Paul Temple and the Kelby Affair

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘Well, there you are,’ she mumbled meaninglessly.

  ‘I wonder how he means to get back to London.’

  ‘Darling, come to bed. Your feet will get cold again, and you know I hate that. Kate can look after herself.’

  Paul slipped into bed, brushing a cold foot against Steve as he did so. ‘Poor Kate. I don’t really think you like her.’

  ‘She’s an absolute treasure, I know all about that, but I always expect her to break into a quick chorus of “Proceeding in a Westerly Direction” as she plugs in the vacuum cleaner. Do you think cold feet should rate as a ground for divorce? And anyway it’s rather an affectation to employ an ex-policewoman as a domestic help.’

  Paul turned out the bedside lamp and snuggled up to her warm body. ‘We pay her more than she earned as a WPC,’ he murmured.

  ‘Shut up and say something romantic.’

  Kate shuddered as she walked back to the village green. It was cold in the country. A few stray wisps of cloud were streaming across the face of the moon, but it was a cold night. The stars flickered icily. She thanked God for making her fat, though she called it generous, and leaped to one side as a maniac bore down on her in a fast car.

  ‘Maniac!’ she shouted angrily.

  She memorised the registration number as a conditioned reflex, it was her police training. Three seconds later she spun round and shouted again. ‘Hey, come back!’ It was Mr Temple’s Jaguar! But it was out of sight and on its way back to London.

  That morning Steve cooked the breakfast and burnt the toast. ‘I’m worried about Kate,’ she explained. ‘Did you see that the car is down in the mews? I do hope nothing has happened to her!’

  ‘Hypocrite,’ Paul laughed.

  ‘You know the kind of man we’re dealing with,’ Steve said heatedly. ‘She may be dead!’

  ‘I’ve already looked in the boot. It was empty.’

  ‘Who was that man she described?’

  Paul sighed. ‘It could have been anybody.’ He bit carefully into the toast and chewed thoroughly. ‘You know what police descriptions are like: medium build, dark complexion, everybody I know fits Kate’s description, except a few women. This toast is well done, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think you should ring up Scott Reed.’

  It was nice to see her slightly agitated first thing in the morning. Paul had been brought up on the myth that women looked like something else in the morning. Hair curlers and face cream, flesh unaccountably in the wrong places. As if women were assembled between eight o’clock and noon. But Steve was tiresomely neat and Steve as soon as she woke up. It was nice to see that she was less than perfect.

  ‘What did you do with this coffee?’ he asked provocatively. ‘It tastes as if you made it with tea.’

  ‘Darling, instead of being terribly witty, shouldn’t you be finding out what has happened to that poor woman?’

  He telephoned Scott Reed. It might sound a little odd, saying please can I have my cook back, but Scott had to know something of her whereabouts. And he sounded evasive, which confirmed Paul’s feeling.

  ‘No, I reached home safely,’ Scott assured him. ‘But it’s thoughtful of you to worry.’ There was a pause, during which Paul could envisage the publisher changing his mind and worrying and reversing his decisions. ‘As a matter of fact I bumped into an old friend when I left you, so nothing could have happened to me. He came all the way back to Hambledon.’

  ‘Who,’ Paul asked, trying to sound casual, ‘was that?’

  ‘Arthur Grover. He lives in one of the big houses here. Rather a dubious character, actually, we’ve always assumed he was a bit of a gangster. But last night I was glad about that, because Arthur thought we were being followed. I tell you, Paul, I’m rather jumpy.’

  ‘You were being followed,’ said Paul. ‘Kate Balfour trailed you down there. And now she’s missing.’

  ‘Kate? Missing?’ There was another pause. ‘Arthur wouldn’t have…It’s only our joke, over in the pub, about him being a gangster. Perhaps I should have a word with him.’

  Paul Temple spent an hour or so checking on Mr Arthur Grover. It was a name that sounded familiar, and Paul prided himself on knowing most of the gangsters in London and the south east. But somehow it was a name he associated with America. Las Vegas. What was a man who belonged on the American club circuit doing in Surrey?

  ‘I fancy a quick drink before lunch,’ said Paul. ‘Are you coming down to the corner?’

  Steve looked aghast. ‘You’ve only just had breakfast. Isn’t this a little early for quick drinks?’

  ‘I’ll make it a tomato juice.’

  ‘There’s some in the fridge—’

  The pub on the corner was crowded, but with the best people. No petty criminals or amateur prostitutes. Strictly the better class of criminals and showbiz people, rich business men with expensive girls. It was the best place outside Soho to keep in touch with what was happening, and Eric was a useful barman. More, he was a friend.

  Paul nodded amiably to a couple of plain-clothes detectives alone in the corner of the bar. They were also keeping in touch. It was better than pounding the pavements.

  ‘Hello, Mr Temple,’ said Eric as they reached the bar. ‘I didn’t know you were back from the States.’

  ‘I arrived back on Wednesday. What shall we have, Steve?’

  ‘A martini for me,’ she said sweetly, ‘and you were going to have a tomato juice.’ She leaned across for the Worcester sauce. Even the most trendy of pubs were, in her opinion, for men.

  ‘I’m trying to find out something about a man called Arthur Grover,’ Paul said when the drinks came. ‘Have you heard of him?’

  ‘Arthur? Yes, of course. What’s he been up to?’

  ‘I wish I knew. Who is he?’

  ‘Arthur? He runs the Casino Club in Reigate Street. Runs it with Neville the Nob. I thought you met him in Las Vegas—’

  It all clicked into place. Paul could almost see the face.

  He had met Arthur Grover briefly about three years ago. There had been some confusion over their seats, and while the management sorted it out Paul and Arthur Grover had done the English thing and had a drink together. Mr Grover had given the impression that he was a club tycoon over there to study American methods.

  ‘What does he look like?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Well,’ said Eric, ‘medium build, dark complexion—’

  ‘Oh shut up.’ Paul laughed. ‘Is he straight?’

  ‘Good lord no!’

  Steve was listening in blank disbelief. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘If this man Grover is behind the theft of the diary and a murder then Scott Reed must be implicated as well. And I don’t believe Scott would go to all the trouble of bringing Kelby into it when he could simply have handed over the diary in a Hambledon pub. Anyway, Scott is quite incapable of deception. He’s the sort of person who would be found out if he forgot to pay his fare on the bus. Why would he harm Kate?’

  ‘I think we need answers to all those points,’ said Paul. ‘Eric, can I make a phone call?’

  Paul looked up the telephone number and then rang the Casino Club. It was difficult to persuade them to put him through to Grover, until he mentioned the name of Temple. Then Arthur Grover was on the line instantly.

  ‘I had the pleasure of meeting you three years back,’ said Paul. ‘In Las Vegas. Dean Martin was doing the floor show.’

  Arthur Grover sounded cautious. He muttered something non-committal about Dean being a great little artiste. He sounded as if he were talking round a cigar, and there was the trace of an American accent.

  ‘I wanted to thank you for returning my car this morning,’ said Paul. ‘I would have been sorry to lose that Jaguar. But I wondered when I could expect my cook to be returned.’

  ‘Your cook?’

  ‘She followed you back with Scott Reed last night.’ A sudden edge entered Paul’s voice, an edge of menace. ‘I get hungry when I don’t eat, Grover, and then I get vicious. Now
, are we going to be civilised and have a talk together?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he began. But then he thought better of argument. ‘I’ll see you at Scott’s home this afternoon. I want to talk to you anyway.’

  The A3 was a strange road, especially since the Guildford bypass had changed everything and traffic drifted automatically out to Hindhead and towards Petersfield. In that part of the country Paul always fell into reveries about Freeman Wills Crofts, and he ended up theorising about the art of the whodunnit, then he missed the road to Chiddingfold. Paul tried to think about his serious study of death. Out there to the right Mike Hawthorne had been killed, and farther on a sailor had been hanged near Hindhead. Violent deaths. Gratuitous even.

  He looked at the countryside instead. That had a pattern, a seasonal repetition. The gorse and bracken were much the same as they must have been a million years ago. The gorse grey and lying across the ground like wire at this time of the year, ferns green and not yet tall, weak and succulent. They were the only plants that could thrive unaided in the Surrey sand. And now, a million years later, the ferns still made excellent spears for small boys to throw at each other.

  Paul arrived in Hambledon at half past three.

  Arthur Grover turned out to be a sleek, sinister character with a lot of bustling energy and a cigar-waving self-confidence. Paul remembered him as soon as he saw him. He was not a man who would be easy to intimidate. But he shook hands with Paul and growled hello.

  They went through into Scott’s living room, where the publisher was serving tea. It was not a scene into which Soho mobsters fitted easily. Paul sat by the window and waited while the tea cups were handed round. The view from the window was a grey-green expanse of common rising to the convent school on the hill.

  ‘I’m sorry, Paul,’ Scott Reed began nervously. ‘I should have told you when you telephoned this morning. But I didn’t know what to say.’

  ‘Why, what happened?’

  ‘Mr Grover was waiting for me when I left you last night.’

  Paul turned to Arthur Grover. ‘I think you might as well do the talking.’

  Arthur Grover bit into a small sandwich while he considered. ‘I wanted to know what was going on. I read in the papers about Kelby being dead, and I wanted to know what had happened. You see, I stole the diary from Kelby, but I didn’t kill him.’

  Paul nodded. That made sense. ‘I always said that Scott Reed ought not to be allowed to mix with the real world. There are too many people like you about, and Scott gets himself into trouble.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Scott blustered. ‘Mr Grover is a neighbour. You don’t even know what happened, Paul.’

  ‘I can guess. I expect you talked to Mr Grover in the saloon bar one evening, over there in the pub on the green where you both play the game of country squires. You probably told him about this extraordinary diary that you meant to publish.’

  ‘I may have done—’

  ‘You wouldn’t have known that Neville Delamore was the respectable half of the Grover–Delamore partnership who own the Casino Club in Reigate Street, the English half.’ Paul Temple smiled at Grover. ‘Arthur Grover is an American, so he has to have a respectable front man to satisfy the Gaming Board. Has he never boasted to you of his aristocratic friends?’

  Grover glowered round his cigar. ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘Not at all, but you are slightly vulnerable, Mr Grover. You know how nervous we are in this country of our gambling clubs being controlled by outsiders. I suppose if Neville Delamore needed a diary retrieving to preserve his family name you could scarcely refuse.’

  ‘He’s a bit of a snob like that,’ said Grover, ‘and he didn’t want his mother to be hurt. But Neville’s a good boy. He didn’t ask me any favours. I said I’d get the diary back.’

  Paul shrugged. ‘Just like that.’

  ‘Yes, just like that,’ he said, angrily stubbing out his cigar. ‘I have the manpower. It was no trouble. On Monday morning a gang of us went out to Melford Cross and picked up Kelby. The intention was to hold him until his secretary handed over the diary. But to our surprise we found that wasn’t necessary.’

  ‘Because,’ Paul prompted, ‘Kelby had the diary on him when you picked him up.’

  ‘Right, Mr Temple. Unfortunately the old boy guessed what we were up to; there was a struggle and he was knocked unconscious. Some of my men are over-excitable, and I had to speak to Bates afterwards. Later that day, after Kelby had recovered, we left him in the shed at the bottom of his garden.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Paul.

  ‘I telephoned the house and told Ronnie Kelby his father was safe, and that he’d find him in the gardener’s shed.’

  Paul was thoughtful. ‘You spoke to Ronnie Kelby yourself?’

  ‘I did indeed.’

  Paul turned to the nervous publisher, who was nodding enthusiastically. ‘That’s it, Paul, that’s what Mr Grover told me last night. I said he should tell you the whole truth. He didn’t murder anybody.’ He glanced nervously at Grover. ‘At least, that was what he told me.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t murder Kelby. I stole the diary, that’s all.’

  ‘And gave it to Neville Delamore?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And what about Kate Balfour? What did you do with her?’

  Arthur Grover sighed irritably. ‘What would you do if you found someone on your tail? I put the boys onto her to find out who the hell she was. Since then she’s been up at my house, waiting for the outcome of our little discussion.’ He lit another cigar. ‘So what is the outcome?’

  ‘I believe you, but I can’t guarantee the police won’t take action against you for stealing the diary, or whatever charge they might come up with after the case is cleared up. And I can’t guarantee that your gambling licence will be renewed.’

  Paul saw the sturdy figure of Kate Balfour striding across the common towards the house. She looked forbiddingly fit and purposive. A few hours’ detention never harmed a policewoman. Paul grinned at the sight. He felt slightly sorry for the man who had been her gaoler. He went to the door to meet her.

  ‘But,’ he called back to Arthur Grover, ‘I’ll tell Inspector Vosper you play by the rules. He likes that in a crook.’

  Paul held open the door of the Jaguar to Kate and kissed her on the cheek. She smiled sheepishly and sat in the passenger seat.

  ‘I’m sorry, Paul,’ she said as they drove back. ‘I didn’t realise he would have a gang at his disposal.’

  Paul laughed. ‘Don’t apologise. You did a splendid job, Kate, and I’m grateful.’

  ‘Immediately after he drove off in your Jaguar four men leaped on me.’

  ‘That only goes to show you are as young as you feel.’

  She smiled severely. ‘Did we get anywhere today, as a result?’

  ‘I think we did, Kate. We discovered the case is more complicated than it might have been. But that’s not your fault.’

  He swung out onto the Guildford bypass and increased speed to seventy miles an hour. It seemed a great pity to whizz through the Surrey countryside without looking at it again. But there were more pressing things than nature for the moment. For one thing Paul was hungry.

  Chapter 8

  THE missing blonde appeared on Saturday.

  Kelby was being buried in the village churchyard at Melford Cross. It had been discreetly arranged by Tracy Leonard, to avoid the kind of spectacular which Kelby would have found distasteful. No ghouls or rubbernecks, simply a few close friends, the family, and Detective Inspector Charlie Vosper. Some thirty-five people filed out of the tiny fourteenth-century church and followed the coffin to the graveside.

  ‘So Neville Chamberlain will have to wait a few more years,’ a distinguished historian murmured to Paul Temple. ‘There aren’t many of us with Kelby’s moral courage.’

  Paul watched the strangely formal ritual of lowering the coffin, inaudible prayers swept away on the April winds, the scat
tering of the first handfuls of earth onto the box. Kelby’s death was wantonly unnecessary, Paul reflected; at least when the Duke of Clarence was drowned in a vat of malmsey the English throne was at stake.

  Tracy Leonard was wiping away a single tear. She looked classical in her grief, tall like Electra and dressed in black. Whereas Ronnie Kelby was flushed and furious, as if he thought that his father had let him down again. At the end of the ceremony he turned swiftly away and strode towards the wrought-iron gates.

  There was another woman in mourning standing separate from the main congregation. She was the blonde, and the black dress, the veil across her face, made her look alabaster white. It seemed as if everybody else at the funeral knew who she was, Paul sensed, because they pointedly ignored her. She was a source of embarrassment.

  Leo and Gladys were looking out of place, lurking among the people by the graveside as if they had no right to be there, servants among the gentry. When most other people had gone and the gravedigger began filling in the grave Leo Ashwood remained staring. The blonde in black smiled at Leo as she left, but he stared bleakly through her. He didn’t move until the coffin had been completely covered, and then he left without a word.

  Paul caught up with the blonde and fell into step beside her. ‘Good morning. We’ve met before, at Scott Reed’s New Year party. I’m Paul Temple. I’m sorry we meet again under such unhappy circumstances.’

  ‘So am I,’ she said without much interest. Her voice was soft, and all trace of a regional accent had been diligently removed. ‘I remember you. You’re a detective novelist. I read one of your books after that party. It didn’t have much sex in it.’

  Paul was taken aback. ‘Did you guess who did it?’ he asked helplessly.

  ‘No. I still didn’t know when I finished the book.’

  Paul had a feeling he had been outpointed. ‘I understand you used to live in Melford.’

  ‘Of course.’ She turned with a radiantly artificial smile. ‘And how nice it is to be back home!’

  They had reached the gates of the cemetery. Detective Inspector Vosper was standing there waiting beside his police car. ‘Hello, Jennie,’ he said, opening the police car door. Jennie got into the car without a murmur. The waft of her scent remained in the air to remind Paul she had been beside him.