.”

  The police car driver had negotiated Sloane Square. Now he accelerated up Sloane Street, took a short cut through Beauchamp Place and joined the traffic flowing westwards on the Cromwell Road.

  They had passed North End Road and crossed the Hammersmith Flyover when Forbes leant forward trying to interpret the series of jumbled quick-fire messages coming through on the radio. In a minute he’d have to choose whether to take the M3 or the M4.

  “They’ve got him, sir.” The radio operator half turned his head. “The M4. One of the Slough cars saw him turn off at Junction 5. He’s taken the Datchet road.”

  “Let’s get with them,” said Forbes.

  The driver put his foot down, expertly overtaking the stream of traffic moving at 60 mph. Over the Chiswick Flyover his speed went up to 90. Once on the motorway the needle reached the 140 mark and stayed there.

  They reached Junction 5 in six minutes. The time was twelve seventeen. The radio operator turned round as the wind-roar died and the car lurched through the bends connecting the Datchet road to the motorway.

  “Target has stopped just outside Windsor on the south side of the Thames. An observer reported that someone was carried on to a cabin cruiser moored to the bank.”

  “Carried !” Temple echoed. “That must mean Steve’s either unconscious or – ”

  6

  Just a Red Herring

  Steve recovered consciousness to the steady beat of a diesel engine. She lay still, keeping her eyes closed, trying to figure out what had happened, tracking back in her memory.

  Of course, it must have been that Irish coffee she’d asked for instead of a liqueur. It had tasted unduly sharp, she had begun to feel helplessly drowsy soon after Dordrecht had helped her into the taxi. He had parried her pleas to open a window and as the vehicle swung round Hyde Park Corner she had passed out.

  She had to admit that Dordrecht had surprised her. Sir Graham had not exaggerated his good looks and charm. She had been aware of his scrutiny on the flight, but he had made no move till the passengers were walking up the long corridor to Customs and Immigration.

  “Those bags look heavy. May I give you a hand?”

  During dinner he had been charming, not too forward. He had shown interest in the life and work of Gloria de Havilland, without pressing her too closely on any point. When he asked for the bill, apologising that he had to have an early night, she was almost disappointed.

  And now where was she? The slight movement and the beat of the engine told her that she was lying in a boat of some kind. She risked opening her eyes a fraction and saw that she was in a small cabin with two berths. A man she had not seen before was sitting on the other, reading an evening paper.

  She had a splitting headache and was afraid that she was going to be sick. The smell of hot diesel was nauseating. She must have stirred unwittingly, for the man on the other bunk put his paper down. Keeping an eye on her, he went to the door, slid it open and called through to the other cabin.

  “What’s up, Bennet?” She recognised the voice as Dordrecht’s.

  “She’s coming to,” said Bennet nervously. “Don’t you think we ought to gag her, if she screams – ”

  “Don’t worry,” said Dordrecht. “Come on, Pete. Now’s your chance if you want to take a look at her.”

  Bennet did not re-enter the sleeping cabin but she saw the shadow of two other men. She closed her eyes again.

  “She said her name was Gloria de Havilland.” It was Dordrecht speaking. “And that she was an interior decorator. But her story did not stand up to a few well chosen questions. I became quite sure she was a plant, so I thought I’d better bring her along and see if we can make her talk.”

  “Gloria de Havilland? Do you know who this really is? Mrs Paul Temple!”

  Steve’s eyes had opened. She had been shocked into revealing herself by the sound of that voice. She found herself staring up into the face of Dr Elzec, the amiable Dane from the flat on the floor above them.

  “Mrs Temple?” Dordrecht’s jaw fell. He sat down on the bunk where the newspaper reader had been. “Did she know that I was travelling in that particular ’plane?”

  “Of course I did!” said Steve with spirit. She realised her danger now that she had proof that Elzec was involved with Dordrecht in the counterfeit racket. She had to keep talking, and interestingly enough to prevent them gagging her.

  “What was the point? How did you know that I was – ”

  “My husband foun
d out.”

  “Found out what?”

  “That you’re mixed up in the counterfeit racket. The Dutch police have had their eye on you for weeks.”

  “You’re lying,” said Elzec quickly.

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Then why didn’t they arrest me?”

  “Because,” said Steve, gaining confidence, “the Dutch, like Scotland Yard, have got their priorities right. They’re interested in Madison, not the small fry. They know you’re only a glorified porter, used for smuggling the notes into Europe.”

  “You bitch!” Dordrecht’s suave veneer had crumpled. “You’ve used me as a decoy!” His hand was raised to strike Steve but instead of smashing into her face his fist met the palm of Elzec’s hand.

  “I’m not having any of that,” said Elzec. “She’ll talk when we get to the cottage …”

  Elzec broke off at the sound of a commotion overhead. Heavy feet pounded the deck just above them. The man they called Bennet shouted from the adjoining cabin. “We’ve been boarded! It’s the police!”

  Elzec ducked through the door. He slammed it behind him and turned the key. Steve filled her lungs and shrieked at the top of her voice, “Paul! Paul, I’m in – “ Dordrecht’s hand had clamped her mouth. As she bit it hard he yelled with pain and quickly snatched it away. Before he could come at her again she had coiled her legs. She was still wearing those high-heeled evening shoes. As Dordrecht’s angry face leant over her she kicked hard, aiming at his throat. One heel met an arm, the other found his throat.

  Dordrecht uttered a choking cry and clapped his hand to his throat. He was gasping for breath. Steve rolled quickly to the floor. As he swayed she seized the bottom of his trousers and yanked his legs from under him. Almost before he had finished falling across the bunk, she was on his back. The breath had gone out of him and she was able to put a lock on his arm. He was making a last desperate effort to free himself when Temple broke into the cabin.

  The police launch was faster than the cabin cruiser but much less comfortable. Both boats were heading back down the Thames towards the jetties at Windsor, the launch on half throttle seeming to tow the cabin cruiser in its wake. Forbes, Temple and Steve were sitting in the tiny cabin behind the cockpit where a river policeman was at the wheel. Forbes had left James in charge of the cruiser with a couple of six-foot constables to help him. Elzec, Dordrecht, Bennet and a deck-hand called Harry were penned in the day-cabin.