Paul Temple and the Margo Mystery

by Francis Durbridge

  “Do you want me to stay?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Temple had time to pour an orange juice and put it down at Steve’s side of the table before Charlie opened the door.

  “Superintendent Raine would like to —” Charlie broke off scandalised as the Superintendent pushed in past him. He had not even taken time to remove his overcoat.

  “Excuse me! Mr Temple, may I have a word with you?”

  “Yes, of course. All right, Charlie.” Temple dismissed Charlie with a reassuring nod. “What is it, Raine? What’s happened?”

  “We picked a girl out of the river — about two hours ago. She’d been strangled. It was George Kelburn’s daughter.”

  “Julia Kelburn?”

  “Yes. But that isn’t everything.” Raine paused for a moment. “The dead girl was wearing a coat. There was a name label stitched inside the collar. We’ve seen that name before, sir.”

  Temple nodded. He was already ahead of Raine.

  “Margo?”

  2: Dead Lucky

  “Well, there’s one person who won’t be surprised by the murder, Superintendent. That’s Julia’s stepmother — Laura Kelburn.”

  Raine had accepted coffee and Charlie had deigned to bring an extra cup. The three were sitting round the breakfast table.

  “Why do you say that, Mrs Temple?”

  It was Temple who answered. “Mrs Kelburn telephoned — at three o’clock this morning, mark you — and made an appointment to see me at nine o’clock. When I asked her why she wanted to see me she said it was about Julia — and that her stepdaughter was going to be murdered.’’

  “This is extraordinary!” Raine shook his head in bewilderment. “Quite extraordinary!”

  “I agree. When I picked up the ‘phone and …”

  “No, you don’t understand,” Raine cut in. “I’ve seen Mrs Kelburn — about an hour ago. I went to the house in the Boltons. She didn’t say anything about telephoning you — on the contrary she seemed staggered by the news of the murder. If anything, I think she was even more shaken by the news than her husband.”

  “She never mentioned the ‘phone call?”

  “Not a word.”

  “How did Mr Kelburn react?” Steve asked.

  “He was pretty badly shaken, of course, but I had the impression he’d been worried about his daughter for some time. She mixed with a pretty notorious crowd, you know, Mrs Temple.”

  “Yes. She was friendly with a man called Tony Wyman.”

  “I’m checking on Mr Wyman. I’ve got an appointment to see …” Raine broke off. A receiver had been plugged in to the telephone socket in the dining-room and its bell had started to ring.

  “Excuse me.” Temple swivelled round in his chair and reached for the instrument.

  “Paul Temple?”

  “Yes, speaking.”

  ”This is Mike Langdon, Temple …”

  “Yes. I recognised your voice. Good morning, Langdon.”

  “Temple, I’ve got some terrible news …”

  “We’ve heard about Julia Kelburn.” Temple cut the agitated recital short. “The Superintendent’s with me now.”

  “Then I expect he’s told you all the details?”

  “Well, yes. It’s a pretty awful business.” Then, more sympathetically: “It must have been a shock for you, Langdon.”

  “Yes, it was — a terrible shock. I never realised the poor kid was so mixed up … But look, Temple — I want to ask you a favour.” Paul met Steve’s eyes. Langdon’s voice was audible throughout the room. “Kelburn’s determined that the person responsible for this shan’t escape. He’s anxious to make the fullest possible investigation — expense no object.”

  “Well?” Temple prompted non-committally.

  ‘He’d like to see you, Temple. He’d like you to call round this morning, if possible. They live in the Boltons, the house is called ‘Northdown’.”

  “I see.” Temple raised his eyebrows enquiringly at Steve, who nodded. “Does that go for Mrs Kelburn, too?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Does Mrs Kelburn want me to call round?”

  “Why, yes, of course.” Langdon was puzzled by the question. “I imagine so. She hasn’t said otherwise.”

  Temple calculated for a moment, then said: “Tell Mr Kelburn I’ll be there at twelve o’clock.”

  “Right! Thanks a lot. I appreciate it …”

  Temple put the receiver down, cutting off Langdon’s protestations of gratitude.

  “Excuse my asking, Mr Temple,” Raine said, “but who’s this fellow Langdon?”

  “He’s one of Kelburn’s right-hand men. I met him on the ‘plane coming over from New York. Kelburn sent for him. He apparently thought Langdon might be able to reform his daughter. I understand he’d got her out of one or two little scrapes in New York.”

  “All the way from New York because Kelburn couldn’t cope with his own daughter?” Raine grinned at Steve. “Sounds a bit far-fetched.”

  “I don’t know,” Temple said. “We never knew Julia Kelburn. We don’t even know what her father was up against. However, Langdon’s main job was to try and buy off Tony Wyman.”

  “That’s interesting. What happened?”

  “Wyman told Langdon he couldn’t care less about Julia — in no uncertain terms.”

  “Mm.” Raine had brought a notebook out of his pocket and opened it at a page where there was a marker. He tapped his teeth with a pencil. “This chap Langdon — is he about forty, dark wavy hair, medium height, uses a pretty exotic aftershave?”

  Temple smiled. “Yes, that’s him!”

  “He was hovering about when I interviewed Kelburn and his wife, but they didn’t introduce me. They were pretty upset, of course.”

  Leaning over so that she could take a peek at Raine’s notebook, Steve was surprised to see that the page was covered with as many doodles and drawings as words. The Superintendent drew a circle round one of his sketches.

  “Would you say there’s been anything between Langdon and Julia Kelburn?”

  “I don’t think so, but I wouldn’t know, of course. You’d better ask Langdon that question.’’

  “I will,” Raine promised, putting away his notebook and standing up. “Thank you for the coffee, Mrs Temple.”

  “Our pleasure, Superintendent.”

  “You’ve no objection, I take it,” Temple asked casually, as he ushered Raine to the door, “if I go along and see Kelburn?”

  “Not the slightest, Mr Temple.” Raine gave him a smile and a long, straight look. “Not the slightest. It’s a free country so they tell me …”

  “It isn’t that I mistrust the police, Mr Temple. I just think that a case of this kind demands a more imaginative approach than the average police officer is capable of.”

  The emotional stress he was under had made George Kelburn’s Yorkshire accent more pronounced. He was a burly man with the paunch and podgy cheeks of someone who can afford more whisky than was good for him, and it was evident that he had been seeking solace from the decanter. He was wearing a black tie with the dark blue suit which a skilful tailor had constructed to mask his bulk.

  “Mr Kelburn, I’ve worked with the police now for many years and I can assure you that the men at Scotland Yard are shrewd, intelligent and highly efficient.”

  Since greeting Temple, Kelburn had not invited him to sit down. The furniture of the room was luxurious but brash and showy. Standing on the brilliantly patterned carpet Temple could look down through the window at a tiny walled garden.

  “Efficient, yes, maybe. But slow — slow. That’s the trouble — damned slow. My daughter’s been murdered, Mr Temple my only child …” The tears were springing again to Kelburn’s eyes. “I’ll give anything to find the swine responsible for that murder. Just name the fee …”

  Kelburn was chairman of over fifteen companies and believed that he could buy anyone’s services with a snap of his fingers and a flourish of his cheque book.


  “You don’t solve a case of this kind simply by paying someone a fat fee, Mr Kelburn,” Temple said quietly. “The whole problem is far too — ‘’

  He saw Kelburn’s moist eyes focus over his left shoulder and turned round. A woman who looked about fifteen years younger than Kelburn had come quietly into the room.

  “Oh, there you are, Laura! I was wondering where you’d got to. Mr Temple — may I introduce my wife?”

  ‘’ How do you do, Mrs Kelburn? I believe you know Steve …” As they shook hands Temple felt the chunky rings on her fingers. She had put on a dark grey suit, but her nails were painted and her auburn hair was as crisp as if she had just come from the hairdressers.

  “I do indeed. Is she well?”

  “Thank you, yes. She was looking forward to seeing you this morning.”

  “This morning?” Laura echoed, obviously puzzled.

  “Yes. We were expecting you to call at nine o’clock as arranged, but obviously this business …”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Temple, but I don’t understand.”

  “Were you under the impression that my wife was coming to see you?” Kelburn demanded.

  “I was indeed.”

  “What made you think she wanted to see you?” Langdon’s nasal drawl gave the question an unflattering implication.

  “The fact that she telephoned me in the early hours of this morning and said that she wanted to.”

  Laura Kelburn stepped back, staring at Temple in amazement. “I — I telephoned you?”

  “Yes. About three o’clock a.m.”

  “But that’s nonsense!” she exclaimed, throwing an appealing glance at her husband.

  Kelburn crossed to his wife and put a hand under her elbow. “I can assure you my wife didn’t ‘phone you, Mr Temple. We occupy the same bedroom. If she’d made a telephone call at that hour of the morning I’d certainly have known about it.”

  She said: “What exactly am I supposed to have ‘phoned you about?”

  “You told me that you suspected …” Temple hesitated.

  “Suspected what?” she prompted him rapidly.

  “That your stepdaughter was going to be murdered.”

  Laura’s eyes widened and her hand covered her mouth.

  “Good God!” Kelburn stared accusingly at Temple, as if he was responsible for everything that had happened. “But this is ridiculous!”

  “Are you serious, Temple?” Langdon asked angrily.

  “Wait a minute!” Laura had recovered her poise quickly.

  “This is the second time I’m supposed to have made a mysterious telephone call.” She turned to Temple. “I met your wife a couple of weeks ago and she had some strange story about having spoken to me on the ‘phone — and my saying I wanted to see you.’’

  “And you didn’t want to see me?”

  “Of course not!” Laura dismissed the idea emphatically. “I didn’t even ‘phone …”

  “Someone did,” Temple said quietly, then abruptly changed the subject. “Mrs Kelburn, your husband has asked me to investigate this affair and I think perhaps you might be able to help me.”

  “How, exactly?” she asked, a shade brittle.

  “Well, you can start by telling me where Julia bought her clothes from.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know where she bought her clothes from. She wasn’t very fussy about her dress, you know.” From Laura’s tone it was clear that Julia Kelburn had been more than a handful.

  “Could you find out?”

  Laura shrugged. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “I’m interested in the coat she was wearing at the time of the murder,” Temple persisted. “There was a label inside with the name ‘Margo’ on it.”

  “Margo?”

  “Yes. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “No, I’m afraid it doesn’t. But I’ll make enquiries if you like?”

  “I’d be grateful if you would, Mrs Kelburn.”

  Kelburn had been listening to the exchange with increasing impatience. “Mr Temple, surely there’s something we can do — something just a little more progressive than enquiring about a coat?”

  “Take it easy, George,” Langdon drawled. “Mr Temple knows what he’s doing.”

  Temple looked pointedly at his watch, glad of his cue to escape from an atmosphere that had become faintly hostile.

  “You have my ‘phone number, Mrs Kelburn, if you want to get in touch with me?”

  “Yes, of course …” she said absent-mindedly, then quickly corrected herself. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  “It’s in the book,” Temple said with a smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr Kelburn, I have a lunch appointment.”

  In fact, Temple’s lunch appointment was with Steve at a small restaurant just off the Bayswater Road where they were well known. It was while they were having coffee that she came out with what had been on her mind all through the meal.

  “Paul, do you think the people who kidnapped me were responsible for the murder?”

  “Yes, I do. And I think I know why they kidnapped you, Steve.” Temple leaned forward and lowered his voice. “While I was in America a report appeared in one of the Continental newspapers … Well, I’ve got it in my pocket.” He took out his wallet, extracted a folded newspaper cutting and handed it across the table. “Read it for yourself.”

  She unfolded the paper and smoothed it flat on the tablecloth. The report was quite brief. After a few lines about the multiple activities of the master criminal known as The Fence, it stated that the celebrated criminologist, Paul Temple, had cut short his American tour at the request of Scotland Yard and was returning post-haste to London.

  “The Fence is that man Raine mentioned?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it true that Scotland Yard have asked you to help them?”

  “No, darling — it’s just a newspaper story. Sir Graham and I have never even discussed The Fence.”

  “But you think that someone read this and …”

  “I think The Fence himself read it and believed it. Remember what that man said to you, Steve. ‘We did it as a warning and to prove that it was possible, Mrs Temple.’ “

  Steve nodded, thoughtful and serious.

  “From now on you’ve got to watch your step, dear. Get Charlie to answer the door. Don’t go anywhere on your own if you can help it. Always leave a message as to your whereabouts. Don’t act on any telephone calls without checking. Well — you know the routine.”

  “Yes,” she said with resignation, “I know the routine.”

  Temple had been given a lift back from the Boltons by Mike Langdon, but Steve had driven to the restaurant in her MG Metro, and had been lucky enough to find a parking meter close by. Traffic on the Bayswater Road was thick and a hundred yards from Marble Arch it had slowed to a sluggish crawl.

  “Relax, darling,” Steve said, with a smile. “I don’t mind this, I’m used to it.”

  “Delighted to hear it. And you can relax too, your hair’s fine.”

  “My hair?”

  “Isn’t that why you keep looking in the mirror?”

  “As a matter of fact I was watching the car behind. The Escort driven by a man in dark glasses. It was parked outside the flat when I left and it was behind me when I drove to the restaurant.”

  Temple did not turn round. As the traffic began to move he said quickly: “Take this turning on the left. Yes, this one!”

  Steve obeyed instinctively and the car lurched as she made the turn. Temple lowered the anti-dazzle flap and used the vanity mirror to check on the cars behind.

  “Yes, he’s following us all right. Steve, pull in to the kerb behind that taxi that’s stopping.’’

  “What’s the idea?”

  “I’m getting out. I want you to drive straight home. I’ll see you there.”

  Steve knew better than to question Temple when he was in this mood. He had the door open before she stopped. The driver of the Escort had two opt
ions. Either he could pass the Metro and risk losing it or pull in and take the chance of being spotted. Inexperienced at car tailing, he was braking hesitantly when Temple ran out from the kerb, opened the door on the passenger side and slid into the seat.

  “Here, what’s the big idea,” the man in dark glasses protested, “getting into my car like this?”

  “Keep going!” Temple told him crisply. “I’ll explain later.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Steve had already accelerated away and drivers behind had started a cadenza on their horns.

  “Drive on. People are getting impatient.”

  “I don’t give a damn what people …”

  “Drive on! And there’s no need to follow that Metro, I can tell you all you want to know about it.”

  As the engine almost stalled the other man rammed the lever with a crunch into a lower gear. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I think you know what I’m talking about. You’ve been following that car all the way from Eaton Square. Now I suggest you drive into the Park — we can have a little talk there.”

  “I —” He started to protest again, then suddenly caved in. “Yes, all right.”

  ‘’ I should switch the engine off, Mr Wyman.’’

  Docile now, Tony Wyman reached forward and turned the key. Following Temple’s instructions he had driven into Hyde Park and stopped on a yellow line on the stretch parallel to Bayswater Road.

  “You recognised me, then?”

  “Yes, I recognised you.” Temple smiled. It would have taken more than a pair of dark glasses to disguise the pop singer, with his outrageous hairstyle. “Now, what can I do for you? Why are you following us around?”

  “I’ve read a lot about you in the papers, Mr Temple, and I thought — well, I’m in dead trouble, see? And I thought maybe you could sort of give me a line. I hung around your flat hoping to catch you, but I couldn’t pluck up enough courage to …”

  “All right, so you have a problem?” Temple was watching a yellow delivery van with a rent-a-van sign painted on the side, which had cruised past slowly and stopped a couple of hundred yards further down.