Paul Temple Intervenes

by Francis Durbridge

  “I’m sorry,” said Temple definitely.

  “But look here, Mr. Temple, if it’s a question of money, I know J.C. will be quite willing to—”

  “No, no,” interposed Temple. “I’d have been glad to help you, Mr. Jefferson, but it just isn’t possible. I have other plans.”

  The Programme Supervisor pleaded for some minutes, but Temple remained firm, and finally he rang off. As he replaced the receiver, Steve asked: “Darling, what are your other plans?”

  Temple flung himself into an armchair and lighted a cigarette.

  “I’m afraid this is very sudden – upsets our trip. But it just can’t be helped.”

  “Is it something to do with that message you’ve just read?” she inquired. He nodded.

  “By Timothy, that reminds me, I must send a reply.” He went to retrieve his code book, then hesitated. “No,” he decided, “I’ll do it in the morning before we start.”

  “Start? Where to?”

  He blew a cloud of smoke into the air. “Back to England, Steve,” he announced calmly.

  It was fortunate that Steve’s experience as a reporter had accustomed her to acting swiftly, and she was up before six-thirty the next morning packing and sending telegrams to secretaries and organisers who were expecting them to lecture at their various gatherings.

  At ten o’clock Temple left her still busily occupied, and, having translated his message into code, strolled round to the broadcasting station, to find that the blonde at the information desk had been replaced by a red-head who was even smarter on the uptake.

  “Oh Mr. Temple, it’s a real thrill to meet you in person,” she blithely informed him. “I heard you on the air last night. Say, I do like your voice – it’s so English.”

  Temple smiled his acknowledgment, then stated his errand.

  “I understand I can send a code message from here on the short-wave to England.”

  “That’s right,” she agreed. “But talking of code messages, there’s one waiting here for you.”

  “I got it last night, thanks,” he replied, politely.

  “Oh no you didn’t,” she insisted. “It only came through this morning just after I signed on.”

  Without further ado, she handed him another blue envelope. Temple surveyed it in some bewilderment.

  “I think I’d better postpone sending my message until I find out what’s in this,” he decided at last, and, bidding the receptionist a pleasant good morning, returned to his hotel.

  Steve was just putting the finishing touches to their packing when she noticed him puzzling over the flimsy.

  “What’s the trouble, Paul?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t make this out,” he admitted. “The message is in the secret Home Office code: yet it comes from a complete stranger.”

  “Does it make sense?”

  He passed over the slip of paper, and Steve read:

  I’ll be expecting you, Mr. Temple – The Marquis.

  CHAPTER TWO

  RIVER PATROL

  Sergeant Rupert Josiah Carrington Briggs skillfully guided the narrow police launch through the churning wake of an overloaded tramp steamer and past the gaunt cranes and warehouses which were dimly silhouetted against the heavy night sky. There came the distant rumble of a storm somewhere beyond Greenwich, and a gust of wind rippled across the water, bringing a scurry of raindrops in its train.

  Briggs had the heavy jowl of a typical Yorkshire-man which gave the effect of an almost perpetual frown, particularly when he was steering the launch with the aid of a single heavily shielded headlamp.

  He shivered and tightened the strap of his sou’wester.

  “If this is the Thames,” he declared, in an embittered tone, “you can have it!”

  A broad grin split the Cockney features of his companion, Sergeant Hanmer, who had been born within the sound of the river traffic, and had an extensive knowledge of the famous waterway in all its moods. No aspect of the river which carried such a strange assortment of cargoes ever seemed to disturb Hanmer. He began to fasten up his oilskins as he observed cheerfully: “I told you to look out for a bit of real life on the old river!”

  An empty crate bumped into the side and vanished in their wake. Briggs cursed softly and changed the course a fraction.

  “A hell of a night!” he shuddered, as the shower of rain developed into a sudden torrent.

  “Not fit for a dog! Have to slow her down.”

  “If you go much slower, we’ll get swept away by the tide,” chuckled Hanmer, who seemed to be enjoying himself. They were making about four knots by this time, and the rush of rain had obscured all sounds save the steady beat of the engine and the occasional hoot of a tramp steamer’s siren. The darkness seemed to have reached its maximum intensity, and Hanmer prepared his electric lamp ready for any emergency. Together, they steered unblinkingly through the sheets of rain. Once or twice, Briggs sounded his hooter in a tentative fashion. After a few minutes, the rain almost stopped and the sky lightened a little until they could see very faintly the dim outline of the right bank.

  Sergeant Briggs shook the raindrops from his sou’wester and ruminated feelingly on the topic that was always in his mind at such moments as these. Had he been wise to turn down that offer of a job from his wife’s father? A nice, steady, nine-till-five job, with an office to himself and a chance of a partnership later on. If only it had been something a bit more exciting than dealing in grate polish! Still, there was a lot to be said for regular hours, leisurely meals, and slippers waiting at the fireside. Sergeant Briggs sighed wistfully.

  Hanmer suddenly shook himself like a terrier, and pushed his sou’wester on to the back of his head. Then he took a blackened pipe out of his pocket and thrust it unlighted between his teeth.

  “How long have you been in the Force?” he asked presently, in a casual tone. It was Hanmer’s stock conversational gambit. He didn’t really want to know. What he did want was an opportunity to embark upon an account of his own varied career.

  “Me?” muttered Briggs, straining his eyes in the direction of the dim outline of a Norwegian freighter. “Seventeen years.”

  “Blimey!” ejaculated the other, in some surprise. “You’ve got longer whiskers than I ‘ave!”

  Briggs nodded solemnly. “I joined in August, 1925. I was with the L.C.C. before that.”

  “Salvage?” queried Hanmer, the twinkle in his eyes going unseen.

  “Not ruddy likely! I was a Grade One clerk,” snapped Briggs. Then he heaved a sigh. “All the same, it was very tedious. I reckon I must have filled in best part of a million forms of one sort or another in the four years I was there.”

  Hanmer laughed.

  “Talk about tediousness, you want this job reg’lar. Up and down the ole river night after night.”

  He sucked at his pipe reflectively.

  “Before this I had a nice little beat in Hampstead. Not much doing, but plenty of good grub in one or two kitchens I could mention. I remember once when I—”

  He broke off abruptly and leaned over the side of the boat, gazing intently at a grey object which was only just visible. His electric lamp flashed, startling Briggs.

  “Swing her round, mate,” said Hanmer, softly. Briggs immediately shut off his engine, and the boat nosed its way silently towards the grey object which Hanmer kept focused in a circle of light from his torch. Retaining a cautious hand on the wheel, Briggs leaned forward.

  “Good God, it’s a woman!” he exclaimed as they came within easy reach.

  “Not much more’n a kid, I reckon,” grunted Hanmer, focusing his light on the face and hair. As they came alongside, Hanmer leaned over and managed to bring the girl’s head and shoulders almost into the boat. “Give us a hand,” he gasped, and Briggs left the wheel to take care of itself for a moment.

  Within a few seconds, they had laid the dripping figure of the girl along the well of the motor boat. Hanmer pushed back the sodden hair and whistled softly to himself.
/>   “Another of ‘em. She’s a goner all right. Looks like she’s been in the river for hours.”

  “What about trying artificial—” Briggs was starting to suggest, but the other cut him short.

  “She’s been dead hours. I know the signs. Not a bad looking kid,” he decided. “We ain’t pulled out a real good looker since that houseboat murder – she was an actress – not that she looked much when we got her out.”

  Briggs was paying no attention, but had stooped and unfastened the blue mackintosh that clung to the girl’s figure. His start of surprise distracted Hanmer who was busy extricating a bulky notebook from an inner pocket.

  “What is it? What’ve you got there?”

  With clumsy cold fingers, Briggs was unfastening a small square of white cardboard which was pinned to the girl’s dress. Hanmer picked up his electric lamp, and together they examined the sodden pasteboard. Two words were carelessly scrawled in Indian ink. “Good God!” whistled Hanmer. “The Marquis!” It must be recorded that Sergeant Rupert Josiah Carrington Briggs experienced an extremely unpleasant sensation in the pit of the stomach.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CRISIS AT SCOTLAND YARD

  Sir Graham Forbes, Chief Commissioner at New Scotland Yard, was a firm believer in method – and an even greater believer in his own method. And his severest critics amongst the younger members of his staff had to admit that the Chief Commissioner’s methods, evolved over a period of many years’ experience, usually proved successful. They might provide a number of minor irritants; they might even appear to retard the incidence of Justice, but in the end they were invariably effective. Comparative strangers might deride his absorption in minor routine, but Forbes went his way entirely undeterred. His system had stood so many tests, that he had the utmost confidence in its efficiency.

  True, he had encountered one or two setbacks recently in the case of The Marquis murders which were being accorded such extravagant publicity by the press. But Forbes was inclined to make allowances for the press-men. After all, they had to give their readers something lively to read over their breakfast tables and on their tedious journeys to and from work.

  That his faith in his system was quite undiminished was demonstrated this fine autumn morning by the presence on his desk of seven folders of varying colours.

  There was something reassuring about those folders. They contained every scrap of evidence so far retained in connection with The Marquis murders. It was merely a question of sifting facts in the light of new evidence, Forbes told himself as he listened rather vaguely to the argument which was developing amongst his subordinates. Each of them appeared to have his own theories and plans for substantiating them.

  At length, Forbes tapped his desk with his paper-knife.

  “Gentlemen, when you’ve quite finished your little brawl, perhaps we can manage to document one or two more facts. Now Bradley, let’s hear what you have to say first. I don’t think you’ve given us a complete statement lately.”

  Superintendent Bradley, a sandy-haired, dour individual in the late thirties, shrugged his shoulders impatiently. There was no more reliable man in a tight corner, but he was always inclined to take the law into his own hands, and was notoriously incapable of appreciating the law-breaker’s outlook on life.

  “There seem to have been too many statements made just lately, Sir Graham, if you want my opinion,” he began, bluntly, indicating the folders. “You’ve got a packet of ‘em there.”

  The others smiled. They knew that Bradley’s favourite method was to seize his man and hammer the truth out of him.

  “What we want is action!” announced Bradley, decisively. “And by God we want it now, before it’s too late!”

  “Look here, Bradley,” snapped Chief Inspector Street, a dark, lanky individual with keen eyes and a sensitive mouth. “It’s all very well for you to talk about action, but you don’t seem to realise the devilish cunning of this man we’re dealing with.”

  “What I realise, Street,” retorted Bradley, the colour mounting at the back of his neck, “what I realise is that seven people have been murdered – one for each of the Chief’s pretty folders. And if it goes on at this rate we shall soon exhaust all the colours of the spectrum.”

  Street was about to make an angry reply, but the buzz of the telephone cut him short, and with an impatient gesture Sir Graham lifted the receiver.

  “Hullo? I told you not to interrupt Dickson unless—” he paused and his expression hardened. The lines on his face deepened as he listened intently to the message. After a moment, he picked up his Eversharp pencil and made one or two notes on a pad at his elbow. Finally, he replaced the receiver and amid an expectant silence slowly opened a drawer and extracted a magenta folder. As he did so, he turned to Bradley with a grim smile.

  “You seem to be a thought-reader, Bradley. We’ve got another murder on our hands, just as you predicted.” He tore the note from his pad and clipped it neatly inside the folder.

  “Who is it this time?” It was Street who spoke.

  “A young girl. They picked her out of the river last night,” announced Sir Graham, wearily.

  Even Bradley seemed taken aback.

  “You mean it’s The Marquis?”

  The Chief Commissioner nodded. “They found the usual small square of white cardboard pinned to her dress,” he said.

  Inspector Ross, a middle-aged sharp-featured individual, who had spoken very little so far, leaned forward in his chair.

  “The man’s conceited, Sir Graham,” he pronounced, definitely, “or he wouldn’t go in for all this card business. It sounds to me like Con Landon. We haven’t heard anything of Con since he was released six months back.”

  Forbes shook his head.

  He deplored Ross’s weakness of associating known criminals with unsolved crimes. Sometimes it worked, but it was very risky and might mean the loss of a considerable amount of time.

  For a few seconds there was silence. Street stood at the window looking gloomily at the traffic rushing along the embankment. At last he turned to ask: “Have they identified the girl?”

  “Not yet,” replied Forbes.

  Bradley seemed surprised. “That’s damned odd, isn’t it?” he demanded.

  “Give the boys a chance,” snapped Ross. “They only picked the girl out of the river last night.”

  Bradley strode excitedly over to Forbes’ desk.

  “Don’t you see what I’m driving at, sir?” he said, forcefully.

  “Perhaps you’ll enlighten us, Bradley,” replied Forbes, in a patient tone.

  “But it’s as plain as the nose on your face. All the other victims of The Marquis were well-known people, celebrities in fact. They were identified almost immediately. Myron Harwood! Sir Denis Frinton! Carlton Rodgers! Lady Alice Mapleton! Their death was bound to get into the headlines.”

  Sir Graham pondered upon this for a few moments.

  “There’s something in what you say, Bradley,” he agreed, at length. “Maybe we’ll be able to work on this angle.” Bradley was about to enlarge upon his theory when he was interrupted by the arrival of a sergeant who brought the Chief Commissioner a note marked Urgent and Strictly Confidential. Forbes read it carefully, then let it fall on his desk. He passed a weary hand over his forehead.

  “Anything wrong, sir?” asked Bradley.

  “No,” answered Forbes. “Just a note from Paul Temple.”

  “Paul Temple!” Both Ross and Bradley spoke at once.

  “I thought he was in America,” said Street.

  The Chief Commissioner’s announcement had obviously aroused some interest. “Perhaps I’d better read you the note,” he suggested, picking up the paper again. “It may convey more to you than it does to me.”

  He read:

  Dear Sir Graham,

  Steve and I have just returned from the States. Why not dine with us tomorrow evening. Shall look forward to seeing you.

  Kindest regards,

  Paul Templ
e.

  “Sounds innocent though,” sniffed Bradley.

  “Just a minute,” said Forbes slowly. “There’s something else here.” After a pause, he read:

  “P.S. Is it true what they say about Rita?”

  Ross looked across at Street in obvious bewilderment.

  “Is it true what they say about Rita?” Bradley repeated.

  “Who the devil’s Rita?” asked Ross, in puzzled tones.

  “Why has Temple come back, anyway?” Street wanted to know. “D’you think the Home Secretary has cabled him?”

  Any further speculations were cut short by the ringing of the telephone. After a brief conversation, consisting mainly on his part of a series of ejaculations, Forbes swung round in his chair and declared: “They’ve identified the girl.”

  “Good work,” approved Street. “Who is she, sir?”

  “Her name,” said the Chief Commissioner deliberately, “was Cartwright. Rita Cartwright.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE GIRL WHO KNEW TOO MUCH

  When Steve heard Temple direct the taxi-driver to the nearest airport, she could not repress a start of surprise.

  “I had no idea we were going to fly back,” she said, as they settled inside the taxi. “When did you decide that, Paul?”

  “As soon as I received that second message,” he replied, calmly. “A criminal who is sufficiently on the inside to know that the Home Office had cabled me, and furthermore who has a copy of the secret code, is a man who is going to take some catching. So it seems to me that there’s no time to be lost.”

  At the aerodrome, they were fortunate enough to secure the last two available seats in a plane which was due to start for New York in just under an hour. When they had partaken of a light meal in the aeroplane, Temple settled down to compose a message to the Home Office, then decided to defer sending it as his code book was not easily accessible. Eventually, he telephoned London just after they landed, and was agreeably surprised to learn that if he applied to the commanding officer of a certain military aerodrome, there would be transport facilities supplied for himself and Steve in the next Liberator to be ferried over.