Send for Paul Temple Again!

by Francis Durbridge

  “Whoever can it be?” whispered Steve.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s Fritz Kreisler,” smiled Temple.

  “Fritz Kreisler—but how on earth—”

  “An automatic gramophone,” he replied, in rather a rueful tone. “I ought to have guessed that. It’s a simple idea, but quite effective.”

  Steve was more bewildered than ever. “But, darling, why on earth should Mrs. Trevelyan take all the trouble to set a gramophone working?”

  Temple glanced at his wrist-watch.

  “I’ll explain later,” he replied.” Come along, Steve. I’ve got to meet Sir Graham down at Westminster in about twenty minutes. Let’s hope we don’t meet much traffic.”

  Steve, however, felt she had had enough for one evening.

  “You can drop me at our corner and I’ll walk back to the flat,” she announced. Temple noticed that she was rather white.

  “All right,” he agreed. “And you’d better tell that Chinese puzzle of ours to mix you a good, stiff drink.”

  “He probably has it mixed already,” she said, with an attempt at a laugh.

  On their way out they were confronted by a policeman, to whom Temple gave a brief account of the accident. It was fully five minutes before they were able to make their way through the small group of onlookers and restart the car.

  The nearest church clock had already struck eleven before they emerged from Lancaster Gate and headed for Mayfair. Having dropped Steve on the corner of Half Moon Street, Temple forgot about such things as speed limits as he drove expertly down the emptying streets in the direction of Westminster.

  He found Forbes and an Irish sergeant named Bannion, whom he had met before several times, pacing impatiently up and down the landing stage and looking up at the huge dial of Big Ben which pointed to eleven-twenty. In the background, Crane leaned against a wooden building and moodily smoked a cigarette.

  “It’s gone a quarter past,” he growled.

  “All right, we’ll give him another five minutes,” said Sir Graham. “How long will it take us to get there, Sergeant?”

  “About a quarter of an hour, sir,” replied the sergeant.

  At that moment Temple came running down the iron steps, buttoning his overcoat against the cold wind blowing from the river.

  “Just in time, Temple,” Sir Graham greeted him. “We nearly gave you up as a bad job!”

  “Sorry, Sir Graham,” Temple apologised, then nodded to Hannion.

  “Hello, Sergeant. Still with the old barge?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Temple,” grinned the sergeant.

  Crane came out of the shadows and nodded curtly to Temple. “Evening, sir.” He turned to Bannion. “All right, Sergeant. Let’s get started.”

  They clambered into the boat which was rocking unsteadily against a swift tide. At the second attempt, the motor roared into life, and Crane cast off. The sergeant slowly opened the throttle, and they lurched their way into midstream on the slightly choppy waters. A tug towing three large barges chugged its way past them. The sergeant snapped on his searchlight for a second, just to make sure it was working. From time to time they ran into a patch of mist that curled over the water. A ship’s siren echoed mournfully across the river from the neighbourhood of the docks. Temple shivered and wondered why he had not agreed to meet Sir Graham at Granger’s Wharf and travelled there in his car. It would certainly have been a much warmer journey. What was more, it would probably have been quicker.

  The cold night air pushed past them, and they crouched in the well of the launch to find what little protection there was from wind and spray.

  “The mist seems to have cleared,” commented Forbes presently.

  “Lucky for us,” nodded Crane.

  “Getting near it now, sir,” murmured the sergeant, peering into the night.

  “Where is it exactly?” asked Temple.

  “Away yonder on the left there,” was the reply. “We’ll be there in two or three minutes.” He changed the direction of the boat slightly, and they began to head towards the left bank. Straining his eyes, Temple could just discern the dim outlines of a large warehouse towards which the sergeant was steering.

  “There we are, sir. That’s Granger’s Wharf.”

  “Know anything about it, Sergeant?” asked Forbes.

  “Not much doing there lately,” replied the sergeant. “I think some of their cargoes have been diverted to places abroad. They take mostly foodstuffs . . .”

  He manoeuvred the launch gently towards the small landing stage.

  “This is the warehouse, sir – and that’s a checking office.”

  “And what’s that?” asked Crane, indicating a large, wooden shed to their right.

  “I think they park lorries in there. If you’re meeting anybody, I expect you’ll find them in the checking office. Most of ‘em have a stove or a gas fire.”

  The launch bumped lightly against the piles, and Temple leapt on to the landing stage.

  “Throw me a rope, Sergeant.”

  “Here y’are, sir.”

  Temple secured the rope to a ring in the floor of the landing stage, and while he was completing a nautical knot the others had also disembarked.

  “You wait here, Sergeant,” ordered Crane, as they stood for a moment looking round to get their bearings. There were no lights of any description, apart from a street lamp shining dimly some eighty yards away. Temple shivered as a bleak gust of wind whistled round the warehouse. But Crane showed no sign of making a move.

  “What are you looking for, Inspector? The reception committee?” asked Temple.

  Crane’s face remained completely wooden.

  “I’m looking for Muller, sir,” he replied.

  “He doesn’t appear to be here,” grunted Forbes, who was also becoming a trifle impatient.

  And indeed the wharf seemed completely deserted.

  Temple suddenly shone his torch on the ground. Then he bent down to examine the muddy surface.

  “What is it, sir?” asked Crane.

  “They look to me like fairly recent footprints.”

  Forbes came over and peered at the patch of ground lit by Temple’s torch. “Yes, quite recent,” he agreed. “They seem to point towards the checking office.”

  Temple at once led the way in that direction.

  The checking office proved to be a fairly old brick structure surmounted by a corrugated iron roof. Forbes knocked sharply at the door, but there was no reply. Crane peered into the grimy iron-framed window, but declared that he could see nothing.

  “Doesn’t seem to be anyone here,” he commented. “Maybe we’d better make the round of the other places.”

  “It’s possible our friend Muller got cold feet and backed out at the last minute,” said Forbes.

  Crane made another attempt to look through the window. “Can’t see a thing – maybe they’ve still got some sort of blackout up. Have you tried the door?”

  “Yes, it’s locked all right.”

  Crane was just debating whether to shine his torch through he window, and risk attracting a possible bullet, when there was a soft exclamation from Temple, who had suddenly shone his small pencil-torch on the top right-hand corner of the door.

  “Good God!” breathed Forbes. “What is it, sir?” asked Crane, coming up quickly. And then he noticed it.

  The word ‘Rex’ splashed in vivid red letters diagonally across the top corner. Temple snapped out the torch.

  ‘’What are you going to do?” asked Forbes.

  “Stand back, Sir Graham,” said Temple in a low voice. “I’m going to break the door down!”

  He measured the distance and leapt at the centre of the door. It splintered almost immediately. Crane pushed a burly shoulder against the one side and the door burst open. Temple shone his torch and the beam picked out the ponderous figure of a man slumped over the back of a chair. Blood dripped steadily from his head into a large pool on the floor beneath the chair.

  “My God!�
� exclaimed Crane, advancing into the office.

  “It’s his throat . . .” mumbled Forbes, and Temple switched the beam away from the red gash.

  “Mr. Temple,” said Crane in a low voice. “Is this our man?”

  Temple did not answer immediately. They stood in the heavy darkness and in complete silence save for the mournful sound of a ship’s siren somewhere in the distance. Then Temple abruptly switched the light full on the dead man’s face.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “It’s Hans Muller.”

  At first, Crane was jubilant over the footprints they had discovered, but on investigation they proved to be those of the dead man. Around the checking office there were dozens of footprints, and those of Rex – if it were Rex who had committed the crime – had probably been trodden over by the Scotland Yard party. Crane eventually gave it up as a bad job, announcing that he would return the next morning and see if he could do any better with the help of daylight.

  On the way back, Temple related his experiences of the day – how he had met Doctor Kohima and Mrs. Trevelyan, but did not mention the strange sequel of that meeting. They welcomed any diversion to distract from the thoughts of the ghastly sight they had just encountered. When they reached the landing stage at Westminster, Temple invited Forbes and Crane back to the flat for a drink, and as it was considerably nearer than either of their homes they accepted the invitation with alacrity.

  The clock in the hall struck one as Temple fitted his latchkey in the lock, and he was amazed to find Steve sitting up and waiting for them.

  “You’re back earlier than I thought,” she said as they came in. She pushed her knitting beneath a cushion and looked at him critically as he went to pour out drinks.

  “You look tired, darling,” she commented.

  “It’s not surprising,” said Forbes, lying back in a comfortable armchair and stretching out his legs. “We’ve had quite a night!”

  “What happened?” asked Steve. “Did you see Muller?”

  Forbes exchanged a glance with Temple and shrugged.

  “We saw him, Mrs. Temple,” said Crane at length, “but not quite under the circumstances we expected.”

  “He was dead,” explained Temple. “Murdered, I’m afraid.”

  Steve made an effort to fight back the feeling of horror which swept over her whenever she heard of the latest addition of Rex’s victims.

  “Thank goodness you weren’t there, Steve,” said Forbes quietly, accepting a large whisky from Temple and draining it at a gulp. Crane did likewise, and Temple refilled their glasses.

  “You’re looking pretty pale, Steve,” he commented shrewdly. “Sure you won’t have a drink?”

  “Quite sure thanks, darling. I expect I’m over-tired.”

  “Did you get back all right after you left me?” he asked.

  “Yes . . .” she hesitated.

  “Is anything wrong?” asked Temple, eyeing her intently. “It’s all right, darling, you can talk. I’ve told Sir Graham about Mrs. Trevelyan and Doctor Kohima. Nothing else has happened, has there?”

  “Well, I suppose it’s nothing really,” murmured Steve reluctantly. “All the same, it was rather queer—”

  “Go on,” prompted Temple.

  “I expect you’ll think it’s all nonsense, but—”

  “Indeed we shan’t, Steve,” Forbes assured her seriously.

  “We’re only too glad to hear the slightest thing that might possibly have some bearing on this business.”

  “Well, after I left you, Paul, I came back here and drank a small glass of brandy. Then Ricky made me some coffee and I sent him to bed. After that, I felt that if I went to bed I’d never sleep—”

  “You shouldn’t have had the coffee,” he murmured.

  “Perhaps not. Anyhow, I felt that if I had a breath of fresh air, would help to soothe my nerves. So I slipped on my coat, and went out. I walked into Piccadilly and turned into Park Lane. It was fairly late and there weren’t very many people about. Along Park Lane a strange sort of feeling seemed to creep over me – don’t ask me why – but I felt quite certain that somebody was following me.”

  “Who on earth would want to follow you?” asked Forbes, then suddenly looked very embarrassed. “Well, you know what I mean, Steve – after all, if it had been one of the gay lads he would most certainly have tried to catch up with you.”

  “That’s just it,” said Steve. “I couldn’t see anyone. I couldn’t even hear footsteps, and yet I felt sure that someone was there.”

  “Perhaps it was some sort of hallucination, Mrs. Temple,” suggested Crane slowly.

  “Oh no!” cried Steve. “Because, as I turned into Curzon Street I saw someone.”

  “Good old feminine intuition vindicated again,” said Temple lightly, in an attempt to dispel the worried look in Steve’s eyes. “So you saw the person who was following you?”

  “Yes, I saw her pass quickly under the lamp at the end of Curzon Street. I got a good look at her – then she seemed to vanish. I think she realised I had spotted her.”

  “Are you telling us this mysterious person was a woman?” asked Temple in some surprise.

  “I’m quite certain, Paul. For about two seconds, I saw her almost as clearly as I can see you now.”

  “Then you can describe her?” queried Forbes eagerly.

  “I can,” replied Steve with quiet confidence.

  “Well?” said Temple, taking a drink of his double brandy.

  Steve drew a deep breath.

  “Well,” she began, “the girl was smartly dressed. She was young – a brunette – and dressed in brown. Brown handbag, sun-tan silk stockings, brown costume, perky little hat—”

  The three men looked at one another without speaking. Then Temple took a sip at his brandy.

  “Quite the nicest type of hallucination,” he said slowly.

  Chapter V

  CONCERNING DOCTOR KOHIMA

  Steve came near to losing her temper. She was over-tired, had been through a trying experience that night, and her nerves were somewhat on edge.

  “I’m not joking, Paul,” she said with a note of asperity in her voice. I tell you it was no hallucination.”

  He leaned forward and patted her hand.

  “Of course it wasn’t, Steve. I’ve already heard all about it once before today – or rather yesterday!”

  It was Forbes’ turn to sit up and take notice. “D’you mean you know this girl Steve’s talking about?” he queried sharply.

  “No,” said Temple absent-mindedly, feeling for another cigarette and carefully lighting it.

  “Then why d’you say you’ve heard all about it?”

  Temple settled back in his chair once more and began to review the facts, as much for his own benefit as the Assistant Commissioner’s.

  “It’s like this, Sir Graham. When I visited Doctor Kohima’s met a man called Carl Lathom. He told me that he had been suffering from hallucinations for quite some time.”

  “What sort of hallucinations?” interrupted Crane in a harsh, impatient voice.

  “Quite the usual type in some ways – he was under the impression that everywhere he went he was being followed.”

  “But what the devil’s this got to do with anything?” snapped Forbes irritably.

  Temple held up his hand.

  “Just a minute, Sir Graham. Let me tell you about this girl who was following Lathom. He described her to me. Lathom said: ‘I could see her as clearly as I can see you now. Brown shoes – brown costume – brown handbag – perky little hat—’”

  There was a gasp of astonishment from Steve and a slight exclamation of surprise from Forbes. Crane looked completely dubious.

  “Are you sure about all this, Temple?” asked Sir Graham incredulously.

  “Good heavens! It’s fantastic!” exclaimed Crane.

  Temple slowly shook his head.

  “No,” he said, “when one really thinks about it, Inspector, it simply means that Doctor Kohima was mistak
en.”

  “Mistaken?” repeated Crane in some mystification. “Mistaken about what?”

  “Well,” replied Temple, faintly amused, “about the hallucinations.”

  Forbes rose and began to pace heavily across the room. The case was beginning to take on an eerie aspect which frankly bewildered him.

  “Look here,” he growled in a dogmatical tone, “you can say what you like about this business, but I’ve got a hunch this Mrs. Trevelyan’s at the back of it all.”

  “In point of fact,” interposed Temple gently, “you think Mrs. Trevelyan is Rex?”

  “Yes,” replied Forbes stoutly, “I do. Look at the evidence against her. The way her name has cropped up in most of the murders. You can’t tell me she knows nothing about this business.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of telling you that, Sir Graham. But a lot of people know something about this business without being responsible for the murders. What do you think, Crane?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Crane stolidly, though he was obviously cherishing his own theories.

  “Of course,” continued Forbes, “if that fellow Lathom was— er—unhinged, it’s just possible that this doctor fellow could have —well—planted the description of that girl in his mind.” Forbes looked rather pleased with himself as he advanced the theory.

  “Then you think Doctor Kohima is somehow connected with Rex?” asked Temple.

  “Never set eyes on the fellow yet,” retorted Forbes bluntly. “I’ll tell you more when I see him. But it’s more than likely he’s in with this Mrs. Trevelyan—”

  “But what would be the point in planting such a description in Carl Lathom’s mind?” asked Steve, who found the discussion becoming more and more involved. This obviously puzzled Sir Graham.

  “There must be some reason, of course,” he grunted. “I should say that doctor’s up to some trickery – wants to plant that girl somehow to distract us—”

  “But there really is a girl in brown,” said Steve. “And how could the doctor know she would always be wearing it.”

  “He could order her to do it.”