Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘Just a minute, Mrs Moffat,’ said Temple, ‘I think that clock is five minutes fast.’

  With an impatient exclamation, she sat down again. Even as she did so the doorbell rang.

  ‘There’s someone else,’ hissed Forbes.

  Steve peered eagerly through the tiny window.

  ‘Oh, it’s only Mrs Weston,’ she announced in disappointed tones.

  ‘Now what the devil does she want?’ snarled Forbes, who was rather anxious that none of the usual customers should complicate matters by being present in the shop when Z.4 appeared.

  Mrs Moffat went into the shop and turned up the oil lamp, which was not quite equal to lighting the gloomy interior.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Moffat.’ Mrs Weston was dressed as she had been when Steve had spoken to her at the “Royal Gate”.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Weston. Shocking weather we’re havin’.’

  ‘Ay, I can’t remember a worse winter than this, and that’s the truth,’ replied Mrs Weston, unfastening the top button of her coat. ‘We seem to have had nothing but rain since August.’ She appeared to be slightly out of breath, and leaned on the counter for a minute to recover herself.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your husband – it must have been an awful shock to ye,’ sympathised Mrs Moffat.

  Mrs Weston sighed.

  ‘I don’t suppose anyone will ever know just how much I miss him, Mrs Moffat,’ she replied with emotion in her voice.

  Mrs Moffat nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Mrs Weston, seeming to pull herself together. ‘Now what was it I came in for? Really, my memory’s gone from bad to worse. Oh, I remember. I was wondering if you had some sort of a suitcase I could borrow. I’ve only got one of those old-fashioned trunks, and I’m going down to my married sister’s for a few days. I thought the change might take my mind off things.’

  ‘Yes, I think I can help ye,’ said Mrs Moffat. ‘You wouldn’t be wanting to take the case straight away, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh no, there’s no great hurry.’

  ‘Then I’ll have the boy call round in the morning with it.’

  ‘That would do nicely,’ Mrs Weston agreed.

  ‘Is it a long journey ye’ll be making?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a tidy way. Rotherham. It’s near Sheffield, ye know. Have ye ever been to Rotherham?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Moffat, ‘I’m afraid I haven’t. There aren’t many places I have been to, Mrs Weston, and that’s the truth. Often thought I’d like to travel, though – providing, of course, I had the time and money. Now what was it Shakespeare said about travellers?’

  Mrs Moffat almost smiled as she spoke the familiar words. Well, they had insisted on it! But to think that a harmless North Country body like Mrs Weston could possibly…

  Suddenly she realised that Mrs Weston was speaking.

  A very different Mrs Weston.

  Her features had tautened, her voice was cold and relentless.

  ‘Shakespeare said: “Travellers ne’er did lie, though fools at home condemn ’em”!’

  Deliberately she repeated the words, until Mrs Moffat’s eyes were almost starting out of her head. She stood transfixed, unable to move or speak.

  Suddenly the door at the back was flung open and Paul Temple stood framed in the doorway. He was staring at Mrs Weston.

  She recoiled a step, and hastily fumbled in her bag.

  ‘Drop that bag, Mrs Weston!’ said Temple sharply.

  Mrs Weston did not speak. Her usually ruddy features were blanched, her lips drawn to a thin line. The handbag dropped onto the stone floor.

  ‘Come on, Forbes, what are you waiting for?’ called Temple over his shoulder.

  ‘But, Temple, you can’t mean that Mrs Weston…’ The Chief Commissioner was obviously perplexed. Temple nodded.

  ‘Permit me to introduce you to the leader of the greatest espionage organisation in Europe,’ he said. ‘Z.4!’

  7

  Cosgrove

  ‘Evening Post’

  London.

  Your blue-eyed boy has turned up trumps again stop arrive Euston midnight stop don’t worry about banners bands or red carpet stop clear whole of front page for greatest espionage story of all time stop am bringing you bottle of your favourite whisky stop.

  Rex Bryant.

  Bryant

  Royal Gate Hotel Inverdale

  You’re still sacked and I don’t drink

  Cosgrove.

  Cosgrove

  ‘Evening Post’ London.

  Wish you wouldn’t argue stop lay in stock of seventy-two point caps and leave rest to me stop ignore War Office Ministry of Information and any interfering politicians stop first two thousand words from Glasgow in three hours time stop cut a word and I’ll murder you stop don’t tell chief or he’ll panic and consult Churchill stop don’t worry it’s my favourite whisky too stop.

  Rex Bryant.

  8

  Detective Inspector Wallace Sandford was feeling even more bitter towards the human race than was his usual custom. For well over a week he had been detailed to conduct a search for Iris Archer, and his reports to Scotland Yard could certainly not have been described as enlightening. Of course, he had never seen Iris, which was something of a handicap, but if you had informed Inspector Sandford that a striking blonde, who probably had one arm in a sling, could evade the police resources of the British Isles, he would have indulged in a smile, and perhaps even favoured you with a pitying glance. But there it was. You couldn’t get beyond facts.

  And the facts were that Iris Archer had promised to meet Paul Temple at the Shepley Hotel, High Moorford. She had certainly visited the hotel, and had even left Major Guest as evidence of the fact.

  Actually, Iris had walked out of the hotel, calmly annexed a new American car from just along the street, and driven to Glasgow, where she had left the car in Sauchiehall Street. It had been recovered some six hours later.

  But of Iris herself there was no trace. Sir Graham Forbes had issued prompt orders for all the Scottish express trains to be searched, without any tangible result, except that a chorus girl who bore some resemblance to Iris had been temporarily detained at Carlisle, and released again after surprising her captors by the range of her vocabulary.

  ‘I can’t understand it at all, Annie,’ Inspector Sandford confessed to his wife in the privacy of their trim little villa in an Edinburgh suburb.

  At home, he invariably relapsed partly into his native dialect, although when in contact with his superior officers Sandford’s English was irreproachably correct. He had been educated at a good secondary school.

  His wife, who was placing a huge meal before him, fulfilled her customary role of comforter. ‘The lass’ll turn up somewhere before long,’ she reassured him. ‘No woman with a face like those pictures you showed me could hide herself away for long. Some other woman’ll be bound to give her away.’

  Sandford shook his head somewhat sceptically. ‘Don’t forget there’s been four unsolved murders in the country so far this year,’ he reminded her. This was a fact deeply rooted in his subconscious mind.

  It was Saturday lunchtime, and he was taking a few hours off for the first time since the search started. Sandford usually enjoyed his lunch on Saturdays because it was invariably a leisurely meal, with a pleasant afternoon and evening to follow.

  But his wife took the edge off his appetite in the middle of the first course by announcing that they were paying a visit to her sister in the small town of Craiglea, some twenty miles away.

  ‘But ye know I’ve got to be on duty tomorrow morning, Annie,’ her husband protested. ‘Here I’ve been chasing all over Scotland. I want a bit of peace and quiet.’ But Annie waved him aside.

  ‘There’s a train soon after nine in the morning, and I promised Susan faithfully that we’d both go. Herbert is particularly looking forward to seeing you.’

  Sandford snorted. It wasn’t that he hated Susan so much. He could put up with her
. It was her husband for whom Sandford had conceived such a hearty dislike. Herbert never seemed to tire of firing off a stream of facetious jokes about the police force. He had a playful habit of greeting his brother-in-law by flinging open the front door and calling over his shoulder: ‘They’ve come for us, Susie. They’ve found out we aren’t married!’ Then he would turn to the visitors and declare dramatically: ‘It’s a fair cop!’

  Yes, Herbert had never tired of the novelty of possessing a brother-in-law in the police force, Sandford gloomily reflected, as he helped himself to the last few mouthfuls of his large meal.

  Already Annie was bustling about, starting to clear away the things, preparatory to starting for the station. Her husband slowly filled his glass with ale, but the sight of it didn’t seem to cheer him as it usually did.

  ‘I canna stick that Herbert,’ he muttered. ‘He’s a sight too smart. Mebbe a week or two in the force would knock some of the clever ideas out of him.’

  ‘You always let him rub you up the wrong way,’ Annie protested. ‘Anyhow, I promised we’d go,’ she declared flatly, and he knew it was useless to argue any further.

  To say that Inspector Sandford was disappointed would be putting it mildly. On Saturday afternoons he looked forward to seeing the local amateur rugby club. They were up against a tough proposition this week, and he had been anticipating a lively afternoon. His pals, Geordie Macfarlane and Sandy Lawson, had promised to be there. After the match there would be a game of darts and a drink or two at the ‘Golden Thistle’. Sandford had lately become adept at darts, and the game fascinated him. He sighed; today there wasn’t even time for him to enjoy his usual after-dinner pipe.

  He went up to his room grumbling to himself, and eventually emerged in a blue serge suit, which was far too tight under the arms. Before long his wife joined him, and they managed to catch the three-ten train, which obligingly stopped at every station, landing them at Craiglea at four-fifteen, by which time Sandford had smoked a packet of cigarettes, and was feeling more than a trifle nervy and irritable.

  A penny bus ride brought them to their destination, and the front door was opened by Herbert with the usual flourish.

  ‘Susie!’ he called. ‘There’s a plain-clothes cop outside. Quick, old girl, hide the swag!’

  Under his breath, Inspector Sandford muttered something which was inaudible. Annie greeted her brother-in-law enthusiastically, and Susie came along the hall to add to the welcome.

  ‘Well, Wally, how’s the Big Four these days?’ spluttered Herbert, with a knowing wink at Annie. ‘When are they promoting you from Scotland to Scotland Yard?’

  His brother-in-law did not deign to reply, but Herbert appeared not to notice. ‘Hello, you’re getting a bit thin on top, Wally. Must have been doing a bit of thinking lately. I suppose you wouldn’t have had anything to do with this Z.4 affair that was in all the papers this week?’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ retorted Sandford with ominous deliberation, ‘I have!’

  For once in a way Herbert was momentarily taken aback. This was the first time he had ever extracted from Sandford any definite acknowledgment that he was connected with certain police activities.

  ‘Well—er—’ temporised Herbert, ‘not a bad little job, that. Of course, they had to call in that fellow Paul Temple. Do you know Paul Temple by any chance?’

  Sandford shook his head and relapsed into the silence he observed for long stretches when visiting his relatives. He noted with satisfaction that there was a huge dish of prawns on the tea table, and found some consolation in this fact; for Inspector Sandford was very partial to prawns.

  When they were sitting round the table a few minutes later, Herbert said: ‘We’ve got a surprise for you. Yes, a nice little treat for you this evening.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ put in Susan enthusiastically. ‘There’s a company at the Town Hall this week. I went on Tuesday to see The Farmer’s Wife, and they were so good that I booked seats for us all tonight.’

  ‘There now,’ said Annie, ‘I haven’t been to a good play for months. But you don’t want to see it all over again, do you Susie?’

  ‘Oh, it isn’t the same play. They changed it on Thursday. Tonight they’re acting a play by Edgar Wallace. I think it’s called The Man Who Changed His Name.’

  ‘Sounds barmy to me,’ commented Sandford sceptically.

  ‘Ah, you don’t know it all,’ said Herbert. ‘Now’s your chance to pick up a tip or two, my lad.’

  Sandford helped himself to another large portion of prawns without making any further comment. He did not want to start any more silly arguments with Herbert. After all, you can’t argue with a fool, he told himself. But Herbert did not intend to let an opportunity like this slip by so easily, and he continued to rally his brother-in-law, to the delight of both women, right up to the end of the meal. When they were all finished, Sandford carefully folded his napkin. Then he took a deep breath.

  ‘One day somebody’ll break in and pinch that imitation silver cup you won in the egg-and-spoon race,’ he grunted. ‘Then you’ll run for the police fast enough.’

  He knew he touched a tender spot there, for Herbert was very proud of this cup, which, with the help of an extravagant start, he had won in a local hundred yards’ handicap, a feat which he had never even remotely approached again.

  ‘I can deal with anybody who breaks into this house,’ Herbert snorted, ‘and let me tell you that cup’s solid silver.’

  Sandford grinned for the first time. His shot had struck home. He felt that the afternoon had not been entirely wasted after all.

  As there were to be two performances at the Town Hall that evening, and Susan had booked for the first, they had very little time to spare. Also, it was an excuse to hurry the men away from the table before their remarks became even more acidulous. There was, nevertheless, a distinct coolness obvious in the party when they started out, though this wore off a little by the time they had reached the centre of the town.

  Craiglea Town Hall had seen better days, but could never have been classed as picturesque architecture. For some peculiar reason, it boasted a tremendous tower, which seemed to serve no purpose whatsoever. And, of course, there was the inevitable balcony, from which election results had been announced since the year the building was first erected.

  On two large boards outside, eight-sheet lithographic posters luridly informed the public that the Maxwell Sherwood Dramatic Company presented the sensational crime play: The Man Who Changed His Name, ‘direct from its phenomenal success at the Regency Theatre, London’.

  The entrance was dimly lighted with a row of bare electric bulbs, two of which were not functioning, and the effect was not to be compared with the glaring neon of the majestic cinema opposite. Standing in the vestibule, waiting for Susan and Annie to emerge from the cloakroom, Sandford sighed for the cheery amenities of the ‘Golden Thistle’. The Genuine Old Scotch Ale, the darts, the blazing fire throwing a ruddy glow on the faces of the congenial company. And here he was, due to waste the best part of an evening in a musty Town Hall, watching a fourth-rate theatrical company perform an out-of-date detective thriller.

  He turned to ask Herbert if the hall had a licence, then paused and finally changed his mind, recalling that Herbert was never very enthusiastic when the question of a ‘quick one’ arose. ‘Maybe I’ll be able to slip out during the interval,’ Sandford comforted himself. He would certainly need some sort of stimulation to see him through the evening. If it had been the pictures, he could have gone to sleep, but he knew from experience that it would be far too cold in the Town Hall to encourage slumber.

  Annie and Susan returned and they entered the main hall. Though they occupied the best seats, these could hardly be described as comfortable, for they were nothing but wooden chairs. Sandford cautiously manoeuvred the party so that he sat on the gangway, with Susan next to him, then Herbert and finally Annie, farthest away so that she would not be able to remonstrate if he went out for a drink, as he full
y intended to do.

  The solitary piano tinkled out a rough-and-ready overture, which was swallowed in echoes away up in the lofty ceiling. The lights snapped out one by one, and finally the curtain rose rather unsteadily, revealing a dingy box chamber set. On a settee, smoking a cigar, and endeavouring to portray a picture of sinister ease, reclined Maxwell Sherwood himself.

  ‘He’s ever so good,’ Susan whispered to her brother-in-law, who grunted, knowing her childlike worship of make-believe.

  ‘She’s good, too,’ enthused Susan again. ‘She was only a maid in the other play, but—’

  There were one or two ‘Sh’s!’ from people nearby, so Susan relapsed into silence. Sandford studied the girl on the stage with a thoughtful frown. He had a feeling that he knew the face, that he had seen the girl somewhere before. Herbert leaned across to him.

  ‘What price the red-haired bit, Wally?’ he sniggered. His wife silenced him. The play went on, and it became increasingly obvious that the girl with the striking red hair was a more polished performer than her colleagues. Even Sandford realised that she was exploiting an entirely different technique.

  Sandford did not leave his seat in the first interval. He stopped and studied the programme, noting that the red-haired girl called herself Lydia Merridew.

  Before the lights went down again Sandford took a newspaper cutting out of his pocket and examined it closely. But the photograph, about the size of a postage stamp, was too blurred to convey any adequate impression. The girl in the picture was the most platinum of blondes. He frowned and replaced the cutting in his wallet.

  During the second interval Sandford felt he had a legitimate excuse for visiting the ‘Town Arms’ next door. He leaned across to Herbert and asked: ‘Coming?’ Rather reluctantly, Herbert followed him.

  In the saloon bar of the ‘Town Arms’ Sandford discovered what he had anticipated. A rather elderly actor, grotesque in his greasepaint, leaning in lordly fashion against the mantelpiece. He recognised him as the butler in the play. Sandford entered into conversation with him almost at once by the simple expedient of standing him a drink.