“Special’s off – been finished months ago,” replied the girl, brusquely, pushing back a lock of hair. “I’ll bring you some Old Ale if you like. That’s the best we’ve got.”
“Thank you, that would do nicely,” said Temple, suavely. With an insolent lift of the shoulder, the barmaid vanished. When she was out of earshot, Steve asked: “Do you know that girl, or was that merely a sample of your sales talk?”
Temple grinned.
“I know her all right. Her name is Fraser—Dolly Fraser. She was one of the shining lights of the Reagan crowd a few years ago. One of the most useful decoys in the game – she’s quite an actress in her way.”
He spoke in a carefully modulated tone, but apparently he was overheard by a tall, thin man who could not find a seat, and was leaning against a partition nearby.
“That’s quite right, Mr. Temple,” confirmed the stranger. “Her name is Fraser, and she was with the Reagan mob about two years ago when they pulled off the Charteris kidnapping.”
Temple and Steve swung round. The newcomer suddenly found a high stool and perched himself on it, apparently quite at ease.
“Forgive me if I am intruding, but I couldn’t help overhearing your remark, Mr. Temple. My name is Ross—Inspector Ross of the C.I.D. I think we met just before you sailed for America.’’
“Why of course, Inspector! I’m afraid I didn’t recognise you,” said Temple, pleasantly. “Have you met my wife?” When the introductions were complete, Temple invited the Inspector to join them in a drink, but he shook his head regretfully.
“No thanks, Mr. Temple. I’ve had my allowance. I really ought to have been home hours ago. This is an off-duty visit.”
“All the more reason for a little relaxation,” urged Temple, but Ross would not be persuaded to change his mind, and eventually bade them good night. “I’m keeping an eye on Dolly Fraser,” he assured Temple in an undertone just before he turned to go.
“Is he one of the new people at the Yard?” asked Steve, when the lanky form had disappeared.
“No. He’s been there for longer than I care to remember. He used to be attached to the Fingerprint Department till Bradley took over. I don’t think they get on very well together. Anyhow, Forbes decided to transfer Ross; gave him a sort of roving commission, and he’s turned up trumps several times. He has the reputation of being a pretty shrewd sort of fellow.”
By this time, Dolly Fraser had returned, and was placing their beer on the table. As Temple fumbled for half-a-crown, she seemed about to speak, hesitated, then finally ventured:
“I’m sorry I was rude just now, Mr. Temple. It was that Ross – he’s always hanging round here – gets on my nerves. Why can’t he leave me alone?”
“Take it easy, Dolly. No harm done,” smiled Temple.
“It was silly of me to say my name’s Smith. I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of,” she added with a touch of defiance.
“Of course you haven’t.”
“I knew you’d spotted me the moment you came in,” she continued, rather nervously. “And what with Ross being there as well – it sort of got under my skin.”
“You thought we’d come to get you for adulterating the Extra Special,” suggested Temple, and Dolly laughed. Then her eyes narrowed slightly, and she could not suppress the curious tone in her voice.
“This is the first time you’ve been here for ages, Mr. Temple. I suppose you wouldn’t be looking for somebody special?”
Temple eyed her, disarmingly.
“Why of course, Dolly. I’m waiting for an old friend of mine. You remember Sammy Wren.”
“Sammy Wren!” she echoed, thoughtfully. “I haven’t set eyes on him for ages.” She paused, then added, significantly: “Nothin’ wrong, I hope?”
“Nothing at all,” he assured her. “Just a small matter of business. Now, how about having a drink with us?”
“Well, I think a pink gin would calm me down a bit,” Dolly admitted, now much more at ease. She returned almost immediately with the drink and Temple’s change. Then she fulfilled two more orders and presently drifted over to their table once more.
“So you haven’t seen Sammy Wren lately,” said Temple.
“Not for a week or two, maybe more. He used to be in ‘ere every day at one time.”
“Is that so? With alcohol taxed as it is, Sammy must be doing pretty well.”
“Maybe,” she replied, indifferently. “He never tells me his business, and I’m sure I’ve no wish to know.”
Temple accepted the rebuke. “You look fairly prosperous yourself, Dolly,” he said, meaningly.
Some of her former uneasiness returned.
“I’m all right,” she retorted, with a trace of her old defiance. “The boss ‘ere is very good. Quite the gent, if you know what I mean. Only last week, ‘e give me a rise. That’s the third in eighteen months.”
“That’s splendid!”
Dolly relaxed once more. “Let me get you a gin and tonic, Mrs. Temple,” she suggested, noticing that Steve was not making much impression on the Old Ale. “We’ve had a few bottles of real good gin come in this morning.”
As she picked up Steve’s glass, Temple suddenly looked up at her and asked: “Ever heard of this fellow who calls himself The Marquis?”
Dolly almost spilled the beer in the glass, as she dropped it a few inches back on to the table.
“I only know what I read in the papers, and I don’t always believe that,” she snapped, glaring down at him. “Why the ‘ell should I know anything about this man? What are you gettin’ at?”
“I was only making conversation, Dolly,” apologised Temple, quite meekly.
“Is this a game or what?” she demanded, challengingly. “You’re the second bloke this week who’s asked me if I know the ruddy Marquis.”
Temple straightened in his chair.
“Oh? Who was the other fellow?”
She sniffed. “A young chap called Roger Storey. He’s been snooping round here for days asking all sorts of questions. I wouldn’t stand for it only, well, he’s got a way with ‘im, and ‘e’s lousy with money.” She smiled reminiscently.
“Roger Storey,” repeated Steve. “That was the young man who identified Rita Cartwright when—”
She stopped speaking as the Smoke Room door swung open vigorously to admit a flashily-dressed little man, who would have looked far more comfortable in a cap and scarf. Sammy Wren came jauntily over to them. From the points of his yellow-brown shoes to the crown of his tilted derby hat, Sammy Wren exuded an air of reckless opulence.
“Hello Mr. Temple, sorry to ‘ave kept you waiting.” His was the perkiest brand of Cockney. “Didn’t get your message till late last night.”
Then he caught sight of Dolly and dug her in the ribs.
“How’s tricks, old gel?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper. She slapped his hand and turned her back on him to take an order from another customer.
Temple introduced Sammy to Steve, who rung her hand fervently.
“Glad to meet your good lady, Mr. Temple. Privilege, I’m sure! I hope you keeps an eye on ‘im, Mrs. Temple, and see ‘e don’t get mixed up in no funny business.” He winked, knowingly.
“Suppose we go into the back parlour,” suggested Temple. “It’s a little more private.”
Sammy consulted an expensive wrist-watch.
“Look ‘ere, Mr. Temple, I’m supposed to meet a bloke up West at eight, and it’s gone that now. Mebbe you and me could get together tomorrer for a bit of a chat?”
Temple hesitated.
“Where you meeting your friend?” he asked.
“Percy’s Snack Bar, just off the Haymarket.”
“Then I’ll run you up there in the car,” Temple decided. “We can talk on the way. Have a drink before we start?”
Sammy shook his head. He was obviously in a hurry, and seemed a little worried. “Have to be gettin’ on, Mr. Temple, if you don’t mind,” he decided, and after wishing Dolly good night, they mad
e their way to Temple’s car which was parked at the corner of the street. Sammy clambered into the front with Temple, while Steve got into the back seat.
As he settled down at the wheel, Temple reviewed in his mind the salient facts about his companion. Sammy Wren was considered somewhat unique in the underworld, in so far as he did not specialise in any one particular type of crime. Yet he was successful not only in his evasion of the police, but also in the financial reward he derived from his various enterprises. Temple knew that he had tried his hand at blackmail, dope smuggling, passing ‘slush,’ and forgery. So far, he had only served two short terms of imprisonment, having been able to convince the judge on each occasion that he was a mere accessory to some other unfortunate. There were no flies on Sammy Wren.
As they were heading for the Waterloo Road, Sammy asked: “What was it you wanted to see me about, Mr. Temple?”
Temple changed gear and passed a large lorry.
“Can’t you guess?” he parried.
“Search me,” said Sammy. “Soon as I got your note, I says to myself: ‘Alio, something’s in the wind, or ‘e wouldn’t be writin’ to a blinkin’ tea-leaf like Sammy Wren.’”
Temple deftly extracted a cigarette from his case and lighted it with his left hand.
“First of all, Sammy, tell me what happened to Rita Cartwright,” he demanded.
“Cartwright?” repeated Sammy, in genuine bewilderment. “I don’t know anybody o’ that name.” Temple gave him a suspicious look out of the corner of his eye.
“I hate to call you a liar, Sammy,” said Temple mildly, “but I have first-hand information that you made an appointment for her last night at 79a Bombay Road.”
Sammy stiffened in his seat.
“Oh, that little so-and-so,” he muttered. “I didn’t know that was her name.”
“Then you do remember?”
Sammy licked his lips.
“Yes,” he admitted, at last, “I remember.”
“No doubt the boss was very annoyed with you, Sammy, when he found out she was a private detective?”
“So that’s what he wants to see me about,” breathed Sammy, in some dismay.
“Oh—so you have an appointment with him up West, eh?”
“’Ere, what’s this, third degree?” demanded Sammy, truculently.
Temple slowed down to avoid a tram.
“You knew, of course, that Rita Cartwright’s body was picked out of the Thames last night,” he said in a casual tone.
“No, I didn’t—straight, I didn’t!” Sammy protested, hoarsely, and indeed it did appear as if the news surprised him. “I ain’t ‘ad nothin’ to do with that. You know me, Mr. Temple. I draw the line at murder …”
“All right, Sammy,” said Temple, softly. “If you don’t know anything about Rita Cartwright’s death, perhaps you can enlighten us about The Marquis.”
In the faint blue light from the dashboard, Sammy’s features were distorted with doubt and fear.
“The Marquis?” he repeated. “I don’t know nothin’ about ‘im. I don’t want to know nothin’ about ‘im. And if you takes my tip—”
Temple snatched at the wheel as they lurched dangerously towards a bus that was running down from Waterloo Bridge.
“Do be careful!” cried Steve, in considerable alarm.
“This steering seems to be playing tricks,” murmured Temple, gently easing the wheel. “Ah, that’s better …” The car was now proceeding quite normally across the bridge.
“What were you saying, Sammy?”
“I was saying I don’t know a thing about this ‘ere Marquis – and that’s the truth.”
“The whole truth and nothing but?”
“You know me, Mr. Temple. I wouldn’t ‘old out on you; not for all the bloomin’ gold in America.”
“I’ll take your word for it, Sammy,” replied Temple, a trifle puzzled nevertheless.
“Funny you should ask me about The Marquis,” mused Sammy. “I bumped into a bloke at the Black Swan only a week ago, who asked me the same question. Smart lookin’ young feller, took him for a ‘con’ man at first, but I was wrong.”
“He didn’t tell you his name?”
“Yes, an’ I got it on the tip of me tongue!—Storey!—that’s it—Roger Storey.” A new thought seemed to cross Sammy’s mind.
“Look here, Mr. Temple, he wouldn’t be a rozzer, would he? Because if he is, I’ll—”
“Paul!” interposed Steve, urgently. “Pull over for that lorry.” They were rushing along the embankment at thirty miles an hour, but the lorry was rapidly overhauling them. Temple accelerated a trifle, and they drew away.
“This boss of yours, Sammy,” he said. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Temple—honest, I don’t. Never set eyes on ‘im before. I just got me orders from a feller named Dukes …”
“Then you don’t know that 79a Bombay Road was raided?”
“Raided?” Sammy was patently scared.
“It’s all right, Sammy – the police didn’t find a thing to incriminate you. All the same, I’m coming along to take a look at this boss of yours. Just in case it’s—”
“The Marquis?” queried Sammy, with a gulp. “But I tell yer it can’t be, Mr. Temple. The Marquis has got—” He broke off and clutched Temple’s arm. “Look out, sir, or that three-tonner’ll bounce us right into the river!”
Temple tugged at the wheel, but the steering seemed to be completely out of action. As the lorry came level, he snatched at the handbrake, but the front wheels of the overtaking vehicle suddenly swung into the car. To the accompaniment of breaking glass, screaming brakes, and the crash of metal they smashed into the wall of the embankment. Sammy Wren was thrown hard against the windscreen, which immediately collapsed, precipitating him between the embankment wall and the bonnet of the car. The driving wheel saved Temple from a similar fate, though the sudden blow in the chest winded him for some time.
Just before the crash, Steve had flung herself on the floor at the back, and so escaped with a shaking.
“Paul!” she cried. “Are you all right?”
For a minute he was too breathless to reply. Then he wiped the blood from a cut on his cheek, felt his limbs carefully and shook bits of glass from his clothes.
“I’m O.K., Steve,” he announced, eventually. “How about you?”
When she had reassured him, he suddenly realised that Sammy had vanished. Leaping out of the car, he quickly discovered the little man. By now, the lorry had backed on to the road again, two policemen had arrived on the scene, and a crowd was gathering, avid for details of the accident.
Someone caught Temple’s arm, and swinging round he saw, by the limited light from the headlamps, a breathless young man in dark grey flannels.
“I say, are you all right?” demanded the newcomer.
“Help me to move the car,” urged Temple, indicating the spread-eagled form of Sammy Wren.
“Why yes—yes, of course,” agreed the young man. They were joined by the two constables, who assisted them to extricate the unfortunate Sammy Wren, now unconscious and bleeding from a gash at the back of the head. Neither of the constables had a first-aid outfit, but the young man proved surprisingly efficient in contriving a temporary bandage with the help of a couple of handkerchiefs.
When at last the ambulance arrived, and the inert form of Sammy Wren was carried away, Temple turned to the young man.
“Thanks for helping us out,” he said.
The other smiled, a very pleasant, engaging smile, and pushed a strand of fair wavy hair back from his forehead.
“Not at all, I was only too glad to help. I hope the poor devil will be all right. It must have been a shock for you. Your wife, too.” He switched his infectious smile in Steve’s direction.
“If you’ll excuse me, sir,” he continued, politely, “your face seems familiar. Aren’t you Paul Temple?”
“Yes.”
The young man smote his right fist into the palm of
his left hand.
“What an amazing coincidence! I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all the evening.”
“Indeed?” said Temple, somewhat surprised.
“It’s quite providential we should meet like this,” went on the young man exuberantly, reminding Temple rather of an excited undergraduate. “If you will permit me to introduce myself …” He paused to get his breath, then said: “My name is Storey—Roger Storey.”
CHAPTER SIX
ROGER STOREY EXPLAINS
As soon as Sammy Wren had been safely extricated, Temple’s next objective had been to discover the driver of the lorry. But the intervention of Roger Storey had temporarily diverted him, and it was Storey himself who gave him a reminder.
“I say, where the devil is the fellow who drove the lorry? I haven’t seen him, have you?” Storey spoke in a public school accent that was as unmistakable as his old Harrovian tie.
Temple’s brows contracted.
“No,” he replied. “And I have a hunch we shan’t.”
“But surely the fellow can’t run away and leave his lorry. I mean to say it could be traced to his boss and—”
“It’s just an idea of mine,” put in Temple, gently, “that the lorry was stolen. However, we can soon check up on that.” He indicated a police sergeant who was approaching them from the other side of the lorry.
“Nasty smash, sir. Anyone else hurt?”
“Just the one case, sergeant. Pretty hopeless, I’m afraid.”
The sergeant nodded. “I’ll have to make one or two enquiries, sir, if you don’t mind,” he continued.
“Yes. I’m rather anxious to make some myself,” said Temple. “If you’ll flash your torch, I’ll show you my identity card.”
The sergeant complied, and even before he read the name, was duly impressed by the special card.
“Sorry I didn’t recognise you, sir, in this confounded blackout,” the sergeant apologised.
“That’s all right. I don’t suppose I look exactly presentable with this blood all over my face. Is there a hotel anywhere near?”
“Yes, sir, the Regency. Fifty yards up this turning on the right-hand side. You can’t miss it.”
Paul Temple Intervenes Page 4
