Sir Graham Forbes arrived for dinner, looking more worried than ever. Temple guessed that Lord Flexdale had once more been agitating for results. Although the death of Carol Reagan had not been given front-page publicity – the inquest had been held at short notice and only one reporter was present – Lord Flexdale had read the private reports and was pressing his subordinates for tangible results. Forbes said very little during dinner, though he commented favourably on Ricky’s cooking.
“Where did you pick up that boy of yours?” he asked Temple. “Appeared on the scene rather suddenly, didn’t he?”
“You’d better ask Steve,” smiled Temple. “She produced him out of the bag – all I have to do is pay his wages.”
“He makes very good coffee, too,” said Steve, as she rose to go and tell Ricky they were ready for it. Temple and Sir Graham made their way to the lounge and settled in armchairs on either side of the fire. Sir Graham lit his favourite pipe and puffed a huge cloud of smoke towards the fireplace.
“It was a great pity about the girl in brown, Temple,” he said at length. “A great pity. I was just running through Crane’s report before I came. Quite a mysterious affair, that. Pity she didn’t come to us sooner. Did you ever actually see her alive?”
Temple shook his head.
“Crane tells me she was quite well-known in the States – used to work with Jeff Myers. I read about him several times when he was with the F.B.I – one of their star men.”
“Yes,” said Temple, “I knew of Myers. Rather a queer bird, but he gets a lot of results. Not always by strictly legal means, but then one can’t blame him for that until one knows the circumstances.”
“No, I suppose not. All the same, it’s a pity this girl tried to take a leaf out of his book. That fanciful idea of hers, trailing people around and all that nonsense. It just doesn’t work out over here unless there’s police organisation behind it. Have you any theory as to what happened that night she came to see you here?”
“I don’t know,” Temple confessed. “But she obviously had something pretty important to tell me.”
“Any idea what it was?”
“Yes,” replied Temple slowly. “I think perhaps I have, Sir Graham.”
Sir Graham sat up in his chair and began to look interested.
“But first of all,” continued Temple, “I want you to take a look at this letter that came by first post this morning. Don’t let Steve see it if she comes in.” He passed over the envelope.
Forbes took out his reading glasses and opened the letter.
“It’s from Rex!” he ejaculated in a startled voice.
“Yes, he seems to have got round to me at last,” said Temple calmly.
Forbes started to read.
If you value your life, Mr. Temple, stop interfering! This is my first and last warning. Rex.
“Short and to the point,” smiled Temple. Forbes glanced at the envelope.
“Posted in Hampstead, I see,” he commented.
“Yes. But it was typed on the usual machine – the one at Canterbury.”
“That’s a very queer set-up down there,” mused Sir Graham. “I’m glad you decided to tell me why you went in the first place, but I still can’t make up my mind as to whether it was a good idea sending your friend down there.”
“You needn’t have any qualms, not as far as Leo Brent is concerned,” Temple assured him. “He knows his way around.”
“’M,” murmured Sir Graham somewhat sceptically. “When did he go down?”
“The day before yesterday.”
Sir Graham considered this thoughtfully for a few moments, then said:
“I have a feeling I ought to send someone reliable from the Yard – Bradley or Crane perhaps. You see, Temple, if this hotel really is Rex’s headquarters, he may have quite an organisation there, and your one man couldn’t possibly cope with it.”
“Please don’t do anything yet,” begged Temple. “I’m taking this chance with Brent because I want to catch them off their guard if possible. Then if there should be a chance of running Rex to earth, Leo will give us the tip and we can concentrate on Canterbury right away. But if Rex and Co. catch sight of a man who looks the least bit like a police officer, well they’ll just transfer their headquarters over-night, and we’ll have the devil of a job to track ‘em down again.”
“There may be something in that,” Forbes conceded. “Have you heard from this man of yours?”
“Yes – he ‘phoned this morning.”
“Bit risky, isn’t it? I mean, how d’you know the wires aren’t tapped?”
“He goes to a public call-box.”
“And what’s he got to say? Anything happening?”
“Not yet. He seemed a bit dubious, as a matter of fact. Everything appeared so normal at the hotel, he found it hard to believe there could be anything underhand going on there.”
Just then Steve came in with the coffee, and the conversation became general. Presently, the telephone rang, and Temple glanced quickly at his watch.
“That’s probably Brent,” he announced. “If you’d like to listen on the extension, Sir Graham, it’s in the study.”
Steve rose to show him the way, but he urged her to sit down again, and went out quietly as Temple lifted the receiver.
“Hello, Paul,” said a distant voice that was somewhat indistinct.
“That you, Leo?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Well, how’s things?”
“Pretty dull,” was the laconic reply. “Say, don’t think I’m fussy, Paul, but does anything ever happen down here?”
“You sound rather pessimistic,” replied Temple. “Even more so than this morning.”
“Yeah, there’s been quite a deep depression set in around here since this morning. This place gives me the willies.”
“You’ve seen our friend?” asked Temple.
“Sure. I’ve been tailing him night and day. But he doesn’t seem to do anything except play golf and run the hotel. Say, Paul, are you sure you’re not barking up the wrong tree?”
“Quite sure,” replied Temple positively. “All the same, maybe you’d better come back to Town, and I’ll make some other arrangements.”
“Suits me,” was the prompt reply. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Give you a ring when I arrive. Good night, Paul.”
There was a very thoughtful expression on Temple’s face as he replaced the receiver. Steve noticed it at once.
“What’s the matter, darling?” she asked quickly. “Has anything gone wrong?” The door opened and Forbes came in.
He said: “I’m afraid I’m not very impressed by your friend Brent, Temple.”
“That,” murmured Temple, “was not my friend Brent.” He spoke slowly, and his thoughts were obviously elsewhere.
“Here, what’s this, Temple?” protested Forbes. “He said he was Brent, and he certainly had an American accent.”
“That man wasn’t Leo Brent,” repeated Temple, his voice becoming rather more tense.
“Well, what’s going on?” asked Forbes in a puzzled tone. “If it wasn’t Brent, who the devil was it?”
“I don’t know. But I’m sure it wasn’t Leo.”
“What makes you so certain, darling?” demanded Steve curiously.
“Because he kept calling me Paul. Leo never does that. Right from the first day I knew him, he has always called me Temple.”
Forbes ventured a mild protest that Temple might be mistaken, but his host waved it aside.
“Steve, tell Ricky to pack me a bag right away,” he continued urgently.
“You—you don’t mean you’re going to Canterbury?” queried Forbes incredulously.
“I certainly do, Sir Graham.”
“But surely it isn’t as important as all that. I mean, you’ve no definite proof.”
“I’m sorry to disagree, Sir Graham,” said Temple, making for the door, “but I consider it a matter of life and death!”
An hour later, Temple and Steve were
through the outer suburbs and heading for Canterbury at fifty miles an hour.
“I’m afraid Sir Graham thinks this trip rather childish,” said Steve. “And it was rather rude of us, walking out on him.”
“But we left him the whisky and Ricky for company,” her husband pointed out, straining his eyes to discern the road ahead.
“I hope it doesn’t turn out to be a wild-goose chase after all,” said Steve.
“In a way, I should be relieved if it did.”
“But Sir Graham seemed to think—”
“Sir Graham is very tired, darling. This case has worn him down a lot, and he isn’t quite as quick on the uptake at this time in the evening as he used to be. That’s why I didn’t suggest he should come with us. We can always telephone him if we need help. Besides, a whole gang of us might have aroused suspicion – at least more than just the two of us.”
When they arrived at the Royal Falcon, the receptionist gave them the key to the room which Temple had reserved on the telephone before they started. However, when Temple asked if he could see Mr. Chester, the clerk replied rather surprisingly that he was on holiday, having departed that afternoon, and would be away for a few days.
They had just turned to follow the porter to their room when they encountered the familiar stocky figure of Wilfred Davis descending the stairs.
“Why, hallo, Mr. Temple – Mrs. Temple, too – how nice to see you again,” he said. But his voice and manner were rather more subdued than usual. His suit looked somewhat untidy and he was badly needing a shave.
“I thought we might bump into you,” said Temple, leaning against the banisters.
“Yes, of course,” smiled Steve. “You told us you were coming down here again soon the last time we saw you.”
She hesitated, then asked: “Have you been ill, Mr. Davis?”
“Yes,” replied Davis quietly. “I’m afraid I have been a bit under the weather, as the saying goes.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Steve.
“But it’s nice to see you down here,” said Davis, brightening perceptibly.
He hesitated for a moment, then asked: “Will you be staying long?”
“Just for one night, I think,” replied Temple quietly, watching the Welshman’s face.
“I see,” he murmured. “We may meet tomorrow morning at breakfast, perhaps.”
“By all means,” smiled Temple. “We’re in number thirty-two, if you should want to find us.”
Davis acknowledged the information with a polite nod, and wished them good night.
Temple and Steve found their room without much difficulty. As soon as they were inside, Temple closed the door and said in a low voice: “Wait here, Steve, till the boy comes with the cases. I shan’t be long.”
“Where are you going?” she demanded anxiously.
“Down to Leo’s room. It’s on the next floor.”
“You’ve got the number?”
“Yes—fourteen. I shouldn’t be more than five minutes at the very outside.”
“But the odds are that he won’t be there.”
“Yes, I dare say. But I’ve got to find out.”
“You mean whether he’s left a message of some sort?”
“That’s right—remember—it’s all done by mirrors!”
“Well, I’m glad we came, anyway,” said Steve. “You were quite right, of course, darling. That couldn’t have been Leo Brent on the ‘phone. If it had been, he would have told you about Chester going away.”
“That’s true,” he nodded. “Shan’t be long.”
He went out quickly and along the corridor. When he came to Brent’s room, he found the door locked, but it presented few difficulties, for it was a Yale lock, and he opened it with a strip of mica which he carried for such emergencies. After looking round cautiously to see if he were observed, Temple went in and shut the door. Two minutes later he was back in his own room.
Steve was very startled as he opened the door, but recovered at once.
“Did you get anything?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied, slightly out of breath, “there was a note behind the mirror. I haven’t stopped to read it yet.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“I don’t think so. Not many people about just now.”
He tore open the rather grimy envelope which he had found tucked away behind the mirror, where it had picked up a certain amount of dust.
The note had been written very hastily in pencil and it took Temple a little time to decipher the somewhat cryptic scrawl. It said:
Dear Temple,
This is just in case I can’t ‘phone you tonight, as arranged, things having brisked up a bit since this morning’s call. I caught sight of Chester leaving the hotel this morning, and followed him to an unpleasant spot called Claywood Mill. This mill is supposed to be derelict, and it’s certainly no place for a picnic! Anyhow, I have a pretty good idea that it’s here that Chester meets Rex. The mill is about sixteen miles from Faversham and four from Moondale. It stands by the side of a wood near the cross-roads; you can’t miss it. I overheard Chester tell the receptionist that he would be out again this afternoon, so I shall be on the trail. I don’t think he’s caught sight of me yet. Keep your fingers crossed!
Leo.
Temple passed the paper over to Steve, who tried to decipher the scrawl.
“Claywood Mill,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Steve, d’you remember that night we found Spider Williams?”
“You mean down that awful lane?”
“That’s right. Before we got back on to the main road we passed a wood on the left. The mist cleared a bit I remember, and there was a moon just then. I distinctly recall seeing a very ancient mill with a water wheel.”
“Well, if Leo went to the mill this afternoon, he should have been back hours ago,” said Steve. “I asked the porter when he brought the luggage if he’s seen anything of Mr. Brent, and he said he went out soon after lunch and hadn’t returned. So it looks—”
“It does!” said Temple grimly. “Is the torch in the side pocket of the car?”
“Yes, I put it there myself – and a spare battery.”
“Good. Then you’d better get your coat on, Steve. And change into a thicker pair of shoes if you’ve brought some.”
“Yes, of course. But, Paul—where are we going?”
“Where d’you think we’re going?” he retorted grimly.
“To Claywood Mill!”
It was a brilliant moonlight night when they set out. They were both muffled in overcoats and scarves for the night was frosty. Steve could not repress a shudder as they turned down the lane and passed the spot where they had found Spider Williams.
Temple pulled up in the shadow of some trees which overhung the road. Away to the left they could see the derelict mill silhouetted in the moonlight, and even an unimaginative person might have considered its appearance somewhat uninviting. As they left the car, a church clock was striking midnight, and away in the distance a dog was howling at the moon.
They discovered a rough cart track leading in the direction of the mill, but it was very muddy, so they walked silently on the grass. Temple carried his torch but did not use it, as he did not wish to risk attracting any attention from a possible occupant of the mill. Presently, they could see the tumbledown structure quite distinctly, and then they got a view of the old water wheel which the waters of the small stream now swept past in undisturbed silence. It was the sort of scene favoured by water-colour artists on fine summer days, but on a winter’s night it had an eerie aspect to which few visitors could have remained impervious.
“I can’t imagine anyone living here,” whispered Steve with a slight shudder.
“It looks as if no one has for quite a while.”
When they came up to the mill, they found that to reach the door they had to cross a decrepit wooden bridge which looked as if it might collapse beneath the next flood. Temple cautiously placed a foot on it to see if it wou
ld take his weight.
“Are you sure it’s safe, Paul?” asked Steve nervously.
“Well, if the worst comes to the worst, we shall only get a wetting,” he replied. “I should imagine the water isn’t more than four feet deep at the most.”
He extended a hand to her, for the bridge had no handrail of any description. A step at a time they cautiously made their way over, and eventually reached the other side,
“Thank goodness for that!” exclaimed Steve with a tiny sigh of relief.
“Don’t look so pleased,” he murmured. “We’ve still got to get back!”
They looked up at the gaunt structure which now seemed to tower above them, and they walked slowly round it. When they came to the water-wheel, Temple climbed up on to the little platform at the side of it.
“Looks as if it hasn’t been used for centuries,” Steve commented.
“I’m not so sure about that,” he replied, leaning over and examining the wheel closely. Testing his foothold, he edged his way towards the centre, and suddenly producing his torch, shielded the light and focused it beneath his gloved hand.
“This wheel has been used quite recently,” he told Steve when he returned. “There’s oil right across the crankshaft.”
“But what on earth could it have been used for?” demanded Steve in a puzzled tone.
“That’s one of the things we have to find out. There seems to be a crude sort of pump at the end of the platform there, the pipe leads inside—”
“Perhaps that’s how the previous tenant got his water supply,” Steve suggested as they moved towards the door.
“Well, it seems about time we took a look inside,” said Temple, lifting the latch. At first he thought the door was locked, but it yielded slightly under pressure, and he realised that it was badly warped by the damp.
He managed to open it about a foot, and they squeezed in. The atmosphere was musty, and the moonlight filtering through a small grimy window showed a bare room which they found surprisingly small. There was no furniture of any sort, but there was a pile of sacks in one corner, a couple of boxes in another and a rough ladder which presumably led to a loft or upstairs room. As they walked in there was a tiny scuffling sound and Steve gripped her husband’s arm tightly. They stood for a moment or two to get their bearings. Temple grasped his torch in his left hand and his right was closed over his revolver. But he did not use the torch immediately.
Send for Paul Temple Again! Page 21