Oscar glanced instinctively at the door, then contemplated Temple with new eyes.
“Have you got the rest of the stuff, then?” he asked, with almost awed respect.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Don’t be silly.” Temple laughed. “Do you think I’m going to tell you that?”
“Why did you come here?” Realisation was dawning on Oscar. “You didn’t want a dog collar—”
“Of course I didn’t. I’m in a spot, I’ve got to get rid of this stuff, it’s red hot. Look, if you’re prepared to help me I’ll cut you in …”
“Listen, pal — don’t get me wrong. I’m not The Fence, I’m just the go-between. How do I know this bracelet is genuine, anyway?”
“Doesn’t it look genuine?”
“Oh, yes, it looks genuine.” Oscar’s wheezy chuckle came from the depths of his belly. “But so does the dog collar.”
“Well, what do I do — ditch the stuff? I’ve got God knows how much stuff tucked away in …” Temple picked up the bracelet, angry and frustrated. “Okay, if you’re not interested …”
“No, wait a minute!” Oscar put a hand over Temple’s, holding it down. “He’ll have to see this bracelet, you know — he’ll have to examine it.”
“That’s all right by me. I’ll leave the bracelet with you. How long will it take him to make up his mind?”
Oscar picked the bracelet up. From the drawer he took a jeweller’s magnifying glass and fitted it into one eye. He peered at the bracelet from a range of three inches.
“About forty-eight hours. Come back on Thursday morning.”
8: The Visitor
Though he’d had the lucky break he needed, though he knew who The Fence was, though he had a plan to secure conclusive evidence Paul Temple could do nothing further without the help of Wally Stone. And Wally Stone was taking his time. While Forbes was kept busy by the repercussions of the Bond Street burglary and Raine persevered with the laborious procedures of a multiple murder investigation, Temple occupied himself by typing out the final version of his latest book.
He had done about ten thousand words — several days’ work — before his enforced period of waiting ended. He had been over to the London Library one morning to verify some dates and locations. When he arrived home a little after midday Steve informed him that ‘his friend’ had turned up and was waiting for him in the sitting-room.
“What friend?”
“You know, the one who’s not a pantomime cat.”
“Oh, Wally Stone! How long has he been here?”
“About ten minutes. We had a nice little chat. Is he a clergyman, Paul?”
Temple laughed. “Not exactly, darling.”
Wally Stone did indeed look more like a pillar of the church than a retired cat burglar. His dark suit was well-cut, his shoes hand-tooled, his hands carefully manicured. His features had the aesthetic quality of a philosopher and his speech was that of an old-fashioned schoolmaster.
“Good afternoon, Mr Stone. Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
Wally moved away from the mantelpiece, where he had been admiring a Faberge box.
“Good afternoon, Mr Temple. Mr Sinclair told me that you were anxious to see me and as I just happened to be in Town for the day …”
“Yes, that’s right. Would you care for a glass of sherry?”
Wally nodded graciously. “Thank you, Mr Temple, that would be very agreeable.” Temple went to the drinks cabinet to pour two glasses. “What a delightful room. I’ve been admiring your fireplace.’’
“Yes, it is rather pleasant, isn’t it?”
When handed his glass Wally held it to the light, inspecting its colour before taking an appreciative sip.
“Mr Stone,” Temple began, as the two men sat down, “I’m sure you’d prefer that I didn’t beat about the bush, and came straight to the point. I’m working with the police on an important case — unfortunately our investigations are held up because we’ve failed to secure a vital piece of evidence.”
“Yes?” said Wally quietly, his interest sharpening.
“Well, it seems that the only way for us to get this evidence is for someone to break into a certain house and — search for it.”
“I see. And I take it, that’s why I’m here?”
“Yes. And there is acertain urgency about this.”
“And what is this piece of evidence, exactly?”
“It’s a diamond and ruby bracelet. It belongs to my wife.”
“Your wife?” Wally was not easily taken aback, but his thick black eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Then the bracelet was stolen from you?”
“Don’t worry too much about the finer details of this assignment, Wally,” Temple said smiling. He handed Wally a card. “Here’s the address. If you don’t find the bracelet, give me a ring. If you do — come straight back here.”
Wally stared at the card, memorising the address, then handed it back. “And what if anything goes wrong?”
“Nothing must go wrong. However, if you do get into trouble, don’t worry, I’ll get you out of it.”
“Very well, Mr Temple. I’ll be pleased to deal with this little assignment for you.’’
“You haven’t asked me what the job’s worth.”
Wally pondered for a moment. He was reluctant to discuss the commercial aspect of the matter but realised that some agreement should be made.
“Well, what is it worth? Ten per cent of the value of the bracelet?”
Temple laughed at this very modest claim. “We’ll talk about that later.”
“Anyway, it isn’t so much the money, Mr Temple, it’s the nostalgia that appeals to me. It’ll be just like old times. Life’s so tedious since I retired …”
“Yes, well, don’t forget,” Temple warned, “We’re only interested in the bracelet.” He didn’t want Wally to become over-enthusiastic.
During lunch Temple parried Steve’s questions about Wally. She could tell that they were cooking up some plot together and her natural curiosity was aroused. Charlie had brought the coffee into the sitting-room when the telephone rang. Sir Graham Forbes was ringing from Scotland Yard and his news was disturbing.
“We’ve had a message through from Westerton, Temple. You know that woman who worked for Dr Benkaray?”
“Mrs Fletcher, yes.”
“She has a son —”
“That’s right — Bill. He runs the garage.”
“He was knocked down by a car early this morning. He’s in Westerton Hospital.”
“Is he badly hurt?”
“Yes, I’m afraid he is. We don’t know what happened, exactly. The car didn’t stop. But the point is, Temple, the boy’s asking for his mother and we just don’t know where she is. She’s not at the garage.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. When Steve saw her the other morning she said she was leaving for Australia.’’
“She hasn’t been in touch with either of you since then?”
“No. For all I know she’s left already.”
“She hasn’t. Raine has checked with the airlines. She’s got a BA booking for tonight. Flight BA 109 to Melbourne. We’ll just have to wait till then.”
“What time does it leave?”
“The take-off is scheduled for nine fifteen. She’ll be checking in by eight fifteen.”
“Sir Graham —”
“Yes?”
“I’ve got a suggestion to make.”
“What is it?”
“Don’t send Raine to the airport. Let Steve deal with Mrs Fletcher.”
Heathrow Airport, and especially Terminal 3, brought back memories of that night when she had come here to meet Temple. Steve steeled herself as she drove into the multi-storey car park, up the giddily twisting spiral ramp to the fourth level where she at last found space. She locked the car and made a careful note of its position. Mrs Fletcher would have to check in before 8.15, but it was likely that she would leave herself a wider margin than that and Stev
e did not want to take any chances. It was only 7.30 when she took the lift down to ground level.
The departure hall was thronged with a milling crowd of men, women and children of every nationality. Most of them were suffering from pre-flight nerves, intent on their own problems. Jostled and shoved, she had to push her way through to the British Airways desk. A helpful, but somewhat remote girl in her blue and white uniform consented to find out if Mrs Fletcher had checked in yet. Steve was grateful for modern computerisation when the information came back within seconds. Mrs Fletcher had already registered her baggage but there was no way of telling whether she had yet passed through Emigration into the Departure Lounge. If she had, Steve would have lost her.
“I can put out a call for her on the public address system,” the BA girl suggested.
Steve hesitated. The sound of her name booming out through the terminal could send Mrs Fletcher scuttling for refuge in the Departure Lounge.
She said: “I’ll see if I can find her and if I can’t I’ll come back.”
The girl nodded and turned her attention to the next passenger.
Struggling through the crowd Steve checked the cafeteria, the shops, the bank, and even the ladies’ lavatories. But there was no sign of a middle-aged English woman with rosy cheeks and a matronly bosom. Steve climbed the stairs to the balcony, which ran round the main hall. From here she could look down on the people below and also watch the entrance to the Departure Lounge. Her luck was in. On the opposite side, seated on one of the upholstered benches, was a lone woman. Her head was bent as she rummaged in her flight bag, but Steve recognised the hat. It was the one Mrs Fletcher had worn when she came to visit the flat. She seemed reluctant to take the final decisive step of passing through Emigration which would separate her from England, her garage, and Bill.
Steve sauntered casually round the balcony, hoping she would not look up.
“Good evening, Mrs Fletcher,” she said quietly.
Mrs Fletcher started and her head jerked up. “Why — It’s Mrs Temple!”
“That’s right.” Steve sat down beside her. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Mrs Fletcher.”
Mrs Fletcher was suspicious and faintly hostile. “What is it you want?”
Steve’s reply was drowned by the loudspeakers making yet another announcement.
“Passengers on Flight 109 to Melbourne should proceed to the Departure Lounge now. Boarding will commence in thirty minutes.”
“That’s my flight!” Mrs Fletcher grabbed her flight bag. “I must go …”
Steve put out a restraining hand. “Wait a minute, Mrs Fletcher! I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.”
“This is a trick! I know what you’re up to! It’s a trick to try and stop me from …”
“Bill’s had a serious accident. He’s in Westerton Hospital.”
Steve had intended to break the news more gently but Mrs Fletcher’s panic and suspicion had forced her to be brutally open. The woman’s chin dropped.
“I don’t believe you!”
“It’s true, I assure you.”
“What — what happened?”
“He was knocked down by a car early this morning. The car didn’t stop. Whether it was an accident or not we don’t know.’’
“How bad is he?”
“Well, he’s on the danger list. He wants to see you, Mrs Fletcher. He keeps asking for you.”
Mrs Fletcher stared at Steve, her lips trembling as she fought with conflicting emotions. “If this isn’t true — if this is some kind of a plot to keep me from leaving …”
“Look, Mrs Fletcher,” Steve burst out with genuine anger and frustration, “if you want to catch that plane, catch it! I’m not stopping you! I promised my husband I’d see you and tell you what had happened. It’s up to you whether you believe me or not!”
Mrs Fletcher shook her head. She looked towards the entrance to the Departure Lounge and then back at Steve.
“You say he’s in Westerton Hospital?”
“Yes. In the Casualty Ward. You can ring the hospital if you like. Westerton 824.”
“No … No, I believe you. This accident, Mrs Temple. You say the car didn’t stop?”
“That’s right.”
“I ought to have realised something like this would happen,” Mrs Fletcher said, and then with sudden venom, “The bastard!”
Steve knew she had won her confidence.
“I’ve got my car outside. I’ll run you straight down to Westerton.”
“Thank you, Mrs Temple, but what about my baggage? It’s already registered and my ticket’s been —”
Steve picked up the flight bag and took Mrs Fletcher’s arm.
“Don’t worry, my husband will take care of that for you. Come along, Mrs Fletcher. Stay close to me.”
Charlie had gone to bed at eleven o’clock and, as usual, had immediately fallen asleep. The telephone ringing had disturbed him briefly, but it had been answered almost at once. Then, a few hours later he woke again with a sense that something was wrong. He could not identify the sound that had alerted him; it could have been a door closing. He switched on the light and peered at his alarm clock. It was two o’clock, give or take a few minutes. He got up, put on a dressing-gown — one of Mr Temple’s discarded garments — over his pyjamas and went out to the hall. From the study he could hear the steady tap of the typewriter. Impelled by his insatiable curiosity, he barged in without knocking and stopped, pretending to be surprised.
“Oh, sorry, Mr Temple …”
Temple was sitting in front of the typewriter on his desk, which was covered with papers. He swivelled round in his chair.
“Anything wrong, Charlie?”
“No, sir, but I heard a noise. I didn’t know you were in here.”
“Sorry if I disturbed you,” Temple said drily.
“No, that’s all right, Mr Temple. It’s two o’clock in the morning, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Is Mrs Temple still out?”
“Yes, she’s still out.” Temple smiled at Charlie’s disapproving shake of the head. “It’s all right, Charlie, she’s not on the tiles, if that’s what you’re thinking. I know where she is. She had to go down to Westerton.’’
“Oh, I see.” Charlie brightened. “Well, would you like me to get some coffee, Mr Temple, while you’re waiting for her?”
“No, I’m all right. Just leave me, Charlie, I want to get on with …” He stopped at the sound of the front door opening and closing. “Is that the front door?”
“Yes, it must be Mrs Temple!” No father, hearing his teenage daughter returning after an evening date, could have looked more relieved than Charlie.
“Paul!”
“I’m in the study, darling.”
Steve came in, thrusting the car keys into her handbag. She was tired, but triumphant. “Paul, you shouldn’t have waited up. Or you, Charlie!”
“Good evening —” Charlie cleared his throat. “I mean — morning, Mrs Temple.”
“Charlie,” Temple said, “I think we’ll take you up on that offer of some coffee.’’
“Yes, that’s a wonderful idea!” Steve took off her coat and threw it over the back of a chair.
“Okay. Right away, Mrs Temple!” Charlie hurried into the kitchen.
‘’ Well, how did you get on, Steve?’’
Temple exchanged his desk chair for one of the leather armchairs. Steve took the other, stretching her arms and legs.
“It all went according to plan. Mrs Fletcher was a bit suspicious at first, but eventually she realised I was telling the truth.”
“And what about Bill?”
“He’s had the operation and he’s still very ill, but they think he’ll pull through. Mrs Fletcher was so relieved when she heard he’d got over the operation that she agreed to do everything you wanted. She’s staying the night at the hospital. I said we’d drive down there tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“
She’s very bitter about Dr Benkaray, Paul. You know, I’m sure Mrs Fletcher isn’t really a crook — at least, not a professional one.”
“I never thought she was. And that’s the danger, Steve. The other people realise that, too. They know she’s the weakest link in the chain. But tell me, what else did she say?”
“She explained about the coat that was found in my car with the name Margo in it. It appears that just about then Mrs Fletcher discovered the gang had extended its activities and were going in for drug smuggling.’’
“And she disapproved?”
“She certainly did! Particularly when she discovered that she’d been distributing drugs without realising it. You see, from time to time they asked her to take certain coats down to Brighton. The coats were handed over to Margo, the fortune teller, who distributed the drugs.”
“The drugs were concealed in the coats, then?”
“Yes. That explains why they were so heavy. Anyway, when they gave Mrs Fletcher another coat to deliver she decided she wouldn’t and that she’d tell them so. Larry Cross was just leaving for Heathrow when she tackled him about it. The argument continued all the way to the airport. Finally, Cross lost his temper, pushed her to one side, and concentrated on the matter in hand …”
“Which was the kidnapping of you?”
“Yes. Mrs Fletcher was furious, and she tossed the coat into my car and caught the Underground back to Town. She thought Cross would return to the car and pick up the coat.’’
“I see. Did she let you into any more of her secrets?”
“She admitted that she tipped us off about the fortune teller, then tricked the woman into telling us about Breakwater House. You know, Paul, I can’t help but think that we owe a great deal to … Are you expecting anyone?”
A long peal on the doorbell had sounded very loud at this hour of the night.
“Yes,” said Temple calmly. “Wally Stone. He ‘phoned a couple of hours ago.”
Wally was as gracious as ever when a scandalised Charlie showed him in. He was wearing the same sober suit as on the previous occasion. The right jacket pocket was bulging.
“Sorry I could not be here sooner, Mr Temple,” he said, when he had greeted Steve with his usual courtesy. “But I did not like to come in my working clothes.’’
Paul Temple and the Margo Mystery Page 18