They found themselves in London four days later.
Pryce welcomed them as inscrutably as ever. Temple had telephoned him from the aerodrome. They were busily unpacking one or two essentials when the man-servant remarked: “I forgot to mention, sir, that there’s a young lady who’s rung up several times. A most persistent young person by the name of Cartwright.”
Steve and Temple looked at each other in perplexity and shook their heads almost simultaneously.
“I can’t think who it would be,” said Temple.
“Oh, she said you wouldn’t know her, sir, but apparently she knows you. And she said it was most urgent that you should get into touch with her as soon as you returned. I made a note of the telephone number on the pad.”
When Temple telephoned Euston 6347 half-an-hour later, a charming feminine voice answered him.
“Thank goodness you’re back, Mr. Temple. How soon could I see you? It really is most urgent!”
“Where d’you suggest as a rendezvous?” asked Temple.
The girl hesitated for a moment.
“Do you happen to know a public house off Holborn called The Last Man?” she asked. “They have a quiet little room at the back. If you could meet me there in half-an-hour, it would be on my way to rather an important appointment I must keep at eight o’clock.”
“I know the place quite well,” Temple assured her, for he was pretty well acquainted with every detail of the district. “I’ll be there in half-an-hour from now.”
When Temple arrived, The Last Man was almost empty. Rita Cartwright was sitting alone in the little room at the back of the saloon bar. Temple was rather taken aback at her extreme youth; judging by the voice on the telephone he had expected someone a great deal older. The girl only seemed to be about twenty: though she was by no means becomingly dressed in a dark mackintosh and a worn green beret. Temple noted that she was drinking neat rum.
“Trying to summon up some Dutch courage,” she explained with a wry smile, after she had introduced herself. “I’ve a ticklish job this evening – I’ve an idea I may have taken on more than I can tackle.” As she spoke the girl shrugged her shoulders and smiled disarmingly.
“Well, I’d better begin at the beginning and tell you I’m a private detective of sorts, and my big job at the moment is investigating the murder of Lady Alice Mapleton. I don’t mind admitting that this is my first murder case! And it’s certainly some case, Mr. Temple,” she added, with a smile.
“Wasn’t that one of The Marquis murders?” asked Temple.
The girl nodded. “The first. As far as I know, the police are still completely in the dark about it, and if I pull this off it’ll be a feather in my cap.”
Temple could not repress a slight smile at her youthful enthusiasm.
“You’ll pardon my making such a trite observation,” he said, pleasantly, “but you’re extremely young to be tampering with dangerous criminals.” She took a gulp at her rum.
“Young I may be – I’m twenty-four to be exact – but I seem to have hit upon clues that so far have evaded the police. But I haven’t kept to my story. I’d been established in my present job just under a year when Lady Alice Mapleton was murdered. I had just recovered a diamond bracelet for the Honourable May Bennerton – rather a tricky job which pleased her a lot. Well, she paid my fee, and I’d almost forgotten the case when she arrived at the office one day with a very superior Society person whom she introduced as the Duchess of Mapleton, the mother of Lady Alice Mapleton. The Honourable May introduced us and then discreetly left us together.”
“Very gratifying,” smiled Temple, offering her a cigarette and lighting it for her. “And then I presume the Duchess placed her cards on the table?”
Rita Cartwright nodded.
“Like all members of ancient families, she was scared stiff of scandal. But she told me everything she knew: beginning with the fact that Lady Alice was a cocaine addict.”
Temple whistled, thoughtfully.
“That would explain quite a number of things,” he murmured.
“It was obvious that the Duchess was devoted to Alice – she was her only child,” continued Rita. “And she wasn’t at all satisfied by the results the police were getting. But she was afraid to help Scotland Yard by telling them everything she knew because of the unpleasant publicity which might be involved. Her idea then was that with all the extra help she could give me, I could possibly track down the murderer without the full story becoming public. She seemed quite positive that the murderer had some connection with the dope business, and on the face of it I was inclined to agree with her.”
“The theory certainly has possibilities,” Temple agreed.
“And I’ve explored them thoroughly. The Duchess left me a valuable piece of evidence in the shape of Lady Alice’s diary. On the last page there was a pencilled note: Limehouse 7068 – ask for Sammy!”
Temple smiled. “So you got in touch with my old friend, Sammy Wren,” he said. The girl laughed.
“Right first time. I asked him if he could get me some of the dope, and he fell for it. I went along to an address in Bombay Road and collected the stuff. I’ve been there several times since, and it’s put me in touch with quite a number of the gang. However, up till now, they’ve always been subordinates, referring to the head man in awed whispers. I could never get the merest inkling about him, until this week I decided to force their hand.”
“You appear to be a very daring young woman,” said Temple, admiringly. “Exactly how did you force their hand?” Rita stubbed out her cigarette.
“I told them I had an order for about five times the usual quantity, but it was essential that I should see the Chief to make certain arrangements for the distribution of it. One of them went into the next room and made a telephone call: when he came back he said I could see the Chief at eight o’clock tonight.”
Temple flicked the ash from his cigarette and looked at the clock. It was ten-past seven.
“And you’ve conducted all these investigations entirely on your own?” he asked.
“Practically. In the course of making them, I’ve run across a young fellow named Roger Storey, who was engaged to Lady Alice, and seems to have some vague idea of exacting a terrible revenge for her death. He’s one of those innocuous young men with plenty of money and unlimited time on his hands. We’ve met several times and discussed many theories about the murder. He helped me to follow up some investigations about a man named Sir Felix Reybourn.”
Temple looked up, quickly.
“The Egyptologist? What about him?”
“Nothing really definite, apart from the fact that he was, as far as we can trace, the last person to see The Marquis victims alive.”
“That’s very remarkable,” said Temple with a thoughtful frown. “Are you quite sure about it?”
She shook her head. “I’m still working on that angle of the case – of course, if Sir Felix turns up to our appointment tonight, then it’ll be quite straightforward. All the same, keep it under your hat for the time being.”
Temple pressed the bell and ordered more drinks.
“I really must congratulate you on a smart piece of work,” he said. “There’s one aspect of the business really puzzles me though.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
Temple placed her drink in front of her and added soda to his whisky.
“What puzzles me is the reason why you are so anxious to tell me all this?”
The girl smiled.
“The Duchess of Mapleton has several influential friends at the Home Office. Last week, she told me that you were being called in on the case. She was rather worried because she thought you’d be sure to get on to the dope business. So I suggested that I should take you into our confidence and leave the rest to your discretion. I said that according to Who’s Who, you had been educated at Winchester and Oxford, and that seemed to pacify the old dear.”
Temple laughed.
“I’m sure I couldn�
�t wish for a more intelligent partner,” he declared, sincerely. “But I really think you should allow me to come with you tonight.” The girl shook her head most emphatically.
“No, no—that would ruin everything. I’m not aiming at a showdown in the Bombay Road. I just want to discover the identity of the leader. After that, it ought to be plain sailing.”
“As a precaution, Miss Cartwright, would you mind telling me the number of the house in Bombay Road?”
“Why, of course, it’s 79a. But promise you won’t interfere in any way. If I can pull this off myself, it’ll be a feather in my cap.”
“It’ll be a complete head-dress,” Temple assured her, with a twinkle in his eye. “But I would like to add a word of warning.”
“Well?” she smiled.
“Don’t be too certain about the plain sailing. My own experiences have always lain amongst some very rough seas.”
Rita picked up her handbag and tucked it under her arm.
“I’ve been lucky so far,” she said, lightly. “Maybe my luck will hold.”
But there was a look in her pale blue eyes which seemed to doubt her words.
Sir Graham Forbes stirred his coffee and reflected that Paul Temple and Steve had changed very little since the days when they had joined him in the relentless pursuit of the Front Page Men. If anything, Temple was perhaps a trifle more sunburnt and had possibly lost a little in weight.
During dinner they had talked mainly of Paul Temple’s visit to the United States, and Forbes had many questions to ask concerning the F.B.I, and other officials whom he knew out there. It was not until he had half-drained his cup of coffee that Forbes suddenly demanded: “What did you mean exactly by that postscript?”
Temple knocked the ash off his cigar and frowned thoughtfully. At length, he said:
“Out in the States, Sir Graham, I was attached to the ‘C’ branch of the M.O.I.”
“I gathered you were up to something of that sort from what Colonel Randall told me,” nodded Forbes.
“While we were there,” Temple continued, “the newspapers started spreading their front pages with a story about this fellow called The Marquis. At first, I thought the whole business was grossly exaggerated, but one evening about a week ago I received a special radio message from the Home Secretary’s office that rather changed my ideas, and I knew then …” He hesitated.
“You knew then that, to put it mildly, things were getting pretty serious.”
Paul Temple smiled in some relief as he realised that Forbes knew rather more than he had anticipated. “I didn’t particularly want to leave the States, Sir Graham. It was interesting work out there – always something moving, and I was beginning to show some results. But I could hardly ignore that message.”
Sir Graham placed his cup on the table and leaned forward.
“The Home Secretary had a very good reason for sending for you, Temple,” he declared quietly. “I realised a month ago that you were the only man for certain aspects of this job. We need your help, Temple, that’s the long and short of it. We need your help pretty badly.”
Temple and Steve exchanged an understanding glance.
Temple said: “I’m very relieved to hear all this from you, Sir Graham. You know I’ve never had any desire to intervene in any of your cases, and I’ve no intention of doing so now if—”
“Don’t talk nonsense, darling,” interrupted Steve, refilling Sir Graham’s cup. “You know perfectly well that you have every intention of intervening. And you still haven’t answered Sir Graham’s question about Rita Cartwright.”
“Yes,” said Forbes, “I want to hear more about that young lady.”
Temple scratched a match and applied it to his cigar.
“I’ve only a few sketchy sort of facts, Sir Graham, but I gather that Rita Cartwright is a girl who always wanted a career that was ‘different.’ So, heaven help her, she became a sort of private inquiry agent. She’s had a certain amount of luck, including a commission to inquire into one of The Marquis murders. The next time I see her however, I intend to advise the—”
“There’ll be no next time,” put in Forbes gloomily. “The body of Rita Cartwright was picked out of the Thames last night. A few hours later, it was identified by a young fellow named Roger Storey.”
Temple wrinkled his forehead. “That name’s familiar.”
“Yes, he’s Lady Alice Mapleton’s fiancé. Rather an interfering young devil, but we let him down lightly as a rule. The poor fellow’s had a bad time. They were to have been married in a few months.”
“There’s one thing I haven’t mentioned about Rita Cartwright,” said Temple, slowly. “When she left me last night, she was going to keep an appointment with the leader of a dope-running organisation …”
Sir Graham looked up quickly. “Eh? Where?”
“At 79a Bombay Road. I’m given to understand that she has been going there for several weeks.”
Sir Graham was plainly impressed, and going over to the telephone, dialled a number and gave some rapid instructions.
“I’m afraid your men won’t find very much there,” said Temple, as Sir Graham replaced the receiver.
“Oh—why?”
“Isn’t it obvious that Rita Cartwright met The Marquis last night? And I have an idea he’s much too clever to leave any clues behind.”
“M’m, maybe you’re right,” murmured Forbes, biting hard on the stem of his favourite pipe. For a few minutes they smoked in silence, each busy with his thoughts. Steve went into the dining-room to make up the fire. After a while, Forbes said: “There are certain aspects of this case which remind me of the Carson blackmail affair! And talking of the Carson business, what’s happened to Sammy Wren? He was pretty deeply concerned in that set-up.”
“Oh yes,” agreed Temple, “I remember Sammy Wren.”
“I’ve been thinking quite a lot about him just lately,” continued Forbes. “As a matter of fact, I told Bradley to pick him up about a fortnight ago, thought he might be able to give us a line on this case. But he doesn’t seem to be around his old spots. Sam’s a queer little devil, but he covers a lot of ground. Seems to know everybody and everything. Probably knew Bradley was after him, and thought we’d caught up on him over some job or other.” He paused as he noticed Temple was smiling, and asked, “Have I said anything funny?”
“I’m sorry,” apologised Temple, “I was just thinking about The Golden Cage.”
Forbes was obviously mystified. “The Golden Cage?”
“Yes, it’s a public house near the Elephant and Castle. D’you know it, Sir Graham?”
“No, I can’t say I do.”
“It’s in one of those narrow back streets,” Temple explained. “You’ll find it’s frequented by quite an old friend of yours.”
Forbes removed his pipe and slowly smiled. He realised that Paul Temple was referring to the illusive Sammy Wren.
CHAPTER FIVE
NO BEER FOR SAMMY WREN
Unless you knew the district fairly well, you could easily pass The Golden Cage without noticing that it was a licensed house. True, there was a sort of drab signboard over the front door, but the paint had long since faded and the lettering was quite indistinct. However, this in no way deterred the supporters of this little hostelry, who were emphatic in their insistence that no better beer was to be found south of the river.
Paul Temple agreed with their verdict. He had discovered The Golden Cage years ago when seeking material for his second novel. Someone had told him that it was a popular rendezvous for members of the criminal fraternity. He had discovered that this was an exaggeration, but, by way of compensation, he also discovered that the Extra Special home-brewed beer which was so much in demand actually tasted of hops. Temple had never forgotten the tang of that rich brown beverage.
“So this is where you used to spend your leisure moments, Mr. Temple,” said Steve, jokingly as they settled in a murky corner of the Smoke Room. The room was crowded with that strange
mixture of humanity peculiar to the Elephant and Castle neighbourhood. There were only two other women present, but the regulars did not seem to notice Steve, who was wearing, especially for the occasion, an inconspicuous costume and a somewhat shapeless felt hat.
Temple laughed at his wife’s remark, lighted a cigarette, and retorted: “Don’t be silly, darling. All my leisure moments were spent with an exotic blonde from Pimlico. Didn’t I confess all that before you married me?”
“It must have slipped your memory, darling!”
“In that case, I’d better buy you a drink. What would you like?”
“A dry Martini,” decided Steve, promptly.
“Not here, it isn’t done,” he reproved her. “We’ll begin with two pints of their Extra Special.”
“One and a half – in case I don’t like it.”
He beckoned to the barmaid, who was standing with her back to Steve, engaged in lively repartee with a group of young men. As she swung into view, he recognised her at once.
“God bless my soul, if it isn’t Dolly Fraser!” he exclaimed.
The girl’s heavily made-up features showed the merest trace of fear before they resumed their former brazen expression.
“The name’s Smith—Betty Smith,” she answered, sullenly.
Temple smiled whimsically.
“Not one of the Shropshire Smiths?” he demanded, with the merest flicker of an eyelid in Steve’s direction.
“And what if I am one of the Shropshire Smiths?” challenged the girl, with a toss of her coppery hair.
“Would it, in that case, be too much to ask you to bring us a tankard and a glass of your Extra Special?” demanded Temple, politely.
Paul Temple Intervenes Page 3
