‘Of course not,’ he told her gently. ‘But, by Timothy, I hope you’re not writing a sequel!’
Steve laughed. ‘No, darling, I’m not. I think Andrea Fortune had better retire as gracefully as possible.’
‘Yes, it might be an idea,’ approved Temple, swallowing the last piece of muffin.
Steve poked the fire, then turned on him again.
‘Paul, did you see Goldie – or rather, Granville – after you telephoned yesterday?’
‘Yes,’ replied Temple softly.
‘Why ! If you knew all there was to know—’
‘I realised that Lester Granville was the only man who could have impersonated von Zelton,’ said Temple slowly.
‘Then Granville murdered Gerald Mitchell?’
‘He did.’
‘Does Sir Graham know?’ demanded Steve.
Temple shook his head. ‘I haven’t told him – yet.’
‘Paul, what’s going to happen? What are you going to do?’
Temple did not answer at once. ‘Last night,’ he said quietly, ‘Granville told me the whole story. I don’t think anyone will ever realise what the child meant to him, Steve. He was determined to get Mitchell – no matter what might happen to himself.’
‘Paul, what are you going to do?’ repeated Steve, anxiously.
‘He talked about leaving for South America,’ her husband informed her.
‘But – aren’t you going to stop him?’ cried Steve, in alarm.
‘Last night, I begged him to stay and confess. I told him, quite honestly, that after the terrible happenings of the past three months it was almost impossible to say what might be the result.’
‘And if he doesn’t stay?’
‘If he doesn’t stay,’ repeated the novelist thoughtfully, ‘Bon voyage, Mr. Goldie!’ And Paul Temple shrugged his shoulders expressively.
‘I hope for his own peace of mind—’ began Steve, then stopped, as the faint strains of the piano filtered in from the next room.
Someone with a gentle, almost wistful touch was playing the familiar Liebestraum.
Temple clasped Steve’s hand, and they listened until the last melancholy note had faded into soft echoes. Then Temple looked up to see Pryce standing beside him.
‘What is it, Pryce?’
‘It’s the piano-tuner, sir,’ he said. ‘A Mr. Goldie. Mr. J. P. Goldie.’
FRANCIS DURBRIDGE
News of Paul Temple
Contents
CHAPTER I: The Stage Is Set
CHAPTER II: Concerning Z.4
CHAPTER III: Instructions for a Murder
CHAPTER IV: Appointment With Danger
CHAPTER V: In Which Mrs Moffat Receives a Visitor
CHAPTER VI: Introducing Z.4
CHAPTER I
The Stage is Set
1
‘Bryant! Where the devil is Bryant?’ Ralph Cosgrove, news editor of the Evening Post, replaced the telephone and repeated his question into the mouthpiece of the dictograph. A few seconds later the door opened and a resonant tenor announced: ‘Do I hear you calling me?’
‘Cut out the fooling and shut the door,’ snapped Cosgrove. ‘You should have been here hours ago. What the devil have you been doing?’
Rex Bryant came into the office and perched himself on the arm of the chair reserved for visitors. He was young, attractive, well dressed, and, oddly enough, did not wear a trilby on the back of his head. ‘I’ve been to a movie,’ announced Rex. ‘It was terrific. All about a newspaper. The editor got the scoop. The reporter got the girl. And the girl got the baby.’
There was an unpleasant glint in Cosgrove’s eye. ‘Unless you take the lead out of your pants you’ll get the sack!’ he barked. ‘Get down to Southampton and cover the Clipper story!’
Rex frowned. ‘Look here, Chief, I’m just about tired of meeting film stars.’
‘I’m not asking you to meet film stars. Maybe you’ve never heard of the Golden Clipper?’
‘Of course I have! New York to Southampton in twenty-four hours. Nice easy passage. Where’s the story?’
Ralph Cosgrove smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. ‘I don’t suppose you know by any chance who happens to be travelling on the Clipper?’
‘The Quintuplets?’ suggested Rex.
Cosgrove thoughtfully fingered a newspaper cutting he had picked up from among the pile of papers on his desk.
‘No, not the Quintuplets,’ he said softly. ‘Just Paul Temple. Mr and Mrs Temple, to be more precise.’
‘Are you sure of this?’ There was no mistaking the note of urgency in Rex Bryant’s voice.
‘Of course I’m sure. It was in last night’s Standard.’
‘Well, I’m damned!’
‘You’ll also be fired if you don’t get down to Southampton. We’ve been waiting for this story to break for weeks.’
‘But everybody knows why Temple is on his way home,’ protested Rex. ‘They’ve been rehearsing that new play of his. It’s due to open in a fortnight.’
‘That’s old stuff. Iris Archer in The First Lady Seaton.’
‘Yes. Only for some reason or other Iris Archer isn’t going to play the part.’
This was obviously news to Cosgrove and he raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘What’s the matter with Archer? Why isn’t she playing the part?’
‘I don’t know. Gibson had a chat with her last night. She talks a lot of nonsense about the part being unsuitable.’
Cosgrove nodded. ‘Well, get down to Southampton and see what Temple has to say about it.’
Rex wearily levered himself from the arm of the chair.
‘I’d sooner cover that new movie at the Empire,’ he grinned. ‘It’s all about an editor who took the wrong turning.’
‘Southampton!’
‘OK, Snow White! OK!’
Rex made a hasty yet dignified retreat.
Four hours later, his vermilion two-seater sports car was nosing its way through Southampton’s dock traffic, and he was wondering if there would be any other newspapermen present. There was nothing Rex hated more than mass interviews. However, knowing Temple and his wife in the days when they were both journalists was certainly a point in his favour. When the Golden Clipper bumped gently to a standstill, Rex had no difficulty in segregating Paul Temple and Steve from the crowds that thronged to see Hollywood’s latest film face, which, as usual, proved more than a little disappointing in its everyday proportions.
Over a drink in the buffet, Rex surveyed his old acquaintances with a quizzical stare. Temple, he decided, had hardly altered as far as features were concerned since the days when he was a penurious journalist. True, he must be quite a stone lighter, but that suited him.
Steve, who was always ready to talk ‘shop’ with Bryant or any of the other reporters, said quietly: ‘How’s the circulation, Rex?’
‘Not so good lately. Wrong time of year.’
‘It’s always the wrong time of year,’ put in Temple, with a twinkle in his eye.
‘They’re sending us out after all sorts of stories that the subs slaughter down to four lines on page eight,’ declared Rex moodily, ordering himself another whisky.
‘What exactly are you doing down at Southampton?’ demanded Steve curiously.
Rex splashed soda into his glass. ‘To be quite candid, I came down here to see your delightful husband,’ he grinned.
‘Things must certainly be in a bad way if I’m considered to be in the news,’ laughed Temple. ‘What’s it all about?’
Rex took a cigarette from his case and scratched a match. ‘The play, for one thing. You might as well give me all the dope about it. Be a sport, Temple – it isn’t as if the publicity will do the show any harm – or will it?’
‘By Timothy, you boys must be hard up for news,’ murmured Temple sympathetically.
‘There isn’t any story, Rex,’ added Steve wistfully. ‘If there was a story, you could have it like a shot, couldn’t he, darling?’
Te
mple nodded. ‘Like a shot,’ he corroborated.
‘But is Iris Archer leaving the cast, or isn’t she?’
Temple dived in his pocket and produced a crumpled Western Union Cable. ‘I got this just before we left New York; that’s all I know.’ He tossed the cable over to the reporter, who straightened it out and read:
‘Terribly sorry unable to play Lady Seaton stop will explain later stop lots of love Iris.’
‘And a very large full stop,’ added Temple ruefully.
Rex folded the paper and handed it back to the novelist. ‘I thought you wrote the play specially for Iris Archer.’
‘So I did.’
Rex wrinkled his forehead. ‘Then it seems funny that—’
‘Don’t worry him, Rex,’ advised Steve, who knew just how sore the point was with her husband.
‘But look here, I’ve got to have some sort of a story to take back to town!’
Temple and Steve regarded him innocently.
‘Hadn’t you better go and catch Sylvia Larone before she gets the train?’ suggested Steve. ‘You could ask her what she really thought of Hollywood.’
Rex ignored the suggestion. ‘Tell me your plans for the future,’ he said.
‘We’re going to Scotland for three weeks.’
‘The South of France, dear,’ Steve prompted gently.
‘Scotland,’ repeated Temple firmly.
‘The South of France.’
‘All right,’ chipped in Rex, eyeing them impatiently. ‘I’ll say Scotland and the South of France. Then what?’
Temple said quietly: ‘Well, I’ve promised my publishers a new novel for Christmas—’
Rex shifted impatiently on his high stool.
‘I’m not running the literary page,’ he said heavily. ‘I’ve got to go back to town with a story. Not a “puff” for a new novel.’
‘But we haven’t got a story, Rex. Nothing’s happened – nothing at all.’
Rex shook his head sadly. ‘All right,’ he murmured resignedly. ‘Tell me something about the trip – your personal reactions and all that sort of hot air. I’ll have to turn in a couple of “sticks” or they’ll murder me.’
Temple laughed. Then he caught sight of a distinguished-looking man who had just entered the buffet.
‘Here’s Doctor Steiner. He’ll tell you all about the trip – won’t you, Doctor?’
Temple introduced the newcomer.
‘It will be possible to get a train soon, Mr Temple?’ queried the doctor.
‘Why yes – it’s due almost any minute. Then I’m afraid we shall have to leave you. We go by road,’ said Temple.
‘Ach, it is sad to part so soon. It has been such a pleasant journey and a wonderful experience. Just look at my buttonhole – the carnation is quite fresh, and I bought it in New York.’
Rex Bryant was impressed with this small point. The doctor was obviously a man who noticed things.
‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me a sort of interview, sir,’ he barged in hastily. ‘Is this your first trip across the Atlantic?’
‘I should have warned you, Doctor, that Mr Bryant is a representative of the London Evening Post. One of our most respected publications,’ Temple added with a twinkle.
‘So,’ grunted Steiner. ‘A reporter? This England becomes more like New York every day. No, young man, this is not my first trip – I have been many times before.’
‘Have you any intention of visiting the other European countries, Doctor?’ asked Rex.
‘I do not know, my friend. That I shall decide later.’
‘H’m,’ murmured Rex thoughtfully, taking a grubby envelope and pencil from his inside pocket. ‘I didn’t quite get your name, sir?’
‘The name is Steiner,’ said the German in dignified tones. ‘Doctor Ludwig Steiner. Professor of Philosophy at the University of Philadelphia.’
‘What’s your interest in coming to Europe, Doctor?’ Rex paused significantly. ‘Have you an interest in politics or…?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘I am over here on holiday, my friend,’ he said. Then added as an afterthought: ‘Just a holiday.’
2
There was something both distinctive and rather strange about Iris Archer’s well-moulded features, smooth fair hair, limpid blue eyes and vibrating voice. ‘She’s always Iris Archer,’ her critics commented, and to some extent this criticism was justified, but they rather forgot that Iris owed her success to the fact that she was able to shape an indifferent part to her own individual personality. There was something mysterious, glamorous, and rather different about Iris Archer. Seeing her on the stage one could not help feeling that she led an exciting life, that some tall, distinguished young man (hair slightly grey at the temples) was perpetually in her dressing room waiting to take her to the Savoy grill.
Iris had suddenly appeared in the West End. Some said she had played small parts on Broadway, others declared that she had toured in an obscure concert party and had inherited a sum of money with which she had set herself up in London. Certainly her very early days were never mentioned in any interview, no matter how persistent the gossip writer became.
Though she always contrived to give her acquaintances the impression that she could afford very little time to trouble about clothes, Iris was always dressed in a simple but striking fashion that lingered just a shade too long in the masculine memory.
Paul Temple had been rather surprised to meet her at a cocktail party given by a comparatively unknown publisher. Temple was even more surprised to discover that she could discuss all the latest best-sellers with an intelligence that betokened not only wide reading but a very close observation of the many spheres of life.
And what had impressed him most of all was the fact that she had not begged him to write a play for her. Nevertheless, Temple had returned home determined to do so. The First Lady Seaton was the result. It had been shelved for over a year in view of other commitments, for Temple was determined that none but Iris Archer should play the leading part.
‘Lady Seaton’ was a queer and unusual character. Temple felt certain that, played by anyone but Iris, it would prove unsympathetic. Iris had just those qualities to bring ‘Lady Seaton’ to life; to make her a distinctive creation unlike any other heroine he could ever remember seeing on the English stage.
He had been more than a little taken aback by her cable and was still deeply puzzled by it. Nevertheless, they had been in their Mayfair flat for several days before Iris made her customary extravagant entrance.
‘Darling, how nice to see you again!’ As always, there was just the right inflection in Iris’ voice.
Paul Temple and Steve rose to welcome her.
‘Steve, my dear, you look marvellous!’ cried Iris, holding out both hands. ‘Doesn’t she look marvellous, Paul? Now do tell me about the trip, I’m simply dying to hear all about it. Did you feel frightened?’
‘A little,’ confessed Steve, who was not very much at home in the air.
‘My dear, I should have been petrified,’ said Iris. ‘The very thought of all that water makes me positively violent.’
She seated herself with a tiny sigh of content.
‘You look very fit, Iris,’ said Temple quietly, surveying her intently.
‘I’m not, darling. Feel awful at times.’
‘Won’t you take your things off, Iris?’ suggested Steve.
Iris smiled and nervously fingered the clasp of her fox cape.
‘No, I can’t stay very long, darling.’
‘What about a cocktail?’ suggested Temple.
‘Yes,’ decided Iris after a short pause. ‘Yes, I would rather like a drink, my sweet.’
Temple went across to the cocktail cabinet and consulted a slip on which a recipe was typed. He remembered that Iris had a favourite cocktail.
‘Paul, you got my cable?’ Iris asked presently.
‘Yes,’ replied Temple, ‘it was handed to me just as we were getting on the ’plane.’
‘Were you surprised?’
Temple carefully speared a cherry before answering.
‘Well, just a little.’ There was an awkward pause. ‘Iris, are you serious about this?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so serious in my life before,’ said Iris grimly.
‘But why?’ cried Steve in obvious surprise. ‘What’s the matter? Has Seaman been nasty about something?’ It was quite obvious that Steve was as anxious about the play as Temple himself.
‘No, no, it’s not that. He’s a swell producer,’ replied Iris hastily.
‘Is it money?’ asked Temple rather tentatively. ‘I thought we’d offered you a splendid contract. After all, we gave way to you over that picture business.’
Iris was somewhat at a loss for words.
‘I’ve been badly miscast, Paul,’ she said at last, but her tone was strangely unconvincing.
Temple could not help laughing.
‘But that’s ridiculous! You said yourself the part fitted you like a glove.’
Iris nodded. ‘That was six weeks ago,’ she added quietly. There was a disturbing note in her voice.
‘Aren’t you very well, Iris?’ queried Temple rather anxiously.
‘Not terribly,’ she confessed.
‘What are you going to do? Make a film?’
‘No,’ replied Iris uncertainly. ‘I’m—well, I’m going to the South of France for two months. When I get back I may start work again—I don’t know—yet…’
‘Are you going alone?’
‘Yes, quite alone. To a small place near St Maxime.’
Temple shrugged his shoulders and handed Iris her cocktail.
‘Well, I’m sorry about all this,’ he said, and forced a smile. ‘I suppose it can’t be helped.’
‘You’re very sweet about it,’ smiled Iris, her limpid blue eyes suddenly warm and friendly.
‘I suppose there isn’t a chance that you might change your mind about the play?’
Iris shook her head regretfully. ‘No. No, I’m afraid there isn’t, darling.’
‘Iris, do you mind if I tell you something quite frankly?’ said Temple suddenly. ‘Six months ago you wrote me a letter about the play. You said you thought it was well written, extremely amusing, and that the part of “Lady Seaton” was quite the best part offered you for many years.’
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