Send for Paul Temple Again!

by Francis Durbridge

  “Good-bye, Mr. Davis,” replied Temple absently. Steve waited until the little Welshman was outside the door, then demanded in an anxious voice: “Paul—what is it?”

  “Finish your dinner, dear. I want to get back to Town as soon as we can.”

  “What’s happened?” she asked.

  “It’s James Barton – the man we were talking about,” he told her. “He’s dead.”

  “Oh no!” cried Steve with a look of horror.

  “I’m afraid so, Steve. Not much use getting upset about it now. We’ve got to get moving, and there’s no time to lose!”

  “First Richard East . . . then Norma Rice . . . Sir Ernest Cranbury . . . Hans Muller . . . and now James Barton . . . Steve whispered softly. “You’re right, Paul. We’ve got to do something! If I could only—”

  “You can,” he whispered urgently. “Listen to me—listen carefully.” He laid his cigarette-case on the corner of the table. “Now, Steve, when I give you the nod, I want you to knock this case on the floor, make it appear quite accidental – have you got that?”

  “But why?” she asked in a puzzled voice.

  “Never mind now. Do as I tell you.”

  She looked up and saw Frank Chester coming quickly in their direction, so she leaned on the table with her elbow conveniently near the cigarette-case.

  “Oh, there you are, Mr. Temple,” said Chester as he approached. “I’m afraid I haven’t been able to help you. I’ve been through the books and the registration forms for the entire month, but I can’t find any trace of your friend. Are you quite sure she was here at that time?”

  Temple lifted his eyes in Steve’s direction, and she obediently edged the cigarette-case off the table with a casual gesture. Chester stooped and retrieved the case, which he politely handed back to Steve. Temple then introduced them, keeping one eye on the cigarette-case all the time.

  “I’m awfully sorry you have to rush away like this, Mrs. Temple,” said Chester politely.

  “Yes, it is a nuisance,” agreed Steve. “I was so looking forward to staying the night in Canterbury – it’s so peaceful.”

  “Business is business,” murmured Temple cryptically.

  “Of course,” nodded Chester. “And about that little matter of your friend—Miss—er—” he looked hesitatingly in Steve’s direction.

  “It’s all right,” smiled Temple. “Miss Smith is my wife’s friend, too!”

  “Are you quite sure she stayed here?” asked Chester.

  Temple wrinkled his forehead.

  “I could have sworn she said the Royal Falcon . . . or was it the Royal Fountain?”

  “In that case, I’m afraid I can’t help you,” smiled Chester. “Though I’m sure if you went along there, Mr. Condale would—”

  “Oh, it isn’t as important as all that,” smiled Temple. “In fact I feel a bit guilty at putting you to all this trouble.”

  “That’s perfectly all right,” Chester assured him. “I’ll tell them to get your car ready.”

  As soon as Chester had disappeared, Temple said quietly: “Wrap the cigarette-case in your handkerchief and put it in your handbag.”

  She looked down at the case on the table.

  “If it’s the fingerprints you’re after, Paul, I’m afraid I handled it—”

  “That’s all right,” he nodded. “I know exactly where the prints I want are to be found. Put it away, Steve.”

  Handling the case very gingerly, she stowed it away in her bag.

  “These fingerprints,” she said presently, “you don’t think they belong to Rex?”

  He shrugged.

  “Any prize offered?”

  “No, but seriously, Paul, who is Rex?”

  “Don’t be silly, Steve,” he smiled. “You know as well as I do that it’s Ricky! You’ve read your Edgar Wallace, and you ought to know that you can’t have a mysterious Chinese floating around without—”

  “I keep telling you he’s not Chinese!” interrupted Steve, laughing in spite of herself. “He’s a Siamese!”

  “Well, there you are!” he grinned. “He’s not even a Chinese!”

  But Steve could see that Temple was by no means as lightened as he would have had her believe. A tiny nerve near his left temple twitched spasmodically, and she knew this was a sign that he was extremely worried. He seemed to welcome the opportunity to light a cigarette. He slowly expelled a stream of smoke and murmured thoughtfully: “You know, it’s like working on a gigantic jigsaw, Steve, with half the pieces missing and the picture torn to shreds. I keep asking myself the same questions over and over again, in the light of every fresh bit of evidence. Why did Mrs. Trevelyan ask us to meet her at that place in Marshall House Terrace? If she paid Rex three thousand pounds, then where exactly did she get the money? Does Mr. Carl Lathom really believe that he suffered from hallucinations? And if they were not hallucinations, then who is the girl in brown?”

  “At any rate, she isn’t Mrs. Trevelyan,” interposed Steve.

  “Is she the same girl – the one who followed you that night? And then there’s the silver pencil belonging to Doctor Kohima.”

  “What’s that?” asked Steve.

  “A silver pencil bearing the initials C. K. – presumably for Charles Kohima – was found beside the body of James Barton. Curiously enough, while I was in the doctor’s office, he told Mrs. Trevelyan that he mislaid his silver pencil, the one with his initials on it.”

  “Good gracious!” exclaimed Steve. “That makes things look pretty black against Doctor Kohima.”

  “That’s just it – the whole thing’s too obvious. Rex isn’t the type of murderer to leave silver pencils lying around by accident.”

  “Then you think it was deliberate?”

  “I can’t be sure without knowing more facts. But I can’t help feeling very suspicious. It makes the jig-saw fit together much too easily.”

  “Jig-saws often do as one goes on,” Steve reminded him. “But remember you said that Rex would lay his plans very carefully for his next coup. This may be part of the plan.”

  “Yes,” nodded Temple, “on the face of that evidence, Sir Graham is almost certain to arrest the doctor, and maybe Mrs Trevelyan, too.”

  “Mr. Davis suspects Mrs. Trevelyan,” Steve informed him.

  “Davis does?”

  “Oh yes, he has quite a theory. The man’s mind seems to run upon crime and criminals every spare minute he has.”

  “How does he know Mrs. Trevelyan, anyway?”

  “It was mentioned in one paper – about the name being found on Norma Rice. Rex Bryant got the story somehow and did his best with it.”

  “Oh yes, I remember. All the same, I don’t quite know what to make of our Welsh friend. Does he really spend all his time reading detective novels?”

  “Seems he has a certain amount of business to transact.”

  Temple took the card Davis had given him and carelessly examined it. Obviously, it must be genuine, yet a commercial traveller’s job would be an ideal cloak for the activities of a person like Rex.

  Temple did not know quite what to make of Mr. Wilfred Davis.

  “This case seems so complicated,” Steve was saying, “that I am really beginning to wonder whether we shall ever get to the bottom of it. I’m half afraid that it will go into the Scotland Yard files with all the other unsolved murders – there have been nine so far this year, I was reading this morning.”

  “Don’t worry, Steve,” he smiled. “Something will turn up.”

  “That’s just it,” she retorted. “Something is always turning up. I have never known a case so full of surprises.”

  “Life’s full of surprises, darling,” he gently reminded her.”Take this soup! It says tomato soup on the menu, and it looks like tomato soup. But the question is, does it taste of tomatoes?”

  He stubbed out his cigarette and took a spoonful of soup. An expression of blank amazement swept over his face.

  “By Timothy, it does!” he exclaimed. T
hen he recovered and said with a smile: “There you are, you see. Didn’t I say life was full of surprises?”

  When they passed the lounge on their way upstairs a quarter of an hour later, they saw Wilfred Davis and Frank Chester, the manager, in close conversation. The little Welshman was expounding at some length in his typically Celtic fashion, and Chester was nodding politely and putting in an occasional word of agreement. When he caught sight of Temple and Steve, Chester excused himself and came over to them.

  “I had your cases brought down, Mr. Temple,” he said. “They’re in your car.”

  “Good,” said Temple. “We’ll just get our coats and see that we haven’t left anything behind.”

  “And the next time you visit us, I hope we shall have the pleasure of seeing you for some days at least,” said Chester, as they moved away.

  It was very dark when they started on their homeward journey, and there were a few stray patches of mist at intervals along the road, so they were unable to make the progress Temple would have liked, and he chafed impatiently as he dropped into second gear time after time.

  “I hope to goodness this doesn’t turn into a fog in the Thames Valley,” said Steve, straining her eyes to make out the road ahead.

  “Let’s not meet any more troubles,” he murmured grimly as he deftly steered the car past a heavy lorry. Switching on the dashboard light, he noted that it was already after nine-thirty, and he put his foot down on the accelerator as they came to a clear stretch of road.

  “Did you speak to Sir Graham on the ‘phone?” asked Steve presently.

  “No, it was Crane.”

  “’Was he as abrupt as ever?”

  “He’d had plenty to upset him,” said Temple.

  “I dare say. All the same, I don’t know quite what to make of Crane.”

  “He has an unfortunate manner as far as polite society is concerned,” smiled Temple. “Though I should imagine it has its advantage in dealing with the criminal classes.”

  Steve frowned pensively.

  “It’s not only his manner,” she said. “He always seems to have an air of mystery about him. I don’t know how it is, but I always get a feeling that he might be leading some sort of double life – that he might even—”

  “He might turn out to be Rex?” suggested Temple, switching off his headlights as a motor coach came towards them.

  Steve laughed without very much conviction.

  “But he couldn’t very well turn out to be Rex, now could he?” she insisted.

  “Why not?” he asked. “A man from Scotland Yard would be a pretty formidable master criminal. He could always keep one jump ahead with very little difficulty.”

  “Then you think that Crane might—”

  “I didn’t say so, Steve. At least, not in so many words! But here’s always a chance. Remember the inspector in that first case we tackled together soon after we met?”

  “Do I remember?” echoed Steve. “My heart was in my mouth for days on end! And if you think Crane is—well—suspicious, shouldn’t you have a word with Sir Graham?”

  Temple dexterously extracted a cigarette from his case, and Steve lit it for him.

  “No,” he said at length. “I think Sir Graham will have quite enough on his plate for the time being.”

  “But if Crane were an accomplice of Rex, you would be able to go straight to—”

  “To the fox’s lair?” he suggested. “No, I don’t think it would be quite as straightforward as that. All the same, I think we can keep a watchful eye on Inspector Crane.”

  With a stifled imprecation he reached over for the handbrake as they came unexpectedly into a patch of mist which slowed them down to a comparative crawl. As they emerged about five minutes later, he asked, quite casually: “Have you made up your mind about Mrs. Trevelyan yet, Steve?”

  She turned quickly and looked at him, but his face was immobile.

  “Why do you ask?” she demanded.

  “I thought a woman’s point of view might be useful. She’s a pretty complex character.”

  “She’s certainly a woman with a past in more senses than one, if that’s what you mean,” Steve nodded. “All the same, I like her. I feel there’s something human about her, even though there are times when she may not exactly tell the truth. I should say a lot of men have considered her very fascinating,” she added shrewdly.

  “I wonder who Mr. Trevelyan was?” he speculated. “Sounds rather like a penniless member of the Cornish aristocracy.”

  “What interests me more is her dark secret,” said Steve. “It must be pretty something drastic if she’s prepared to pay three thousand to keep it quiet.”

  “Unfortunately, that three thousand is only a first instalment. Blackmail always works that way. I think she realises that. She’s a clever woman, and she sees her only chance is to come in on our side and help to bring Rex to book. But there’s another complication somewhere, and she has to keep on playing for time. Of course, all this is only my theory . . .” His voice trailed away as a red lamp loomed up out of the darkness. Their headlamps picked up the figure of the man who held it. Temple stopped the car almost level with him.

  The man, who looked very much like a policeman in plain clothes, came round to Temple.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to make a detour, sir,” he said. There’s a bit of a hold-up farther on down the road.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Oh, nothing much. One of those big Army lorries bumped into a farm-cart and overturned when it skidded.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” demanded Steve anxiously.

  “No, ma’am—the driver had a bruise or two. But it’ll take an hour or so to get the lorry right side up. If you take the first lane on your right, then keep bearing left, you’ll be back on the main road in no time. Brings you out about a couple of miles farther on.”

  “Right,” nodded Temple. “Thanks for the tip.”

  He turned into the lane indicated, which immediately narrowed so that there was barely room for two fair-sized cars to pass each other. Again, he had to drop into second, and the high banks seemed to make the road darker than ever. The surface was very rough, and matters did not improve when they ran into another belt of fog.

  “Damn!” exclaimed Temple softly, and leaned forward to switch on the fog lamp, which sent out an orange beam that helped a little.

  “It’s a pretty long lane,” muttered Steve after they had jolted along in this fashion for over a mile.

  “Cheer up, darling. We ought to be back on the main road soon,” he said with an attempt to take a lighthearted view of the detour.

  Just then the mist cleared a little, and Steve suddenly clutched his arm.

  “Paul—stop! That rope!”

  “Get down, Steve!” he yelled, and grabbed the handbrake. They were only the length of the car from a steel rope which was stretched across the road between two trees. He managed to reduce the speed of the car to a mere crawl by the time the rope sliced into the windscreen, but they felt a considerable jolt. By this time they were both crouching on the floor, and escaped without any injury apart from the fact that Temple jarred his left wrist and Steve’s new hat was badly knocked out of shape. The engine stalled and for a moment there was complete silence.

  “Phew!” gasped Temple. “Are you okay, Steve?”

  She felt herself gingerly and slowly returned to the seat.

  “A bit shaken,” she said, “but no bones broken.” She took of the damaged hat and eyed it ruefully. “Oh well, it’s time I had a new one anyway,” she added.

  “Yes, you must have had it quite a fortnight!” he grinned, opening the car door and getting out to inspect the damage.

  The steel rope had forced the windscreen back through an angle of at least thirty degrees. It was going to be distinctly uncomfortable driving back to Town, unless they could get the windscreen repaired at a garage. Temple took out his torch and examined the rope, which had been very firmly secured to a tree on either sid
e of the road.

  “Lucky the fog slowed us down, Steve . . . and that you caught sight of the rope . . . If we’d smacked into it even at twenty—”

  Steve covered her face with her hands. Presently, she whispered: “Paul, whoever fixed that rope must have known we were due this way—”

  “Yes,” he nodded, “it was quite deliberate, of course. I expect the man with the lamp might know something about it.”

  “Then couldn’t we go back and see—”

  “Not much chance of finding him there now,” he replied. “All the same, it looks as if we shall have to go back. This rope is fastened pretty firmly, and I’ve nothing to cut it with. I’ll have to back the car till we come to a gateway or an opening of some sort. Are you sure you feel up to it now?”

  “Oh yes, I’m all right, Paul. We mustn’t lose any more time if we can help it.”

  “Righto then.” He climbed into the car and pressed the self-starter, which whirred for some seconds without producing any response from the engine.

  “H’m . . . not so good,” murmured Temple, groping in the back of the car in search of the handle. “It’s no use running the battery right down.”

  Suddenly, he straightened himself and listened intently.

  “I thought I heard something,” said Steve in a whisper.

  “So did I.”

  They sat and listened and presently heard a strange strangled moan which obviously came from someone in considerable pain.

  “Where is it?” cried Steve.

  “Over there, I think,” replied Temple curtly, nodding in the direction of one of the trees to which the rope was fastened. Steve took the torch from a side pocket in the car and quietly opened the door, his ears on the alert for the slightest sound. Once again, he heard the queer agonised gasp and unhesitatingly moved towards the tree. For a moment or two, his light revealed nothing, until the beam swung over to a neighbouring tree from which a dark object was dangling.

  He quickly pointed the torch downwards, but not before he had heard a cry of horror from Steve.

  “Stay where you are, Steve!” he ordered brusquely. “Don’t move from the car!” But as he went forward, he heard the car door open and presently the sound of Steve’s footsteps behind him. There was no time to argue, and without further ado he pushed his way through the hedge at the side of the road and crashed through the undergrowth towards his objective. Steve came up with him as he was looking up at the body of a man, whose feet were level with his shoulder.