Send for Paul Temple Again!

by Francis Durbridge

  “You don’t seem very impressed by this establishment,” he said.

  “Is one supposed to be?” asked Steve.

  “Of course! It’s one of the most famous pubs in London. At least it was, before the brewery decided to modernise it. Since then, the place has lost its tone. I don’t suppose there’s been a free fight here for months. Of course, they still get a few of the old-timers, but you have to know when to catch them – and they never use this bar.” He grinned reminiscently. “That’s why Spider sounded surprised when I told him I’d be in here.”

  “What sort of man is this Spider Williams?” inquired Steve rather more intrigued.

  Temple shrugged.

  “Oh, he’s just a little chap who knows most of the answers.”

  “Why do they call him Spider?”

  “Possibly because his web explores most of the corners of the underworld as far as his own particular line is concerned.”

  Steve smiled somewhat wistfully. “I can’t understand you, darling. I really can’t. Surely Sir Graham could have found out about the car?”

  Temple took a gulp at his beer.

  “If I’m going to investigate this business, I’ll do it in my own sweet way,” he announced calmly. Then the door swung open and he said, “Ah, here’s our friend. Now don’t laugh – he takes himself very seriously.”

  Under the large peak of his cloth cap, the beady eyes of Spider Williams swiftly surveyed the room. Then he caught sight of Temple and came over at once. He was the type of man familiar to habitués of racecourses, where his prototypes abound in hundreds – hangers-on who somehow contrive to make a living at the game.

  “Ah Mr. Temple!” he began breezily. “Sorry I’m late. ‘Ad a bit of a job gettin’ ‘ere.”

  “Sit down Spider,” smiled Temple, turning to introduce his wife.”You don’t ‘ave to tell me who this is!” grinned Spider. “Could spot her a mile off. Glad to know you, Mrs. Temple. Sorry I’m late, Mrs. Temple. ‘Ope you ain’t tired of ‘angin’ about. I ‘ad a bit of a job gettin’ ‘ere.”

  Temple obtained a drink for the newcomer.

  “Any luck, Spider?” he asked, when they had gathered round the table.

  Spider shook his head. “Not a blamed thing, guv’nor,” he replied, taking a swig at his beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I bin through to five or six what’s in the know, but they ain’t ‘eard nothin’. What sort of car did yer say it was?”

  “I told you,” said Temple rather impatiently. “So far as I could see, it looked like a Milford.”

  “And what time was this?”

  “I couldn’t say to the minute. I left Broadcasting House soon after seven-thirty, and we were on our way down to Piccadilly.”

  “It couldn’t have been much after eight when you ‘phoned me,” said Spider. “You’ll ‘ave to gimme a bit more time, guv’nor. Maybe somthing’ll turn up. These cars ain’t so easy to trace, yer know—”

  He was interrupted by the barmaid, with whom he seemed on be on rather more than familiar terms. She told him that he was wanted on the telephone, and with a knowing wink at Temple he went out to take the call.

  Temple took the opportunity to order another drink, and was about to make some remark to Steve when he noticed her looking at someone behind him. The next instant he felt a resounding smack between the shoulders, and a voice said in a pronounced Welsh accent: “Hello, Simon! Who would have thought of seeing you here!”

  Temple looked round inquiringly, and saw a dark young man who now appeared highly embarrassed.

  “Lordy!” he exclaimed in a half whisper. “You’re not Simon!”

  “I’m rather afraid I’m not,” smiled Temple, not a little amused at the other’s dismayed expression. It was, in fact, the little Welshman who had been present at the discovery of Norma Rice’s body, though Temple was not yet aware of this.

  “Well now, just fancy my patting you on the back like that. Good gracious me, what a stupid thing to do! I can’t think what came over me.”

  “This is the first time I’ve heard that I’ve got a double,” smiled Temple.

  “But you have indeed! When your back was turned towards me I was sure it was Simon Phipps.”

  “I should like to meet Mr. Phipps sometime. By the way, my name is Temple.”

  “Temple!” cried the little Welshman, with a dramatic gesture. “Not Paul Temple?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Why, yes, of course – I recognise you now. I have seen pictures of you on your novels.”

  “No wonder you didn’t know me!” grinned Temple.

  “It’s very sporty of you to take it like this, I must say. But I do feel such a fool! And to think I’ve only just finished reading one of your novels.”

  “Oh?” murmured Temple, in a somewhat indifferent tone.

  “Yes indeed,” continued the Welshman with gathering enthusiasm. “The one called Murder on the Mayflower.”

  “I hope you liked it.”

  The other nodded vigorously.

  “It was most ingenious. There was only one thing I didn’t quite like – when that man jumped off the boat so suddenly. Of course, you know I go in for that sort of thing quite a lot.”

  “Jumping off boats?” asked Temple.

  “Oh no, no! I mean detective novels.”

  “You write them too?”

  “Mercy, no! I read them. I have always got one with me.” He fumbled in his coat pocket and produced a shabby paperbacked specimen. “I read them all day along. Why, in the last two years I have read four hundred and sixty-three detective novels. That’s pretty good going, isn’t it?”

  For a moment Temple seemed quite stunned. “Yes,” he agreed at length in a subdued voice, “whichever way you look at it, that seems to be pretty good going. You must be fully qualified to embark upon a career of crime.”

  “You will have your little joke, Mr. Temple. But I am an absolute glutton for anything to do with murder, crime or criminology. It is very strange for a docile man like myself. I could not hurt so much as a fly.”

  “Anyhow,” said Temple, “I hope you haven’t remembered quite everything you’ve read, or your brain must be in a considerate state of turmoil.”

  At that moment Spider Williams loomed up once more, and the Welshman again made his apologies and withdrew. As was moving away, he turned and said to Temple in a serious voice, “If it’s any consolation to you, Mr. Temple, my friend Phipps is a very good-looking man. Good night, Mr. Temple. Goodnight, Mrs. Temple.”

  When he was out of earshot, Steve said, “Now what made him think I was Mrs. Temple? You never introduced me.”

  “You look like Mrs. Temple,” her husband assured her. “But, what’s more to the point, what made him think I was Simon Phipps?” He hesitated a moment, then added thoughtfully, “If he really did think I was Simon Phipps.”

  But he had no further opportunity to speculate upon this, for Spider was breathing hoarsely in his ear.

  “Bit o’ luck we’ve ‘ad, guv’nor,” he wheezed.” One of my blokes, Bert ‘Arris struck oil, as yer might say.”

  “Go on,” nodded Temple.

  “That car was a six-cylinder Milford. Black saloon. DVC629 like you said – ‘ad a G.B. plate on the back.”

  “Yes, I seem to remember that,” said Temple, wrinkling his forehead.

  “I saw it too,” agreed Steve. “Whose car is it?”

  Spider Williams chuckled.

  “Quite the little detective, ain’t she, guv?” Then he became confidential once more. “That car belongs to a bloke named Doctor Kohima, 497, Great Wigmore Street.”

  “You seem to have it all off pat,” said Temple. “Has this doctor ever been mixed up in anything?”

  “Not that I know of, Mr. Temple. All you asked me was to find whose car bumped you – and I’ve got you the lowdown.”

  “Are you sure of this, Spider?” asked Temple rather dubiously.

  The little man nodded emphaticall
y.

  “We don’t make mistakes in our racket, Mr. Temple. You know that.”

  “Doctor Kohima,” repeated Temple thoughtfully. “I seem to recall the name. I believe he’s an Egyptian nerve specialist – some sort of psychiatrist.”

  “That’s right,” nodded Steve. “He’s very fashionable just now. I’ve overheard women talking about him at the hairdresser’s or somewhere.”

  Temple opened his wallet and passed a couple of banknotes over to Spider, who stowed them away in an inside pocket.

  “If it was Doctor Kohima driving that car,” said Temple, “there doesn’t seem to be much wrong with his nerves.”

  They bade Spider good night and went out.

  Temple was very silent as he drove back, turning over in his mind the startling events of the evening. Could there be any connection between Sir Ernest’s death and the attempt to smash up their car? And who was that little Welsh fellow? And Doctor Kohima . . . he found himself more intrigued by that name than any of the others. Why should a fashionable psychiatrist spend his evening charging around the streets in his car? And why should he have homicidal intentions towards Paul Temple?

  He was still more than a trifle puzzled the following day when Steve drove him slowly down Great Wigmore Street.

  They drew up outside a Georgian mansion and noted the neat brown plate with ‘Charles Kohima’ in white lettering.

  “Did you make an appointment?” asked Steve.

  “Yes, I ‘phoned through this morning. What are you going to do – wait for me in the car?”

  She considered this for a moment, then decided that she would pay a visit to a servants’ registry office which was just round the corner.

  “Still looking for a maid?” smiled Temple. “By Timothy! You are an optimist!” He slowly climbed out of the car and said, “I don’t suppose I shall be very long. If you’re not outside, I’ll probably go straight back to the flat.”

  She nodded and drove off.

  A young maid answered Temple’s ring and conducted him into the waiting-room, which looked much more like a private sitting-room. Lounging on the settee was a fair-haired, sensitive-faced man of about forty-five, carelessly glancing through an expensive American fashion journal. He wished Temple good afternoon in a rather agreeable sort of voice, and started the usual aimless sort of conversation about the weather. As he was obviously waiting to see the doctor, Temple began to wonder if his own appointment would take place at the agreed time.

  “Our friend seems as busy as ever,” said the man on the settee, when the conversation was showing some signs of lagging.

  “Our friend?” repeated Temple, slightly puzzled.

  “Doctor Kohima.”

  “Oh!”

  The man on the settee eyed Temple keenly. “Oh, I’m afraid I was rather jumping to conclusions,” he said. “This is your first visit, perhaps?”

  “Well, yes,” smiled Temple, “I suppose in a manner of speaking it is.”

  The other leaned forward and said in an earnest voice, “You won’t regret it.”

  “I hope not,” said Temple, secretly wondering if the other man was quite normal.

  “Kohima’s a brilliant man. Really brilliant. Absolutely first class. Take my word for it.”

  Temple did not speak for a moment, but quietly eyed the fair-haired man very carefully. Then he said, “Forgive my asking, but haven’t we met before somewhere?”

  The other shook his head, and with just a shade too much emphasis replied, “I don’t think so. My name is Lathom – Carl Lathom.”

  “I thought so,” nodded Temple, whose memory for faces was as reliable as a card index. “It was about six years ago, at Lady Forester’s.”

  Carl Lathom frowned.

  “I’m afraid I don’t actually remember the occasion,” he admitted.

  “Then you’d hardly remember me. My name happens to be Temple.”

  Lathom’s face cleared.

  “Oh yes, of course. You write detective novels and things.”

  “Chiefly detective novels.”

  “Oh, please forgive me,” said Lathom apologetically. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “That’s all right,” laughed Temple.

  “But I really must apologise. I know how sensitive one feels about one’s work. You see,” he added, with a rueful sort of smile, “I once wrote a play myself.”

  “I remember it very well,” Temple assured him.

  “Yes,” nodded Carl, in a more indifferent tone, “it had quite a good run. Made me a lot of money.”

  “Congratulations.”

  Carl Lathom shrugged.

  “Oh, that was a long time ago,” he murmured, as if the memory was not entirely pleasant.

  But Temple had suddenly recollected something else.

  “Tell me,” he went on, in a casual tone, “wasn’t Norma Rice in your play?”

  “Yes, she had the lead. It was her first big chance in the West End. She was awfully good, too. Awfully good. The play was quite hopeless without her.” After a brief pause, he added, “I say, did you see that in the newspapers? About Norma? It was a hell of a shock to me.”

  “A most distressing business,” agreed Temple.

  “Oh, most distressing. A charming girl, too. Temperamental, of course, but that’s understandable. I got to know her quite a bit during rehearsals of the play, and it seemed to me that she had a morbid streak in her nature which might run away with her one day. When I first read about her death I should have been willing to lay ten to one that it was suicide.”

  Temple smiled.

  “But surely she would hardly have taken an overdose of Amashyer and then gone to the trouble to scrawl ‘Rex’ on the carriage window . . .”

  Lathom shook his head.

  “That’s just the sort of crazy thing Norma would do – specially if she had happened to read about the Rex murders.” He sighed. “There’s no accounting for some women. All the same, she was a great actress.”

  “Have you written anything else since that play?” asked Temple.

  “Not a single word. I got caught up in the advertising game and then I had a sort of breakdown. I’ve been very ill during the past three or four years.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” sympathised Temple.

  Lathom smiled. “Oh, I’m much better now, thank you.”

  “Thanks to Doctor Kohima?”

  “Entirely. He’s really first class. It’s difficult to explain without sounding rather schoolgirlish, but he is really, quite frankly, such a distinctive personality. Something keeps telling you that he is doing his utmost to work with you and straighten out all the kinks.” He laughed a trifle self-consciously and added, “You can imagine that’s rather important with a psychiatrist.” Opening a slim gold cigarette-case, he passed it over to Temple.

  After they lit their cigarettes, Lathom went on in a conversational tone, “Yes, I’ve been very groggy. Had one or two very nasty turns – the brain can play some devilish queer tricks, you know, Mr. Temple. As a matter of fact, strictly between ourselves, I’ve been suffering from—well—hallucinations.”

  Temple managed to conceal his surprise by taking a draw at his cigarette and slowly expelling a stream of smoke.

  “Of course, I’m cured now,” continued Lathom rather more assertively. “But it was distinctly unpleasant while it lasted.”

  “I should imagine so,” nodded Temple.” Did the—er— hallucinations take any consistent form?”

  “Why, yes, I had the impression that everywhere I went I was being followed—”

  “Not by the police?” queried Temple, who had often heard of this particular type of illusion.

  “No, nothing as lurid as that,” laughed Lathom. “This was a girl who was following me around. A very attractive girl, too. I can see her now just as clearly as I see you sitting there. She had brown shoes – brown costume – brown handbag –perky little hat – silk stockings! I suppose, really, it was quite the nicest type of hallucination
.”

  “Did you ever try to, well, to sort of corner the girl in brown?” asked Temple, in an interested tone.

  “Time and again. But of course she was never there. She’d vanish quite completely – almost into thin air. It was quite uncanny. I don’t mind telling you it had me badly rattled.”

  “And you mean to say Doctor Kohima convinced you that she did not exist?”

  “That’ s just what he did,” Lathom assured Temple earnestly. “It’s taken him literally months of exhaustive research, but he’s done it! I can’t quite tell you how, but suddenly the lady in is no more. She’s vanished for the last time. No doubt about the doctor is brilliant – really quite brilliant.”

  He appeared to be about to enlarge further upon this question when the door opened, and a well-dressed woman of about thirty-five stood there.

  “The doctor’s sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Temple,” she announced. “He’ll be able to see you in about five minutes.”

  “Thank you,” said Temple. The woman looked round and suddenly saw Lathom, who was sitting behind the door.

  “Your appointment wasn’t till four, Mr. Lathom,” she said. “Didn’t you know that?”

  Lathom rose politely and smiled at her.

  “Oh yes,” he replied suavely. “But I’m afraid I found myself in the neighbourhood with half an hour to spare, so I thought I’d come in and relax, as the doctor always advises.”

  “It’s quite all right,” smiled the secretary, “as long as you don’t mind waiting.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’ll tell the doctor you’re here,” she said as she went out, silently closing the door after her.

  Temple looked round for an ash-tray and stubbed out his cigarette.

  “Was that Doctor Kohima’s secretary?” he asked.

  “That’s right. An awfully nice person.”

  “Yes, she seemed very helpful when I spoke to her on the ‘phone,” nodded Temple. “You don’t happen to know her name?”

  “Well, I always call her ‘nurse’ for some silly reason. But the doctor did introduce us when I first came here. Her name is Mrs. Trevelyan.”