“But why should it do that?” Steve asked.
“Well - if it became known that the head of the Company was the son of a swindler, then …”
“Like father like son?” Temple suggested.
Stella looked nonplussed. The saying meant nothing to her.
“Go on, Mrs Portland.”
“Then Boyer started to blackmail her. He must have had thousands out of the poor girl. In the end Moira could stand it no longer and she told Boyer to send for her father and tell him the whole story. You know what happened …”
“Tell me.”
“Boyer pretended that a private investigator called Madison discovered Sam’s identity and he telexed for Sam to come over here. He put Hubert Greene’s name to the telex because he realised that Sam would take more notice of it. If Sam hadn’t died I believe that Boyer would have told him the whole story and then blackmailed him.”
“Do you think Boyer really did discover the identity of your husband or was he just bluffing?”
“No. From what Moira told me, I’m pretty sure he was on to something. You see, Sam was right, that particular penny was an important link. If Boyer could have got hold of it he could have proved that Sam was the son of the notorious Dawson.”
“Is that why the penny was changed?”
“Yes.”
“Who changed it?”
“Moira did. She was determined that the penny shouldn’t fall into the wrong hands. So she changed the 1923 penny for a 1957 one.”
“Where is it now - the actual penny that Sam carried about with him?”
“It’s here – I got it from Moira yesterday afternoon.”
Stella dipped into her handbag and produced an envelope from which she extracted the coin.
“1923,” said Paul, examining the ‘tails’ side. “Well, the date’s all right anyway, Portland could certainly have had this penny in his pocket when he was arrested in 1952 – but that doesn’t prove that this is the penny.”
“There’s an inscription. It’s very, very faint, but if you look closely you can just see it.”
Temple rose and took the penny over to the table lamp. “’To my son’,” he read out. “’Good luck’. Then there are two initials. The first is C but I can’t make out whether the second is a B or a D.”
“Well I always thought it was a B and so did Sam, but if Boyer’s story is true, then …”
“C.D.!” Steve exclaimed “Clint Dawson. Paul, the coin must have been given to Portland by his father.”
“1923,” said Stella thoughtfully. “That’s probably the year that Sam was born - he always reckoned he was about sixty-four or five.”
Temple was still staring at the coin, tilting it so that it reflected the light. He seemed to be willing it to tell him something.
“It seems to me, Mrs Portland,” said Steve, “that you know everything there is to know about Boyer without having so much as a shred of evidence.”
“I know. And that’s the most dreadful part of the whole business. Unless, of course, your husband …” Stella looked up appealingly at Temple.
“Unless what, Mrs Portland?” Temple answered, with a faint smile.
“Unless you’ve got the evidence, Mr Temple?”
Temple handed the penny back to her. “I know the identity of Madison, Mrs Portland, and I’ve got quite enough evidence to arrest the gentleman – when the time comes.”
Forbes’ ’phone call had come through at three o’clock, just an hour after Stella Portland had left the flat. Two of Chief Inspector James’ detectives had located the cottage at Lockdale. Forbes and James were already on their way down there. Could Temple meet them at Graveney Lock, on the Thames about seven miles upstream from Windsor?
Temple had rapidly picked out the relevant sheet from his set of 1:50 000 Ordnance Survey maps, had pin-pointed the lock and the approach road to it. Traffic had not yet built up to the evening rush-hour. He was able to make good time out of London and down the M4.
It was not yet four o’clock when the XJS nosed down the lane leading to a twelfth-century church which he had chosen as a reference point. The lane gave out three hundred yards from the river. Temple knew he was on the right track when he saw the police Rover parked near the church. The driver was sitting behind the wheel listening to the scenario of voices on his radio.
“About five minutes ago,” he said, in answer to Temple’s question. “They went along that path.”
Temple broke into a ground-covering run and in less than a minute had reached the river.
Forbes and James were just being helped aboard a launch. It was moored to the bank a little way above the lock and its engines were running.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” Temple apologised, a shade out of breath.
“We were just saying how quick you’ve been,” said Forbes, “It’s only just gone four.”
“So you finally found the cottage, James?”
“One of my men found it,” said James laconically. “There was a message for me when I got back to the Yard.”
The launch rocked as Temple jumped aboard.
“Was it at Lockdale?”
“Yes, but no wonder we couldn’t spot it. It was built on the site of what must have been a country mansion. A run-down bungalow more than a cottage really. The Madison outfit have been using the cellar.”
“Is it deserted?”
“It’s derelict – you wouldn’t look twice at the place.”
“What’s the cellar like?”
“You’ve never seen anything like it, Temple.” Forbes was keeping his balance by holding on to the roof of the cabin. “And talk about equipment.”
“It’s an eye-opener,” James confirmed. “No wonder they’ve been able to flood the Continent with counterfeit dollars.”
“How long will it take us to get there?” Temple asked, as the launch headed out into the fast-flowing stream.
“Are you in a hurry?”
“I want to be back by eight at the latest.”
“Oh, that’s no problem,” said Forbes.
The launch made good speed through the water, but the banks seemed to be going past much slower. It was a good half hour before they rounded a bend and saw a private mooring place where a cabin cruiser was already tied up. A burly, bare-headed figure in plain clothes standing beside it raised a hand in a minimal salute and James waved back. The launch veered into the landing place and the beat of the engine died.
“Afternoon, Sergeant,” James greeted his detective cheerfully.
“Good afternoon, sir.” Then, as Forbes stood up, the sergeant realised that the top brass was in on this. His body stiffened respectfully. “Oh, good afternoon, Sir Graham.”
“Good afternoon, Sergeant.”
“Anything to report?” James was reaching for the hand that was held out to help him ashore.
“Yes sir. There’s someone in the cottage. A young fellow came down the tow-path about five minutes ago and went in it. We let him carry on because we didn’t want to arouse his suspicions.”
“What was he like - this young fellow?”
“Tall, dark, good looking, clean-shaven. Early thirties, I’d say, six foot tall and about a hundred and seventy pounds.”
“Is he in the cottage now?”
“He’s either there or in the cellar.”
“Well done, Sergeant,” said Forbes. Assisted by James he stepped up on to the bank, then reached back to give Temple a hand. “Come along, Temple. This could be interesting.”
The ‘cottage’ lay several hundred yards back from the river and was surrounded by trees. From the river it was approached by a muddy path on to which brambles were encroaching. As they approached, a selection of exotic trees showed that this had once been a property of distinction. The building which now stood on the site of the old manor house looked like somebody’s misguided attempt at a weekend refuge. How it had escaped the planning authority’s eye was anybody’s guess.
A second
detective materialised from the trees as the group approached. He confirmed that the young man was still in the cottage. He had to be alone as no one else had entered the place either from the river or the pot-holed lane that led up to it from the main road.
“You watch the back of the house, Marsden,” James told his man. “Sergeant Adams, keep an eye on the path and make sure no one disturbs us.”
“Very good, sir.”
Forbes and Temple followed James as he walked quietly up the grassy path that led to the door of the small building. Beside it stood an old-fashioned well with a thatched shelter and a bucket and chain for drawing up water. From a tree overhead a wood-pigeon took flight with an excessively loud clapping of its wings.
James tried the old-fashioned latch on the door.
“Seems to be locked,” he muttered.
“Can I try?” said Temple. “We had a cottage like this once.”
It required a strong pull on the door and considerable strength of hand to press the latch down silently. Then Temple exerted pressure with his foot at the same time as with his hand. The door opened with a faint creak.
The room onto which it gave was bare and dark. Only fingers of light filtered through the grimy, cob-webbed windows. Temple followed the swing of the door and entered. Forbes and James were at his back.
He could dimly see the figure standing in the middle of the room, but oddly he felt no threat from it.
“Good afternoon, Boyer.”
“My God!” said Boyer. “You gave me a fright, Temple.” He was trying to focus on Forbes and James against the sudden dazzle of light. “What is this? What are you doing here?”
“May one ask what you are doing here?”
“I had an appointment to meet someone here at five o’clock,” said Boyer. “I was supposed to pick up a suitcase for Kelly. He told me he’d taken the cottage for weekends but I didn’t expect it to be like this.”
“There was no one here when you came?” demanded Forbes.
“No. I haven’t seen anybody.”
“But you found the suitcase,” James pointed out.
Boyer slightly raised the suitcase he was carrying in his left hand. It was obviously heavy. “Yes. It was just standing in the middle of the room.”
Forbes asked, “Do you know what’s in it?”
“Oh, just books and papers,” said Boyer vaguely. “That’s what Kelly told me anyway.”
“You haven’t looked inside it?”
“No. It’s locked.”
Temple had moved round so that his shadow did not fall on the suitcase. He could just distinguish the maker’s name. Samsonite.
He checked his watch. It was three minutes to five.
“Boyer!” The sharpness of his tone cut across James’ question. “Your appointment here was for what time?”
“Five o’clock, Kelly said. On the dot.”
“Excuse me.” Temple took a pace towards Boyer and wrenched the suitcase from him.
“I say,” Boyer protested. “Do you mind …”
But Temple was already at the door. With quick strides he covered the dozen yards to the old well. He swung the suitcase up and dropped it down the aperture. After a moment the sound of a heavy splash echoed up.
Boyer, James and Forbes were crowding at the door of the cottage.
“Get back inside!” Temple called as he ran towards them.
Something in his manner did not invite questions. The three men drew back inside the house. Temple, close behind them, slammed the door shut.
“Temple!” babbled Boyer. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”
“Don’t I?” Temple retorted. “Stay away from those windows!”
Before he had time to check his watch there came from outside the sound of a heavy explosion. The building and the ground it stood on shook. The ancient glass of the windows fell out with a crash.
Forbes and James had instinctively ducked. Boyer had been punched to the floor by the blast.
“God!” he said, as he picked himself up. “What the hell was in that suitcase?”
“Well,” said Temple. “It wasn’t books.”
“What time is it, Paul?”
“It’s just gone half past eight.”
“I don’t know why but I feel awfully tired.”
“Well, if you feel tired I should go to bed.”
“I’ve a jolly good mind to.”
“Did you finish your drink?”
“Yes.”
“Like another?”
“No.” Steve yawned hugely. “No, I don’t think so. You know, I feel terribly sleepy.”
“I expect you’ve been overdoing things, Steve. I should go and lie down.”
“Charlie’s making the most of your invitation to take the day off. He hasn’t come in yet. I’m afraid if you want anything you’ll have to get it for yourself.”
“All right, darling,” said Temple, sitting down with the evening paper.
But Steve still dallied, in spite of his obvious hints that he wanted to be left alone.
“Paul, what happened this afternoon at Lockdale?”
“I thought you said you were feeling off-colour. Go and lie down, Steve.”
“Yes, all right.” Steve yawned again. “Gosh I’m sleepy! It’s funny I should feel like this. Goodnight, darling.”
Temple had time to browse through the whole paper before his visitor arrived. He had heard the immersion heater humming and guessed that Steve was running a bath. There had been a shower of rain and the swish of car tyres on the King’s Road was clearly audible. In the square an occasional door banged as some resident parked a car, and then the street became quiet again.
It was exactly nine o’clock when the front door buzzer sounded. Temple refolded his paper, got up and went quietly to open the door.
“Ah, hello, Greene. I’ve been expecting you. Come in.”
“I hope I’m not too early,” said Hubert Greene affably.
“No, you’re in nice time. Shall I take your coat?”
“Thanks.”
Greene took off his light shower-proof check coat. Underneath he was wearing a double-breasted pin-striped suit, very well padded round the shoulders.
Temple hung the coat up on a hanger and indicated the half-open door of his study. “Let’s go into the study.”
The desk light was on. Greene looked at the furniture, bookshelves and pictures admiringly.
“This is a very pleasant room.”
“Yes, it is rather.” Temple agreed. “Would you like a drink?”
“Well – er … ”
“I’m having a whisky and soda.”
“Oh, well, thanks.” Greene moved to the rug in front of the fireplace while Temple poured him a generous drink. “I say, it was very odd about that note, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, wasn’t it?”
“I can’t imagine why anyone else should send it.”
“May I see it?”
“Yes, of course, I’ve brought it for you.”
Greene withdrew a folded A4 sheet from his inside pocket and handed it to Temple. The message was typewritten. Temple unfolded it and read it aloud.
“Dear Mr Greene, I should be grateful if you would call round and see me this morning at twelve o’clock.
Yours sincerely, Paul Temple.”
Temple looked up to ask, “Did you call round this morning?”
“No, I told you on the ’phone I was detained at the office, I couldn’t make it.”
“Yes, of course,” Temple murmured with a nod.
“Temple, who did send this note?” Greene demanded, riled by Temple’s casual manner.
“Don’t you know? It was Sir Graham.”
“Sir Graham! Are you joking?”
“No.”
“But why should Sir Graham send it?” Greene was really puzzled now.
“Because I asked him to.”
“Because you …” Two vertical lines of anger had appeared between Greene’s brows. �
��Look here, Temple, what is this?”
“I asked Sir Graham to send you a note because I wanted you to call round at twelve o’clock this morning.”
“But why didn’t you write the note yourself?”
“Well, if I’d written it myself I couldn’t truthfully have said that I hadn’t written it, could I?” Temple was still talking in a calm and reasonable tone, as if he was explaining something to a very simple child. “And if I couldn’t have said that I hadn’t written it, you wouldn’t be here.”
“I may be dense but I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“Don’t you? It’s really quite simple. You came here this evening because you were quite genuinely puzzled about the note. If you hadn’t been puzzled you wouldn’t have come. That’s true, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but - do you mean to say the note was a hoax to get me here this evening?”
“No,” said Temple with a smile, “to get you here this morning – at twelve o’clock.”
“But I didn’t come here this morning,” Greene protested.
“I’m sorry to contradict you, but you did.”
Greene had paled. The expression in his eyes was dangerous. “If I say I didn’t come then I didn’t come.”
Temple’s only change of expression was to raise an eyebrow. He folded the typewritten message and put it in his own pocket. Then he picked up his glass, took a sip and contemplated Greene over the rim. The friendliness had suddenly gone from his manner.
“Greene, I think it’s time you realised I know what your game is.”
“What the hell do you mean?” Greene was still staring angrily at Temple.
“For quite a while now,” said Temple quietly, holding Greene’s eyes with his own, “I’ve suspected that you were Madison, that you were the brains behind the counterfeit racket. You were also responsible for the murder of Chunky Brooks and of your own wife, Eileen. You also killed Dordrecht and Elzec, you very nearly killed Kelly and you are answerable for the deaths of one policeman and a crew member in that river explosion. Let me tell you something, Greene,” Temple’s voice was still quiet and unemotional but there was a hint of the whip-lash in it now, “I’ve met a great many criminals in my time, but I don’t think I’ve ever met one quite as vicious as you. If you’d stuck to the counterfeit racket you might have got away with it. Unfortunately you went in for blackmail as well.”
Paul Temple and the Madison Case Page 17