Send for Paul Temple Again!

by Francis Durbridge

  “I told you to stay in the car, Steve,” he snapped.

  “What are you going to do, Paul?” she cried breathlessly.

  He shone his torch along the branch of the tree to which the body was fastened, and noticed that the man’s weight had already fractured it near the trunk.

  “I’ll try to break down that bough. It’ll be quicker,” he decided at once. “Hold the torch, Steve.” He ran to the end of the branch, leapt up and caught it. Then he swung his feet off the ground and presently there was a sound of splintering wood. In another moment the branch came crashing to the ground. Temple rushed to lift it clear of the man’s body.

  “Get the flask of brandy out of my suitcase in the back of the car,” he called to Steve, who scrambled back through the hedge to the further detriment of her stockings. When she returned, she found that he had managed to straighten out the man, who had fallen in a crumpled heap, and was busily applying artificial respiration.

  She gave him the flask, and directed the beam of the torch upon the man on the ground.

  ‘’Paul!” she cried, suddenly recognising the distorted features. This is the man we met in the Twisted Keys, the man you spoke to about the car—”

  “That’s right,” he agreed somewhat breathlessly. “It’s Spider Williams.”

  Then Steve remembered that she had some particularly strong smelling-salts in her bag and hurried back to get them. Temple loosened the rope from round Williams’ throat and began to massage it. He judged that it would be no use trying to make him swallow anything just yet. From time to time, Williams moaned feebly. His breath came in spasmodical gasps. Then after a minute or two he opened his eyes . . .

  “Take it easy, Spider,” whispered Temple encouragingly.

  “It’s you, Mr. Temple!” said Spider weakly. “I—I heard a car—and I thought—then it all went black—”

  “Don’t worry about that now, Spider. Lie back and try to breathe easily.”

  “But I got to tell you, Mr. Temple. I came down here with the money. I did exactly as I was told . . . then at the last minute—”

  “Who sent you down here?” asked Temple.

  “Lord Stanwyck. He offered me two hundred quid to bring the money . . . it looked easy . . .” His voice trailed away, but he lifted his head with a nervous start as Steve approached.

  “It’s all right,” Temple reassured him. “It’s only my wife.”

  He took the smelling-salts from Steve, lifted the stopper and held the bottle under Williams’ nose. The little man continued to gasp, but the colour had drained from his face.

  “Take your time, Spider,” said Temple, still massaging the badly bruised throat.

  “You were just in time, Mr. Temple,” the little man whispered. “Another two minutes and I’d have been a goner!”

  “Don’t think about it,” repeated Temple, unscrewing the top of the brandy flask Steve had brought.

  “I’ll be all right, Mr. Temple, once I can get on my feet.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort. Have a drink of this brandy and then we’ll carry you down to the car.” He passed the flask over to Spider, lifting his head and holding an arm round his shoulders. The little man took the flask eagerly and tilted it into his mouth.

  A second later he gave a sudden cry of anguish and dropped the flask. Temple was so startled that he let Spider’s head fall back, and was horrified to see the features contorted in excruciating agony.

  “Paul! What’s wrong?” cried Steve.

  “I don’t know,” he snapped, looking down at Spider in complete mystification.

  “Perhaps his throat is injured internally. Maybe we shouldn’t have given him spirits . . . oh, look—” She indicated the body of Spider Williams which had doubled in its agony, and now lay very still.

  “He’s dead!” she cried hysterically. “We shouldn’t have given him brandy—”

  “Brandy?” echoed Temple, a thought striking him. He picked up the flask and sniffed it cautiously.

  “My God! Cyanide!” he murmured softly.

  Chapter VIII

  CARL LATHOM IS PERTURBED

  At ten o’clock the next morning, the Assistant Commissioner was holding an informal conference in his office overlooking the Embankment. It was a pleasant, sunny morning, and the sounds of traffic came up from the road below, while there was a constant stream of shipping up and down the river, slowly lowering their funnels to negotiate the bridge at Charing Cross. In fact, a casual observer might have been forgiven for thinking that all was very well with the world.

  But Forbes was pacing up and down the office with the distracted air of a statesman facing yet another European crisis. Crane sat bolt upright on a chair, looking very irritable as if he were chafing at some delay. The calmest person present, to all outward appearances, was Paul Temple, who was perched on a corner of the Commissioner’s desk, slowly smoking a cigarette and throwing in an occasional remark when Forbes’ harangue dried up. An onlooker would have found it hard to believe that Temple had enjoyed exactly three hours sleep on the previous night.

  “It’s not a bit of use arguing, Crane,” Sir Graham barked emphatically. “You saw exactly what happened.”

  “Yes, we know what happened,” replied Crane irritably, “but the point is what the devil are we going to do about it?”

  Temple knocked the ash from the end of his cigarette.

  “There’s only one thing we can do in my opinion,” he announced.

  “And that is?” asked Forbes, turning on him suddenly.

  “Sit tight,” replied Temple simply.

  Forbes struck his fist into the palm of his other hand.

  “It’s all very well your saying sit tight, Temple,” he snorted. “You’ve no idea what I’m up against here at the Yard. I had Lord Flexdale on the ‘phone first thing. He is threatening to make another of his damned broadcasts to the nation.”

  Temple could not restrain a smile, then after a moment he said: “You still haven’t found the bullet that killed Barton?”

  Forbes shook his head.

  “No sign of a revolver either.”

  “And you say the murder took place in his office – at Overland Airways?”

  “That’s so. His secretary happened to come back for some papers late in the evening, and found him.”

  Temple thoughtfully stubbed out his cigarette.

  “Didn’t I read something about this new office building of Overland Airways a little time back?”

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” nodded Forbes. “It’s all prefabricated, you know, almost built overnight – the very last word—”

  “And if I remember,” went on Temple, “it was constructed – windows as well – from a new plastic, discovered during the war, that happens to be bullet-proof.”

  “What are you getting at, Temple?” asked Sir Graham curiously.

  “Well,” murmured Temple, “it’s rather difficult for me to theorise without seeing the place, but the murderer might have shot Barton, and as the bullet could not penetrate the walls or windows, he should have been able to retrieve it.”

  “H’mph!” grunted Forbes. “I suppose it is possible.”

  “Not that it gets us very far,” put in Crane.

  “Of course not,” smiled Temple. “But it does help to dispose of the impression that Rex’s powers verge on the uncanny.”

  “Oh, as to that—” Forbes was beginning scornfully, when the door opened and revealed the rubicund features of a middle-aged sergeant.

  “What is it, Smith?” snapped Sir Graham, annoyed at the interruption.

  “Begging your pardon, sir. I heard that Mr. Temple was here, and I thought he would like to see the report on the cigarette-case he sent round last night.”

  “Any good, Sergeant?” asked Temple.

  “Oh yes,” nodded Smith, looking very pleased with himself. “That was a lovely print you got, Mr. Temple. It came up a treat.”

  Well,” snapped Forbes, “have you checked it?�
��

  “To be sure, sir,” replied Smith, quite unruffled. “It’s in the record all right.” He paused for a moment, then inquired, “And what did you say the gentleman calls himself nowadays, Mr. Temple?”

  “He goes by the name of Chester—Frank Chester. He’s manager of the Royal Falcon Hotel at Canterbury.” “Imagine that now!” exclaimed Smith. “And they say crime doesn’t pay!”

  “That’ll do, Sergeant,” snapped Forbes. What do the records say?”

  “This print,” began Smith impressively, “belongs to a man named Michael David Richard Mulberry. Served a term in ‘34 for robbery with violence—came out in ‘36—back again in ‘38 for a similar offence—released in ‘42. Since then we’ve lost track of him – some talk of his having got away to America. Simpson says he thinks he was suspected of being mixed up in a big black market case, but he can’t be certain. No conviction against him in that respect, anyway.”

  “I see,” nodded Temple. “This is most interesting, Sergeant. Thanks for all the trouble you’ve taken.”

  “Not at all, sir. A pleasure to work on a print like that. Wish they were all as clear.”

  When the sergeant had gone, Crane turned and said: “Well, there you are, Temple. You can see where the cyanide came from. Chester put it in the flask while you and Mrs. Temple were having dinner.”

  “Seems plain enough,” agreed Forbes. “He felt sure that if the rope across the road didn’t quite do the trick, you’d be pretty badly shaken and sample the brandy.”

  “On the face of it, it seemed a fairly safe bet too,” agreed Temple. “I was just going to suggest a nip when we heard Spider moaning.”

  “You’ve had a damned lucky escape, Temple,” said Forbes quietly. “But it was a pity about Spider Williams – another two minutes and he could have told us practically all we want to know.”

  “I wonder,” mused Temple.

  “But you said yourself the fellow claimed to have seen Rex.”

  “He saw someone, certainly. But we’re not to know that it was not just another of Rex’s accomplices – and he seems to have plenty of them – voluntary and otherwise!”

  Crane reached for the telephone.

  “I reckon it’s about time we acted.” He asked for a number, then said curtly: “Stevens? Get a warrant for the arrest of Michael David Richard Mulberry, alias Frank Chester—”

  “Wait!” said Temple.

  “All right—hold it!” snapped Crane into the telephone and slammed down the receiver. “Well?” he said challengingly.

  “I wouldn’t do that, Inspector, not just at the moment,” said Temple in a soothing tone. “After all, we’re not interested in Mr. Mulberry, are we? The person we are after is Rex. Once we get Rex, the others fall into our lap.”

  “But supposing Mulberry or Chester or whatever his name is turns out to be Rex?” cried Crane in some annoyance.

  “That,” replied Temple with a faint smile, “would be most intriguing – in fact, it would involve supernatural power on the part of Mr. Mulberry.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Crane.

  Temple lighted another cigarette.

  “Just what I say, Inspector. It would mean one man being in two places at the same time.”

  “But I don’t see how—” broke in Crane.

  Temple held up his hand and started to explain.

  “Three days ago,” he said, “Lord Stanwyck received a letter from Rex demanding four thousand pounds, with orders to deliver the money personally last night at a small place called Lenford. He decided to pay up, but instead of going himself he sent Spider Williams. When we found Spider, presumably Rex had just left him. Yet Steve and I had seen Chester at the Royal Falcon well over half an hour previously.”

  “He might have passed you on the road,” Crane pointed out.

  Temple shook his head.

  “He might have, but he didn’t. Nothing passed us.”

  “He could have taken a short cut maybe.”

  “I don’t think so, Inspector. In any case, there were patches of fog which would have held him up just as they did us. And there’s another interesting point, Inspector, that doesn’t seem to have entered your calculations.”

  “Oh?” said Crane suspiciously.

  “It doesn’t necessarily follow that Chester put the cyanide in the flask,” said Temple slowly. “So I wouldn’t want you to make an arrest you couldn’t substantiate. Remember, there were no fingerprints on that flask except mine and Steve’s.”

  “The fellow wore gloves, of course,” growled Crane. “Anyhow, who else could have done it except Chester?”

  “Wilfred Davis,” said Temple quietly.

  “Good lord!” ejaculated Forbes softly. “I’d forgotten about him. Who the devil is this little Welsh fellow, anyway?”

  “I told you,” replied Temple. “He’s a commercial traveller, and a student of criminology in his spare time.”

  Crane sniffed. “Sounds fishy to me,” he ventured.

  “So you see, Inspector, it would be a trifle unpleasant if you got yourself mixed up in a case of wrongful arrest.”

  “You’re right there, Temple,” agreed Forbes, walking over to the window and pensively watching a tug churn its way under the bridge. “I think we can afford to wait in this Chester business, Crane,” he decided. “Better telephone the local chief to have him kept under observation – report by ‘phone at once if they notice anything unusual.”

  “Very good, sir,” nodded Crane, and gave the instructions over the telephone. He was just replacing the receiver when the dictograph buzzed and a voice announced: “Doctor Kohima to see you, sir.”

  Forbes went over and pressed the switch.

  “Bring him up right away,” he ordered.

  Temple looked from Crane to Forbes for a moment, slightly puzzled by this new move, then asked:

  “Did you send for Doctor Kohima, Sir Graham?”

  “I did,” put in Crane.

  “Any special reason?”

  “Well,” replied Crane bluntly, “for one thing, I want to make sure about that pencil – I want to be quite certain it belongs to Doctor Kohima.”

  “Then you didn’t believe me last night when I told you on the ‘phone that—”

  “It isn’t a question of not believing you, Mr. Temple,” interrupted Crane. “We’ve got to check every detail.”

  “Of course, Inspector,” said Temple politely. “I quite understand.” At that the door opened, and the doctor came in. He was obviously a little surprised to see Temple, whom he nevertheless greeted very affably, as if it were a pleasant surprise. Temple introduced the others.

  Forbes invited the doctor to sit in the most comfortable armchair reserved for visitors. Then he nodded to Crane, who began: “We’re very sorry to drag you down here, Doctor, but the fact is we are hoping you might be of some considerable help to us.”

  Kohima inclined his head politely.

  “This sounds interesting,” he murmured. “Are you referring to my professional services? Because if it is a question of using—”

  “No, no,” interposed Crane. “This is quite another matter. A personal matter relating to yourself. I understand that you recently lost a silver pencil bearing your initials.” Kohima looked up in some surprise.

  “Why, yes,” he admitted. “How did you—” Then his expression changed. “But of course – Mr. Temple was there when I mentioned it to my secretary.”

  “That’s true,” nodded Temple. “But I didn’t ask the question, you know, Doctor.”

  Kohima looked slightly puzzled for a moment, and seemed to be about to make some remark when Crane broke in once more: “When did you lose the pencil?”

  The doctor considered for a moment, then said: “Well, I first realised that it had disappeared yesterday morning. I am quite sure I had it the night before last – yes, absolutely positive, because I remember taking it out of my pocket to mark a passage in a new text-book.”

  He paused and a flick
er of amusement spread over his handsome features.

  “But, Inspector, you surely did not get me down here just to talk about a missing silver pencil? I had not even considered reporting the loss at my local police station.”

  Crane fumbled in his pocket and said abruptly:

  “Is this your pencil?”

  A silver pencil lay in the palm of his hand.

  The doctor turned over the pencil by the broad end, looked at the initials for a moment, then calmly shook his head.

  “No,” he replied in an even tone. “That is not my pencil.”

  “It isn’t?” gasped Crane, open-mouthed.

  Once more the doctor shook his head.

  “You’re quite sure?” demanded Forbes incredulously.

  “Quite,” was the cool reply.

  Temple was the only one of the three who showed no sign of surprise. He leaned over and pointed to the end of the pencil. “These are your initials, I believe, Doctor,” he murmured imperturbably.

  “Oh yes,” agreed Kohima quite readily. “But it is not my pencil, Mr. Temple.”

  He rested his hands on the silver knob of his walking-stick and looked each speaker straight in the eyes as he answered their questions. Temple was secretly amused to note the complete bewilderment of Crane and Forbes.

  “You really mean to tell us that this is not your pencil?” reiterated Forbes deliberately.

  Kohima looked round the little group.

  “I admit my pencil was worth a few pounds, but surely you are rather exaggerating its importance. I fail to see how—”

  “The point is, Doctor Kohima,” interrupted Crane, “that this pencil was discovered under rather exceptional circumstances.”

  “Oh, I see,” murmured the doctor slowly. “Am I permitted to know where it was found?”