Send for Paul Temple Again!

by Francis Durbridge

  Nevertheless, Temple still felt it would be a mistake to arrest either the doctor or Mrs. Trevelyan, though when he had called at the Yard that morning to see the report on the bomb attack, Sir Graham had seemed somewhat guarded when questioned about his plans regarding Mrs. Trevelyan. He could, of course, appreciate the Assistant Commissioner’s point of view that Mrs. Trevelyan was the perpetrator of this outrage in one sense, for she had lured the Temples to Marshall House Terrace, even if she had done so unwillingly and under pressure of blackmail. Sir Graham was determined to leave no avenue unexplored, and Temple knew that, if in the Assistant Commissioner’s opinion, Mrs. Trevelyan was safer under arrest, then he would immediately have her taken into custody. And this, to Temple’s way of thinking, would at once throw a spanner in the machine!

  However, worrying about it served no useful purpose, and Temple dismissed it from his mind as they came into Canterbury and made for the Royal Falcon Hotel, which was invariably described in the guide-books as ‘an ancient hostelry, dating back to the coaching days’. They discovered it in the centre of the town, and after registering and taking their cases up to their room, had barely time for a wash before dinner.

  In the low-ceilinged dining-room, which was only half-full they found a table in a corner, and an elderly waiter with lugubrious expression advanced upon them.

  “Are you staying here, sir?” he asked by way of greeting.

  “We are,” replied Temple.

  “Oh,” grunted the waiter in a tone which implied that they had his deepest sympathy. Temple looked across at Steve and exchanged a meaning smile. The old waiter shuffled off and presently returned with a menu, muttering something to himself. Temple began to study it, only to find that the waiter had disappeared.

  “He’s making sure that everything’s off,” laughed Steve.

  “Anyhow, here’s bread without asking for it, so the place may not be as bad as all that after all,” said Temple, reaching for a piece of bread out of the basket on the service table, and passing one to Steve.

  “I wonder who runs this place?” she said. “It isn’t owned by a company, is it?”

  ‘’I don’t think so. The manager was in the office when I registered – a fellow named Chester. He may be the proprietor too. Slightly sinister looking individual, with a scar across his left cheek.”

  “Did he seem surprised to see you?”

  “No, I can’t say he did. I watched him pretty carefully, but he has a poker face.”

  “And you didn’t mention the mysterious Miss Smith?”

  “No. I’ll have a chat with Mr. Chester after dinner – that’s if we’re getting any dinner.”

  “Sh! Here’s the old man of the sea coming back!” whispered Steve as the waiter came plodding across to them again. She favoured him with her pleasantest smile, and said brightly: “Gosh! I’m hungry!”

  “Well – there’s the menu,” replied the waiter dubiously, bestowing a few perfunctory flicks with his napkin on the table. Temple studied it for a moment, then announced;

  “Roast duck! What do you say, Steve?”

  “Will a duck swim!” she was beginning, when the waiter interposed.

  “The duck’s off, sir.”

  “Off colour, or off the menu?”

  “Both, sir.”

  Steve leaned over to see the menu and frowned thoughtfully.

  “What about the roast lamb?” she asked. That ought to be good in Canterbury.”

  “I’m afraid it’s the wrong Canterbury, darling,” smiled Temple.

  “Very tasty, the lamb,” murmured the waiter reflectively. “Very tasty indeed—while it lasted.”

  “But of course it’s off!” nodded Temple, suddenly starting to examine the menu much more closely, as if he were seeking some elusive item which had been overlooked. Then he let it fall to the table, with a thoughtful look in his eyes.

  “I might be able to do something in the fish line,” the waiter was saying dolefully. “That’s if you fancy a nice bit of fish.”

  His voice seemed to have receded into the distance. Noticing Temple’s faraway expression, Steve jogged his elbow.

  “The fish, darling,” she prompted.

  “Oh yes,” replied Temple, coming back to earth. “That will do splendidly, if it’s all right with you, Steve.”

  Steve nodded to the waiter.

  “The fish!” announced that gentleman, sounding more dubious than ever, as he made his way in the direction of the service hatch.

  Temple picked up the menu again, turned it over, put it down beside him, then he took a small magnifying glass from his pocket. Looking round to see if they were observed, he began to examine the menu closely.

  “Darling, I’m afraid you won’t discover the missing duck!” smiled Steve. “What is there that’s so remarkable about that menu?”

  He did not speak for a few moments, then slowly pocketed the glass and passed the menu over to her.

  “Have a good look at it,” he advised.

  She held it at varying distances, but only succeeded in looking more puzzled than ever.

  “It looks just like any other menu to me,” she confessed.

  “Don’t you think it’s typed rather nicely?” he suggested.

  “Why yes, of course. Nothing very remarkable about that, is there? Lots of menus are typed and—” She suddenly caught her breath and began to look at it more closely.

  “Why, Paul – it was typed on the same machine – the one that typed the notes sent to Mrs. Trevelyan by Rex!”

  “Your eyesight’s pretty good, Steve,” he complimented her.

  “But this is astonishing! Really astonishing!” she cried in complete amazement.

  “Yes,” he mused thoughtfully, “I suppose it is in a way . . . as long as we don’t go leaping to conclusions.”

  “But there’s no doubt about it, Paul. Look at the a’s and d’s . . . they’re identical.”

  “All the same,” said Temple slowly, “it doesn’t follow necessarily that Rex has his headquarters here. Guests staying at a hotel could quite easily borrow the hotel machine for half an hour to answer some private letters. I’ve done it myself – you know I can work more quickly on a typewriter.”

  “But it means that someone stayed here – someone very closely connected with Rex – or maybe Rex in person—”

  “I think we might be safe in assuming that,” he nodded. “But we’ve got to move carefully, Steve – it’s a tricky business. Rex must have a pretty good idea that we’re fairly close on his heels, and he’ll be out to take advantage of the least slip on our part. His next coup will be very carefully planned, and he’ll probably take elaborate precautions to throw suspicion on some likely person.”

  His mention of a forthcoming possible coup brought to Steve’s mind the thought of the list of Rex’s victims.

  “I meant to ask you last night, Paul,” she said, “about those two names on the list – before Mrs. Trevelyan—”

  “James Barton and Norman Steele?” he queried.

  “Yes. Had you heard of them before?”

  “I’d heard of James Barton,” he told her. “He’s a director of Meriden-Overland Airways; he invented a patent refuelling apparatus that was used a good deal during the war. I’ve never met him, but he sounds an intelligent sort of person.”

  “What would Rex know about a man like that?”

  Temple shrugged. “Search me! We all have a past of some sort, you know, Steve. The most innocent of us has—” He broke off as the door opened. “Talking of innocents,” he murmured, “look who’s here.”

  A thick-set little man with very dark hair was walking towards them. Steve at once recognised Wilfred Davis, their Welsh acquaintance of the Twisted Keys. He came straight over to their table.

  “Hello, Mr. Temple,” he said pleasantly. “Now whatever would you be doing in Canterbury?”

  “I might ask you the same question, Mr . . .”

  “Lordy, now I don’t suppose I properly i
ntroduced myself. My name is Davis, Wilfred Davis – look, here is my card.”

  Temple took the card and read: “Longford Utilities Limited, 16 Queensgate, Manchester. Presented by Wilfred Davis.”

  “So that’s what brings you to Canterbury, Mr. Davis,” he smiled, pushing the card in his pocket.

  “That’s right, Mr. Temple. I am a traveller.”

  “Well, Canterbury has certainly been visited by travellers for quite a number of years.” Temple pulled out a chair and Davis sat down.

  “Are you still reading your detective novels, Mr. Davis?” asked Steve.

  His eyes positively glowed.

  “Just you try to stop me, Mrs. Temple! I am an absolute glutton for crime and criminology.” He began to play with a fork on the table. Temple noticed that he had very muscular hands, covered with a down of black hair.

  “By the way, Mr. Temple,” he said suddenly, “this Rex affair is a most extraordinary business, is it not?”

  “Most extraordinary,” said Temple in a noncommittal tone.

  “The newspapers are always full of the most gruesome details,” continued Davis, an eager light in his eyes. He adopted a very confidential tone and leaning forward said: “I am most intrigued, Mr. Temple. Tell me, is it true that you are sort of investigating the case?”

  “Sort of,” replied Temple with a whimsical smile.

  “Well now, that must be most interesting. Of course, naturally I am particularly interested in this Rex affair.”

  “Oh,” said Temple, rather surprised. “Why?”

  “Well, you see, I suppose in a manner of speaking I am almost part and parcel of it, as you might say.”

  “You are, Mr. Davis?” queried Steve incredulously.

  “Yes indeed, Mrs. Temple,” he eagerly assured her. “I have read about hundreds and thousands of murders in books, but never before have I been mixed up with one. You see 1 was on the train when they found the body of Norma Rice.”

  “Good Lord!” exclaimed Temple softly.

  “Yes,” continued Davis with avidity, “I was actually asleep in the next compartment.”

  “Did you see Miss Rice?” asked Temple.

  “Lordy, yes! A fine woman she was too, Mr. Temple. The ticket inspector found her, then he dragged me into her compartment – he was so upset, you see. My, it was a strange sight, I can tell you. She was kind of propped up in a corner, and there scrawled across the window was the word ‘Rex ‘. . . I can see it now. I tell you something though, Mr. Temple – it is one thing to read about such things and quite another when you are faced with them.”

  “Yes,” nodded Temple in some amusement, “you’re right there, Mr. Davis. Do you often come here?”

  “About every six months. I am very fond of Canterbury and all those historical places, cathedral towns and such like. The tradespeople are very conservative, you know, but once you are accepted, the orders are very regular.”

  “And you always stay at this hotel?” asked Temple.

  “Yes. I know it is not as good as it was in the old days. But my customers know where to find me, you see,” he explained almost apologetically. “In the old days, this was the leading hotel in the town.”

  He appeared to be about to embark upon further similar observations, but was interrupted by the arrival of the waiter, who very deliberately deposited two plates of greasy-looking soup on the table, then turned to the novelist and asked: “Is your name Temple?”

  Temple nodded.

  “There’s a personal call for you from London, sir. You’ll see the box just along the corridor on the right.”

  Temple excused himself, and Steve began to drink her soup.

  Having found the box and made himself known to the operator who was holding the call, Temple was very surprised to hear the somewhat dour tones of Inspector Crane at the other end the line.

  “I’m speaking for Sir Graham, Mr. Temple,” the inspector informed him. “We tried to get you at the flat, but your man said you were in Canterbury – he told me the name of the hotel—”

  “Oh, he did,” murmured Temple, wondering if Steve had given Ricky this piece of information or otherwise. “Is there anything wrong?”

  “Sir Graham would rather like you to come back to town, sir, lf you can possibly manage it.”

  “Tonight?” queried Temple.

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “What’s happened, Crane? You’d better tell me now – it just possibly link up with one or two things I’ve discovered down here.”

  There was an appreciable pause, then Crane said flatly: “A man named James Barton has been murdered.”

  Temple whistled softly.

  “How was he killed, Inspector?”

  “Bullet through the head,” came the laconical reply.

  “Did you find the revolver?”

  “No, sir. We haven’t even found the bullet – can’t make it out. But there was something we did find. Came across it myself – right by the body.”

  “Oh . . . what was that?”

  “A silver pencil,” replied Crane impressively. “A silver pencil with the initials—”

  “The initials C. K. engraved on it,” Temple quickly informed him.

  “Yes, sir, that’s right. How the devil did you—”

  “Tell Sir Graham I’ll start back right away,” said Temple briskly. “Is there anything else?”

  “Er—well—no, sir—” came the slightly bewildered tones of the inspector. “You don’t seem very surprised about that pencil, Mr. Temple.”

  Temple smiled.

  “I should have been very surprised if you hadn’t found it, Inspector!” he said.

  Chapter VII

  CYANIDE IS NO TONIC!

  Having replaced the receiver, Temple stood for a moment deep in thought. Then he pushed open the door of the box somewhat suddenly and heard a stifled exclamation. Turning, he saw Frank Chester, the manager.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologised hastily.

  “My fault,” said Chester politely. “That box is in an awkward place – I should have been on the look-out for the door to open, I’ve been banged often enough . . . did you get your call, Mr. Temple?”

  “Oh yes, thanks,” murmured Temple, wondering if it were possible for Chester to have overheard it. Dismissing the thought for the moment, he said: “Excuse me, but are you the manager?”

  “Officially, yes,” nodded Chester. “Though just at the moment I seem to be head cook and bottle washer. Not to mention pageboy.”

  He allowed his somewhat stern features to relax for a moment, then asked: “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Temple?”

  Temple pursed his lips in thought for a moment, then said: “I’m afraid we’re going to put you to a little trouble, Mr. Chester. You see my wife and I have received an urgent call back to Town.”

  “You mean you have to go tonight?” asked Chester imperturbably.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” said Chester. “I’ll tell them at the office. You appreciate we have to make a nominal charge for the room—”

  “That’s perfectly all right,” Temple quickly assured him.

  “Then I’ll let them know in the office right away.” He turned to go, but Temple laid a hand on his arm.

  “Just a minute, Mr. Chester. There’s another little matter – if you could help me—”

  “Of course. Anything I can do—”

  His face was as impassive as ever, but Temple imagined he saw momentary gleam of discomfort in his grey-green eyes.

  “It concerns a friend of mine who stayed here three months ago. Unfortunately, I have mislaid her address, and I was wondering if you would have any record.”

  “I expect so,” replied Chester quite pleasantly. “When did you say she was here?”

  “I should say possibly somewhere round the first fortnight in July.”

  “And the name?”

  Temple hesitated a moment, then watching Chester ve
ry shrewdly he said: “Smith is the name. Miss Judy Smith.”

  During the second’s silence that followed, Chester’s poker face remained set as inflexibly as ever, but when he spoke there was just a slight thickness in his voice, as he said:

  “I’ll do the best 1 can for you, Mr. Temple.”

  “Thank you,” replied Temple more politely than ever. “I should be extremely obliged. You’ll find me in the dining-room.”

  Chester hurried off, and Temple strolled back to the dining- room, where he found Steve still listening to Wilfred Davis and toying with some very unpalatable-looking steamed fish.

  “—and then we motored down to Naples,” Davis was saying. “I don’t ever remember seeing a more glorious view. They say ‘See Naples and die,’ and I tell you, Mrs. Temple—”

  He caught sight of Temple and suddenly became self-conscious of his over-exuberant manner.

  “Oh, here is Mr. Temple,” he murmured in some confusion.

  “Oh yes,” said Steve with a certain amount of relief.

  Temple slid into his chair and smiled at them.

  “Sorry to have kept you waiting like this,” he apologised.

  “I should imagine your soup is stone-cold by now,” said Steve.

  “It was probably stone-cold to start with, if I know anything about the Royal Falcon!” remarked the little Welshman. “Well I will be off now, Mr. Temple. Perhaps you will join me later in the lounge for a cup of coffee. I have an idea for a story which I am sure would interest you.”

  Temple sighed inwardly – he had heard that sentence so many times.

  “I am afraid we have to go back to Town almost at once, Mr. Davis,” he announced, hoping that he had disguised the note of relief in his voice.

  “Oh,” said Davis flatly, then added somewhat suspiciously, “I thought you said you were staying the night?”

  Steve looked up at her husband.

  “Aren’t we staying the night?” she asked, wondering if he was serious or merely being politely evasive to Mr. Davis.

  “No,” replied Temple quietly, so that there was no mistaking his meaning. Steve looked very puzzled, but said nothing.

  “Oh well,” murmured Davis, faintly embarrassed and conscious that his presence was somewhat superfluous, “I will be making a move. Nice to have seen you again, anyway. Good-bye.”