Paul Temple and the Margo Mystery

by Francis Durbridge

  Temple’s thoughts were far away. “What’s what, Steve?”

  “I said, why the serious expression?”

  “I was just thinking …” Temple abruptly stood up. “I was just thinking I’d have a brandy myself, Steve.”

  In spite of the standard paintwork, modern fittings and official furniture, Sir Graham Forbes had stamped his own personality on the large office he occupied on the sixth floor of the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police. He had brought in his own mahogany, leather-topped partners’ desk and three comfortable chairs that might have come from a London club. One wall was reserved for Ackerman prints of his old school and Cambridge college. On another was displayed a large-scale map of London, sub-divided into the various divisions and studded with pins of half a dozen different colours. Prominent on his desk was a signed photograph of the Queen and Prince Philip. The broad windows looked out on Victoria Street and commanded a view towards Westminster Cathedral on one side, to the Abbey and Houses of Parliament on the other.

  Temple had preferred to remain standing up, enjoying the view of the city in the morning sunlight. Sir Graham was behind his desk and Raine was in one of the club armchairs. As it was virtually impossible to sit on the edge of them he had been forced to lean back, but he looked awkward and uncomfortable.

  “But who did you see, Raine?” Forbes pressed the Superintendent. “Was it the proprietor, or just the woman who runs the shop?”

  “The manageress, SirGraham,” Raine answered patiently. “They called her Miss Elsie.”

  “Yes,” Temple put in. “That’s the woman who attended to Steve.”

  “She had a pretty plausible explanation, I must admit. Apparently, they were going to deliver the parcel themselves and then at about four p.m. a young woman called and said she had been asked by Mrs Temple to collect the dress. Naturally, they thought the woman was bona fide.’’

  “So they handed it over.”

  “Yes. And then, of course, the girl switched parcels.”

  “Did you get a description of this girl?”

  “Well, I did my best,” Raine said defensively, “but they were all pretty vague. I suppose that’s understandable, it’s a very busy shop. They thought she was about twenty-seven or eight, average height, dark-coloured hair. No distinctive features.”

  “No distinctive features!” Forbes exploded. “Ye gods, the times we hear that one! You know, I don’t think we’ll get anywhere with this investigation until we find the motive. And I don’t mean the motive for what happened last night, but the motive for the murder.’’

  Temple nodded his agreement.

  “Well, surely the most likely lead is the fact that Julia Kelburn was a drug addict, sir.”

  “You’ve consulted the Narcotics people, of course?”

  Raine was a little nettled at Temple’s implication that he might have left this stone unturned. “Oh, they’re on to it, Temple. But they haven’t come up with anything — not yet, at any rate.”

  “What about this doctor,” Forbes said, “Benkaray?”

  “I saw her yesterday, sir. I went down to Westerton to have a word with the local people. Dr Benkaray seems to be genuine. She’s been practising in Town for the last ten years. But I didn’t get much information out of her about Julia Kelburn. She was very cagey.”

  “Did you meet her so-called secretary, Larry Cross?” Temple enquired tentatively.

  “Yes, I did. Now he’s a tough egg, if ever I saw one. Doesn’t look a bit like my idea of a doctor’s secretary.”

  “Nor anyone else’s. We saw him last night when we were returning from The Hide and Seek. He was with Laura Kelburn. They were in a red sports Alfa-Romeo together. Cross was driving. Steve thinks that Cross was the man who spoke to her at London Airport — the phoney official.”

  “You mean,” Raine said eagerly, “she’d be able to identify him?”

  “Yes, but don’t do anything yet, Raine. Steve may be mistaken and we don’t want …”

  Temple paused as there came a knock on the door at the same instant as it opened. A uniformed sergeant came half into the room.

  “Excuse me, sir. Mr Kelburn to see you.”

  “Oh, yes.” Forbes swivelled his chair and stood up. “Show him in, Sergeant.”

  “Did you send for Kelburn, Sir Graham?” Raine said, caught slightly on the wrong foot.

  “Yes, I did. I think it’s only fair we tell him about this new development.”

  “You mean the heroin?” Raine said doubtfully.

  “Yes. He’s a right to know, and in any case he may be able to help us.”

  Before Raine could express any contrary point of view the door was opened again. The sergeant leaned back against it to let the visitor pass.

  “Mr Kelburn, sir.”

  Raine struggled out of the slippery chair as Forbes crossed the room to meet Kelburn.

  “Come in, Mr Kelburn. My name is Forbes. I think you’ve met Superintendent Raine and Mr Temple.”

  “Yes,” Kelburn said grimly. “I have.”

  “Please sit down.”

  Kelburn looked older and more strained, but he had dressed carefully in a grey pin-striped suit and had lost none of his confident arrogance. He stared levelly at Temple.

  “I’d rather stand, if you don’t mind. I didn’t expect to find you here, Temple.”

  “I had an appointment with Sir Graham. I’m just about to leave.”

  “There’s no reason for you to leave — so far as I’m concerned.” He turned to Forbes, assuming that his comment would be taken as an order. “What is it you want, Sir Graham?”

  “Certain information has reached us concerning your daughter — we thought it only fair that …” Forbes hesitated in the face of Kelburn’s uncompromising stare. “… that you should be made aware of it.”

  “What information? What are you referring to?”

  “I’m afraid it’s been established, Mr Kelburn, that your daughter took heroin.”

  Kelburn made no comment and his expression did not change.

  “You don’t seem very surprised.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You knew?”

  “Yes.”

  Raine took a couple of steps forward, so that he would come into Kelburn’s field of vision. “How long have you known, sir?”

  “About two or three days. That’s why I tried to stop your investigation, Temple. I didn’t want you to find out about Julia. I thought if you found out that she was on heroin, then the Press would get on to it and, well, the whole unsavoury business would be revived again — the murder and everything.”

  “Who told you your daughter was a drug addict, sir?”

  “I do wish you wouldn’t use that phrase, Superintendent!” Kelburn said, with his first show of emotion. “No one told me, I — I sensed it.”

  “Just sensed it?” Raine looked dubious.

  “Mr Kelburn,” Temple said, “part of the time Julia mixed with people of her own class, the sons and daughters of fairly wealthy parents.”

  Kelburn nodded warily.

  “But at other times she used to associate with quite a different type of person, people on the fringe of the underworld …”

  “Nonsense!”

  “It isn’t nonsense,” Temple insisted gently. “It’s true. Your daughter took heroin, therefore she got the heroin from somewhere. Now, the point is — where from? It’s unlikely that her respectable friends would peddle the stuff, so it’s my guess —”

  “No one’s interested in your guesses, Temple,” Kelburn said offensively.

  Temple refused to be ruffled by the man’s outburst. “On the contrary, I’ll make a guess that will interest you. Interest you very much.”

  Kelburn was curious in spite of himself. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t believe you just sensed that your daughter was an addict, that’s absurd. My guess is that someone wrote you a letter and told you in plain language that your daughter was hooked on heroin.�
� Temple’s eyes were fixed on Kelburn. “Am I right?”

  Kelburn hesitated, then turned to Forbes. “I think I will sit down, Sir Graham, after all.”

  “Of course.”

  Kelburn took one of the armchairs and rubbed one side of his forehead with two fingers. Forbes, out of politeness, took the chair opposite him but Raine and Temple remained standing.

  “Who wrote the letter?” Temple moved round in front of Kelburn, pressing home his advantage.

  “A girl — a very old friend of Julia’s.” Kelburn spoke wearily, his eyes on the carpet. “Fiona came to the house quite often. She was a nice girl, highly respectable, and she intensely disliked Julia’s more rackety friends. She was always trying to persuade Julia to live a more useful life, to — well — settle down.” Kelburn, apparently with great effort, lifted his head. “After the murder Fiona wrote me a letter, Temple, saying that I’d made a mistake in asking you to investigate the case. She said you were bound to discover that Julia was taking heroin and the inevitable consequences of such a discovery would be weeks of unsavoury publicity.”

  “And you believed that?” Temple said drily.

  “Of course! It’s the truth. Temple, be honest — you know damn well it’s the truth! Once the newspapers get hold of a story like this, they just never let go.”

  “Who is this girl, Fiona?” Raine demanded. “What’s her surname?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not prepared to divulge that.”

  “But you must divulge it!” Raine told him. “We’ve got to question the girl, ask her …”

  “No one’s questioning her! No one’s seeing her!” Kelburn thumped the arm of the chair with a clenched fist. “Whatever happens, I’m not having Fiona subjected to a police cross- examination. The girl wrote me the letter simply out of kindness and I haven’t the slightest intention …”

  “Mr Kelburn, I see your point of view and I appreciate it,” Forbes said quietly, “but you don’t understand — you’ve got to tell us who this girl is. We’re investigating a murder case.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir Graham, I’ve made up my mind about this. If it hadn’t been for Temple here, I wouldn’t even have told you about the letter.”

  Raine spoke in his most official voice. “I suppose you know that it’s an offence to withhold information from the police, sir?”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Kelburn leant back in his chair and crossed his legs. The smile he gave Raine was almost friendly.

  “But I’m still going to withhold it, Superintendent.”

  When Steve arrived home from her appointment with the hairdresser Charlie greeted her with a message from Temple. He wanted her to pick him up at his club as soon as possible after she returned.

  “He said to bring the Rover, Mrs Temple.”

  “The Rover? I wonder where we’re going.” She smiled. “No more parcels been delivered, Charlie?”

  But Charlie did not see any humour in that remark. “When will they be redecorating your dressing-room?”

  “Just as soon as I’ve chosen a wallpaper. And I want to persuade Mr Temple that we might as well have the bedroom done at the same time.”

  Charlie nodded and permitted himself a smile.

  At the club Steve stayed with the car, which was on a double yellow line, while the porter went in to tell Temple she was there. He came out holding a manila envelope, which he handed to Steve as he slipped into the driving seat.

  “Mm,” he murmured, glancing appreciatively at her hair. “Very nice.”

  “Where are we going, darling?”

  “Down to Westerton, but we shan’t be staying the night.”

  “Just as well, as I haven’t brought a suitcase. What’s in the envelope, Paul?”

  “Oh, some photographs.” Temple checked the traffic before pulling out. “They were taken for me yesterday and delivered to the club.”’

  “Photographs of what?”

  “Mike Langdon. They’re not bad, considering they were taken in the street without his knowing.”

  “You’re going to show them to Fred Harcourt at The Red Hart? You know, I’ve got a sort of intuition he was the man who called for Julia Kelburn that morning.”

  Temple chuckled. “I was wondering when that good old intuition would start to work —”

  “You can laugh, but I’ve been right before.”

  “Yes. Well, get your intuition to work on Mrs Fletcher. Tell me how she fits into the picture.”

  “I wish I could,” Steve said, puzzled. “I just can’t make head or tail of Mrs Fletcher. But, if it was her on the ‘phone, I’m more than grateful to her.”

  “It was Mrs Fletcher all right. She’d been ringing for an hour, waiting till one of us answered. That’s another reason I want to go down to Westerton.’’

  Steve waited till Temple had negotiated the traffic in Trafalgar Square before broaching the subject that was on her mind.

  “Darling, the decorator came to look at my dressing-room this morning. He was very on the ball. He suggested that if we’re doing the dressing-room we might as well do the bedroom as well. He showed me some very nice wallpapers —‘’

  Temple listened without comment as she deployed her argument and she was concentrating on her theme so hard that she did not at first notice that he had slowed down and was trying to read the names of the side-streets.

  “But Paul, this isn’t the way we usually go to the coast.”

  “I know. But I have a call to make first. Ah, here we are, Northcote Street. Now look out for Monte Carlo Mansions. It should be on the right.’’

  “Who on earth lives at Monte Carlo Mansions?”

  “Who do you think would live at Monte Carlo Mansions? Mr Tony Wyman, of course.”

  Temple made Steve wait in the car while he went inside the modern block of flats. She whiled away the time by studying the photos of Mike Langdon and listening to a talk on Radio 4. Temple was only gone ten minutes and when he came out he was looking very pleased with himself.

  “Well,” Steve demanded, “what’s so funny?”

  “Wyman. He spun me a tale about being a very busy man, but he was still in his pyjamas and it’s after midday.”

  “Well, he does work very late —”

  “Yes, he was pretty bleary-eyed. I felt a bit brutal leaning on him as I did. He tried to make out that he did not know Julia was on heroin, but when I told him that his story did not tally with Fiona’s he was so rattled that he let out her surname.”

  “And what is her surname?”

  “Scott. Fiona Scott. And he also let slip that she lives in Brighton. Apparently Julia took him down there to see her one Sunday and they didn’t exactly hit it off.”

  Temple had turned the car and was heading back towards the Old Kent Road.

  “You know, I can’t help feeling sorry for Wyman. He’s dead scared of me, but I can’t persuade him that I’m not trying to pin anything on him. Do you fancy lunching at that pub in Chislehurst again?”

  It was still early afternoon when they reached Westerton. There was less traffic in the sleepy village street than on the morning they had first visited Fletcher’s Garage. As he approached the filling station Temple saw a Peugeot estate at one of the pumps in the forecourt and a familiar figure standing beside it talking to Bill Fletcher. The latter was holding the nozzle of the pipe in the petrol tank of the Peugeot. A woman was sitting in the passenger’s seat.

  Instead of pulling in at the pumps, Temple drove the Rover into the service bay where the air-line and water pipe were available for customers and parked it facing the wall.

  “Don’t turn round, Steve. That’s Larry Cross over there and I think it’s Dr Benkaray sitting in the car. Just our luck. I don’t want him to realise that you’ve recognised him.” Temple opened the door. “Back me up if I bring Bill Fletcher over to look at the car.”

  Temple sauntered over to the pumps. Bill Fletcher was just withdrawing the nozzle from the tank.

  “Good afternoo
n,” Temple greeted Bill, ignoring Larry Cross. “I’m afraid my car’s giving me a spot of trouble and I wondered if you could have a look at it for me?”

  “Be with you in a minute, sir.” Bill gave Temple his friendly smile and screwed the filler cap on the petrol tank of the Peugeot.

  “Thank you.” Temple was moving away when the window of the Peugeot was wound down and a face peered up at him.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Temple.”

  Temple turned, feigning surprise. “Oh, hello, Doctor!”

  “What are you doing in this part of the world?” Dr Benkaray made the enquiry sound almost like an accusation.

  “I’m on my way to the coast, and the wretched car’s gone all temperamental. Is this chap any good?”

  “Yes, I think he’s a good mechanic.”

  “We had a friend of yours down here yesterday, Temple,” Larry Cross chipped in, with his harsh, aggressive voice. ‘’ Superintendent Raine.’’

  “Yes, so I believe.”

  “Asked a lot of damn silly questions. He seems to think there’s a connection between the Ted Angus murder and the Kelburn affair. I can’t imagine why.”

  “Well, perhaps you haven’t got sufficient imagination, Mr Cross.”

  “What do you mean?” Cross demanded belligerently.

  “Do you think there’s a connection, Mr Temple?” Dr Benkaray asked quickly.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, tell us — what is the connection?” said Cross. ‘’ We’re always keen to learn.”

  “You should have asked the Superintendent that question.”

  “We did,” Dr Benkaray said, “but unfortunately he didn’t enlighten us.”

  Bill Fletcher had checked the figure on the pump’s indicator and was waiting for a chance to break into the conversation. “That’s nine pounds seventy, Doctor.”

  “Charge it to my account, will you? Oh, and Bill …”

  “Yes, Doctor?”

  “Ask your mother to telephone me when she gets back.”

  “Yes.” Bill nodded respectfully. “I’ll do that.”

  Larry Cross walked round the car and clumsily inserted his body behind the wheel. All his movements were violent and badly co-ordinated. The starter yammered and the engine revved excessively as he put his foot on the accelerator.