“They’ve come to the surface more, if that’s what you mean. Things have been particularly difficult, I suppose, since Mike Langdon arrived. I sometimes wonder if he puts ideas into George’s head.”
“Why should he do that?”
“Well, he’s seen me at The Hide and Seek once or twice, talking to Tony Wyman. By the way, I read about Tony this morning. Is he badly hurt?”
“Yes, I’m afraid he is.”
“Was he conscious when you found him?” Laura asked, so obviously curious that Steve suspected that the purpose of her visit was to find out what Tony Wyman had said to them.
“He was unconscious most of the time,” she said, which was perfectly true. “Is that what you wanted to see Paul about — Tony Wyman?”
“No, no, it was something quite different. I’ve already told you most of it.”
“Then why not tell me the rest?”
“It’s just this, Steve. I happened to overhear a conversation between my husband and Mike Langdon. Mike was telling George that your husband was the best man to get the evidence — against me — for the divorce.”
Steve laughed. “But Paul doesn’t go in for that sort of thing, you must know that!”
“George has a way of persuading people.”
“Don’t worry, Laura. It would take more than money to persuade my husband to do something he doesn’t want to do!”
In his work as an author and consultant on crime, Paul Temple had regular contacts with a number of crime reporters on the big newspapers. One of these was Ken Sinclair of the Evening World. Temple had advised him about many of the cases he had been following up and made available his encyclopaedic knowledge of the world of crime. In return, Ken had frequently kept him informed of the day-to-day gossip and inside information which are the lifeblood of a crime reporter.
He ‘phoned Ken at his home — he was never at the paper till the afternoon — and made an appointment to meet him in a Fleet Street pub for a bar lunch.
Ken was at the Crown and Anchor before he was, his tall, thin frame bent over the bar as he stared thoughtfully into half a pint of beer. He was oblivious to the babble of conversation in the crowded saloon. With his long hair and aesthete’s features he looked more like a university don than a reporter and his unconventional, casual dress reinforced that impression.
He greeted Temple warmly, ordered him a Scotch and soda, enquired briefly about his trip to the United States and then got down to business. “Well — what’s it all about? What can I do for you?”
“Ken, while I was in America there was a smash-and-grab in Regent Street. The police arrested a man called Midge Harris.”
“That’s right.”
“Give me the low-down. What exactly happened?”
“Well, whoever did the job got away with a considerable amount of jewellery. Midge was in on it — there’s no doubt about that, he was identified — but Midge was just one of the boys. He certainly wasn’t the brains behind the set-up. You know Midge Harris, he’s as clever as paint, but he’s smalltime.”
“Who do you think was behind it?”
Ken slid his glass along the counter to make way for a customer who was pushing in to have four tankards refilled with bitter.
“Why, this character they call The Fence. I don’t think there’s any doubt he was behind the operation. Let’s face it, he’s behind most of the crime these days. You see, the whole point is — the boys know that the moment they’ve pulled a job the stuff will be taken off their hands and they’ll be paid good money for it.”
“But there’s nothing new about this, Ken — there have always been fences.”
“Yes, but not one like this, this chap’s really got things organised. He operates on an international scale — will handle anything. But why are you interested in Midge Harris and The Fence? I thought you were investigating the Kelburn murder.”
“I am.”
“You think there’s a connection?” Ken’s interest was aroused.
“There could be.” Temple knew Ken would understand his reticence, knowing that as soon as the story broke he would be the first to hear. “Ken, tell me about Midge Harris. What’s he been doing during the past two or three years?”
“He had a job with a transport firm for a time, but it was only a cover for his more nefarious activities, I’m sure of that. He’s been living with a girl called Sally Jackson. Strange girl — she used to be an art student, then she started a ladies’ hairdressers in Camden Town.”
‘’ How long have they been together?’’
“About three or four years. I don’t quite know what she saw in Midge. She was a very much better class person than he was … Listen, I think we’d better order some food before this pack of wolves cleans the place out.”
Temple had visited prisons many times before and they never failed to depress him. It was not just the chilling sensation of being trapped when the heavy doors closed behind you, nor that distinctive aroma, part scent, part stink, that was compounded of human bodies, disinfectant and soap. What really got him down was the sense of waste, all these human beings lost to society, many of them with exceptional gifts. No wonder the warder who showed him up to the Governor’s office, a kindly man to judge by his face, wore a permanently sad expression.
Raine was there already and could not refrain from glancing at the clock on the wall. It was ten minutes after five, the time of his appointment. No one else was in the room, which had the crisp, efficient air of a military commander’s headquarters. Temple was not surprised to see a photograph on the wall of some regiment receiving colours from the Queen. Incongruously, a vase of fresh spring flowers stood on the Governor’s desk.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Superintendent, but I’ve had rather a busy day.”
“That’s all right.” Raine was off-hand. “I’ve spoken to the Governor — they’re fetching Harris now.”
“Good. Incidentally, I went to see a girl named Sally Jackson this morning.”
“Midge’s girlfriend?” Raine said, unimpressed.
“Oh, so you know?”
“Yes.” Raine spoke with a degree of self-satisfaction. “She wasn’t at home, of course.”
“No, she was in the South of France, from what I was able to gather.’’
Temple’s expedition out to Camden Town had taken a long time and been unrewarding. He had walked miles tracking down the address Ken Sinclair had given him and when he found the ladies’ hairdressing salon it was closed and the blinds drawn. He tried the knocker of the front door beside it and after his second, more imperative knock it was opened by a slatternly woman. Sally Jackson, the woman told him, had left for Nice a fortnight ago, and had asked her to look after the place. Sally had left no forwarding address nor had she given any indication of when she might return.
“The South of France?” Raine chuckled. “That’s near enough. Soon after we picked up Midge, Sally suddenly came into money and decided to travel.’’
“Where did she get the money from, do you know?”
“Well, our bet is someone took care of her in order to stop Midge talking …”
Behind Raine the door had opened and a small man with a very erect carriage and a well-trimmed moustache had come in. Despite his size, he had a commanding presence and an easy, confident manner.
“Governor, may I introduce Mr Paul Temple?”
“How do you do, sir,” said Temple.
“How do you do, Mr Temple.” The Governor gave Temple a quick assessing scrutiny and apparently liked what he saw. “Delighted to meet you. Well, everything’s ready, Superintendent. He’s in the Chaplain’s room.”
‘’ How does he seem?’’
“Oh — surly,” the Governor said with resignation. “I doubt whether he’ll be very co-operative.”
“No,” Raine agreed. “Well — he’s all yours, Temple. I wish you luck.”
The Governor opened the door again. “This way, Mr Temple.”
Midge Harris was wa
iting uneasily in the Chaplain’s room, which had the impersonal air of a place that has several different users, none of whom wants to make it too expressive of his own personality or creed. Midge’s spare frame was too small to fill the prison uniform. His red hair, cropped short, gave him an aggressive look and his small eyes were suspicious.
Temple pulled the chair out from behind the table so that he would be on the same side of it as Midge.
“Sit down, Midge. Make yourself comfortable.”
“There ain’t no comfort in this place,” Midge said.
‘’ Well, have a cigarette.”
“What’s the big idea coming here, Mr Temple? What’s the game?”
“No game at all. I played straight enough with you last time, didn’t I?”
“Well —” Midge shrugged grudgingly and consented to sit down.
“Light your cigarette and relax. Here — “Temple handed him the packet he had bought for this purpose in Camden Town and struck a match. Midge selected a cigarette and leant forward over the flame.
“First I’ve had since they shoved me in this stinkin’ hole.”
“Yes, it was bad luck being picked up like that. I suppose you did do the job?”
“Is that what you’ve come to find out? The Beak said I done it.”
“Well, if the Beak said you done it — you done it.” Midge acknowledged the leg-pull with a wry jerk of his head, but he did not smile. “No, it’s nothing to do with that, Midge. I want your help over something else.’’
“Oh, yes?”
“Someone tried to murder me the other night.”
“Murder you?” Midge stared at Temple incredulously.
“Yes.”
“Go on — you’re kiddin’ …”
“No, I’m not kidding. It happened near Brighton at a place called Breakwater House. Have you ever been to Breakwater House, Midge?”
At the mention of Breakwater House, Midge’s eyes narrowed. He drew hard on his cigarette and blew out a smokescreen. “No, I ‘aven’t.”
“Now that surprises me, because they found your fingerprints there, in one of the rooms.”
“Who told you that?”
“Superintendent Raine.”
“He’s up the creek!” Midge expostulated. “How could my prints be at Breakwater House? I been stuck in this stinking place for three weeks.”
“I’m not suggesting that you were there recently, Midge, or that you had anything to do with the attempt on my life.’’
“Then what are you suggesting?”
Temple crossed his legs and leant an elbow on the back of his chair. “That you went to Breakwater House some little time ago and that the person who invited you there was the person who tried to murder me.’’
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about Margo — alias The Fence.”
“I’ve never ‘eard of anyone called Margo.” Midge had tensed up, he kept his eyes on the tip of his cigarette, avoiding Temple’s. “I ‘aven’t been to Brighton for years.”
“Then how do you account for the fingerprints?”
“I don’t know.” Midge ran a hand over the back of his head, rattled by the friendly but insistent questons. “I can’t account for ‘em. I expect it’s a frame-up — it usually is a bloody frame-up.”
“Midge, I don’t want to scare you, but you’re mixed up with a pretty ruthless crowd. Now, if I were you …”
“Well, you’re not me, Mr Temple,” Midge burst out with sudden violence. “So keep the effing advice to yourself!’’
“All right, Midge, if you won’t talk I’ll have to have another word with your girlfriend, Sally Jackson.”
Temple had stood up. Midge, who seemed even smaller hunched on the chair, blinked up at him.
“What d’yer mean — another word?”
“I saw her this afternoon in that hairdressing salon of hers, but she was working like a slave and she could hardly spare the time to talk to me.’’
“You saw her this afternoon? I don’t believe you.”
“All right. You don’t have to believe me, Midge.”
Midge jumped excitedly to his feet. “You made a mistake — that wasn’t Sal. She’s got pots of money now; she’s gone abroad somewhere.”
“That’s what you think!” Temple contemplated the agitated little crook with an expression of pity. “When she discovered I was a friend of yours she wanted to borrow fifty quid off me. That doesn’t sound as if she’s got pots of money, does it?”
When Temple returned to the Governor’s office he found the two men engaged in a discussion of the merits of the ‘short, sharp, shock’ method of dealing with young offenders. They broke off as he came in.
“Well, Temple, any luck?”
“Not much, I’m afraid, Governor. He’s a surly little devil, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Raine agreed, “and I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw the — the little — ‘’
Temple laughed. “You mean you wouldn’t trust him.”
The Governor stood up, his eyes straying to the pile of correspondence on his desk. “Well, is there anything else we can do for you, Superintendent?”
“No, thank you, sir. You’ve been extremely helpful and we’re very grateful to you for —”
“Yes, there is one small thing, Governor,” Temple cut in on Raine’s effusive thanks, “if you’d be kind enough.”
“Anything to help, Mr Temple.”
“During the next twenty-four hours a postcard will arrive for Harris — it’ll have a little drawing in the right-hand corner. I want you to make sure he gets it, the moment it arrives.”
“Yes, of course, but how do you know — “ The Governor stopped as he saw Temple smile. He nodded sagely. “I think I understand. I won’t ask who’s going to send it.”
“Sorry, Charlie, I left my key in the study.”
“That’s all right, Mr Temple.”
“Mrs Temple in the drawing-room?”
It was after seven and Temple was looking forward to a sherry before dinner.
“No, she’s gone out, sir. She went out about half an hour ago.”
“Oh? Where has she gone, do you know?”
“No, she didn’t say, but she seemed in quite a flap with … quite excited, Mr Temple.”
Charlie helped Temple off with his raincoat and hung it up.
“What do you mean, quite excited?”
“Well, it was just after Mrs Temple made the ‘phone call. She came into the kitchen and …”
“What ‘phone call? Who did Mrs Temple ring up?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Charlie was alarmed by the abrupt urgency in Temple’s voice. “I don’t know who it was, but about two minutes later Mrs Temple popped into the kitchen and said she was going out.”
“But she didn’t say anything else?”
“Oh, yes, sir. She said, ‘I’m going out, Charlie, but if Mr Temple gets home before I get back just say … ‘ Then she said a very funny thing.”
Temple tried to control his impatience. Charlie had this maddening tendency to spill his information into penny packets.
“Well — what did she say?”
‘’ She said just two words, Mr Temple.’’
“What two words, Charlie?”
Charlie reflected as if he was not sure now if he had remembered right. Then he suggested tentatively:
“Edgar Northampton?”
7: A Time To Worry
Steve had been in the study writing out some cheques when she’d heard the doorbell ring. It was a time of day when Charlie usually retired to his room — he was a compulsive listener to Woman’s Hour — and with his radio turned up he was deaf to all other sounds. When, after a long pause, the bell rang again, she went to answer it herself, half expecting to find Laura Kelburn on the doorstep again. But this visitor was a good deal less poised and confident. Mrs Fletcher was wearing a new red Marks and Spencer’s overcoat and a hat more suitab
le for a woman twenty years younger. She was very diffident and nervous.
“Mrs Temple?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like a word with your husband, Mrs Temple. Do you think I could possibly … Oh, I beg your pardon — I don’t think we’ve met. My name is Fletcher, I met your husband down at Westerton.’’
“I’m very sorry, but my husband isn’t in just at the moment. I’m expecting him back, though, if you’d care to wait.”
“Oh, dear! I thought this might happen. I should have ‘phoned of course, and made an appointment.”
“You can leave a message, Mrs Fletcher.”
“Well, I — I wanted to see your husband personally.” Mrs Fletcher’s manner changed, she became almost accusing.
“You see, Mrs Temple, your husband called at the garage — he questioned my son, Bill.”
“Yes, I know. Look, hadn’t you better come in? I’m expecting my husband back at any moment.”
Mrs Fletcher declined to remove hat or coat, and she insisted on Steve preceding her into the sitting-room.
“Bill’s a good boy, he’s as straight as a die. He has nothing to do with this business — nothing at all.”
“Which business are you referring to?”
“I’m talking about the murder — about Julia Kelburn.” Quite happy to repeat herself, she insisted: “Bill doesn’t know anything about it — nothing at all.”
“Do you know anything about it, Mrs Fletcher?”
“That’s not the point,” Mrs Fletcher said belligerently. “It’s my boy I’m concerned with — he’s the one I’m worried about at the moment. Now, you tell Mr Temple, to leave him alone! There’s no reason for your husband, or anyone else, to question Bill.”
“My husband has to question quite a lot of people who are not directly involved,” Steve said reasonably. “He always works that way. That helps him to decide which people are really implicated.”
“Yes, well, you tell him to leave Bill alone.”
“All right, Mrs Fletcher, I’ll do that. But I think you’re making a great mistake. My husband likes your son — he’s already told me so.”
“Then why did he question him like that?”
Paul Temple and the Margo Mystery Page 15