Paul Temple Intervenes

by Francis Durbridge

  “Well, it’s like this. I’m writing a novel – one of those formidable affairs with an Egyptian background—”

  “Paul, you never told me!”

  He laughed. “You see, even you believe the story. So now you see why it is absolutely essential that I should check up on certain of my facts.”

  “You mean that’s why you propose to consult a noted Egyptologist? Well, I suppose it’s an excuse – as long as it isn’t examined too closely.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “He might ask you to tell him the plot of your novel. He might even point out that there’s an awful lot of information that can be looked up at the British Museum.”

  “I invariably get lost at the British Museum,” he retorted.

  “Then there’s a good library at Scotland Yard.”

  “Or yet again,” interrupted Temple, “I could take the next plane to Egypt!”

  Steve laughed. After a moment, they negotiated a bend in the drive and came to the house.

  “You seem a trifle nervous, darling,” he murmured, lightly. “Think of all the formidable people you interviewed in your newspaper days.”

  “That,” replied Steve grimly, “is precisely what I am thinking.”

  Temple laughed as they climbed the steps to the old-fashioned portico, and gave a hearty tug at the ancient bell-knob. Away down a distant corridor, the bell clanged discordantly, but there was no immediate response.

  “This is an even bigger house than it looks, I should imagine,” decided Steve, thoughtfully.

  “It’s obviously quite a strenuous walk from the servants’ quarters,” agreed Temple. But at last they heard shuffling footsteps and the sound of an old-fashioned chain being unfastened behind the door. Then a key turned ponderously and a bolt scraped into position. The door opened about a couple of feet, and the pleasant red face of a woman of about sixty-five confronted them. She was a dumpy, likeable little person with a cheerful voice.

  “Good afternoon,” she greeted them, opening the door a shade wider, as if to emphasise her welcome. Her deep blue eyes twinkled benevolently, and she looked for all the world like an advertisement for a well-known brand of tea.

  Returning her greeting in his most charming manner, Temple gravely apologised for causing any inconvenience by his unannounced visit. Meanwhile, the old lady nodded affably as if by way of approval.

  “My name is Temple—Paul Temple—my card. I wondered if Sir Felix could possibly spare me a few moments.” The old lady carefully wiped her hand on her apron and took Temple’s card.

  “Why, certainly, sir. I’m sure Sir Felix will be only too pleased,” was the rather surprising reply. “If you’ll just step inside, I’ll go and ask Sir Felix.” The studded door swung behind them and they stood in a flagged entrance hall, which was sparsely furnished, and conveyed very little concerning the personal tastes of its owner.

  The old lady opened a door on the left.

  “If you and the lady will be so kind as to wait in here, sir, I’m sure Sir Felix won’t keep you very long.” She closed the door softly behind her, and they heard her footsteps patter away down the hall.

  “Well, she’s a dear old bird, anyway,” commented Temple, strolling across the room to examine the bookshelves which lined the opposite wall from floor to ceiling.

  “What an extraordinary room,” commented Steve, busily taking it in. “I’ve never seen so many books together outside a public library.”

  “And by Timothy they’re beautifully bound,” enthused Temple. “Must have cost a small fortune.” He ran an appreciative finger along the heavy calf bindings.

  “What are they, ancient classics?” asked Steve, who was rather attracted to a corner near the door which housed a case of relics which had obviously been the fruits of Sir Felix’s expeditions to Egypt.

  “Well, I’m damned!” Steve heard her husband murmur quietly to himself. She swung round.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “They’re all detective novels!” he declared, incredulously.

  “Don’t be silly!” said Steve, going over to the shelves.

  “I tell you they are – going right back to Edgar Allan Poe’s horror tales! No, wait! Here’s a shelf devoted to books on criminology – records of cases … murder trials …”

  Steve was now scanning row after row of volumes which displayed in gold lettering all the famous names in the world of detective fiction – Dorothy L. Sayers, E. Phillips Oppenheim, Edgar Wallace, Agatha Christie, John Creasey, E. C. Bentley, Dashiel Hammett, Rex Stout, Freeman Wills Croft, Peter Cheyney, John Dickson Carr, and dozens more. It was a paradise for a tired cabinet minister addicted to that type of recreation.

  “I don’t see any of yours, darling,” said Steve, still scrutinising the shelves.

  Temple smiled and said: “You will, Mrs. Temple, if you raise your head slightly and look a little to the left. They’re next to a very peculiar novel called The Front Page Men, written by a mysterious lady named Andrea Fortune. I’ve a suspicion that may be a nom de plume.”

  “And I have a suspicion that the authoress isn’t a hundred miles away at this minute,” came a dry voice from behind them. Steve turned to see an undistinguished-looking man of average height, wearing a plain grey suit, eyeing her quizzically. He was practically bald, and his forehead was smothered with freckles. His complexion was very sallow, as if all the colouring had been etiolated in tropical suns, making him appear much older than he really was.

  He came forward as noiselessly as he had entered the room.

  “Forgive me if I startled you,” he apologised. His voice had an almost rasping quality.

  Steve managed to summon up a reasonable imitation of a gracious smile, and Temple hurried to her rescue.

  “Sir Felix Reybourn?” he queried, politely, and on receiving a prompt little nod in reply, continued: “You probably think this visit a great presumption on our part, Sir Felix, but, well as a matter of fact I’m writing a book—”

  “Who isn’t?” chuckled Sir Felix, highly amused at his own repartee.

  “Quite so,” smiled Temple. “Mine, however, happens to be a novel about Cairo and the Egyptian desert. Not present-day Cairo, you understand – I want to go back several hundred years, and I thought you might be able to enlighten me on one or two rather important points.”

  Sir Felix raised a protesting hand.

  “Mr. Temple—please—please! There’s positively no reason at all to offer any excuse for this very pleasant informal visit,” the thin voice continued. “I’m only too delighted to make the acquaintance of yourself and your charming wife.”

  He paused, then added with the merest suggestion of a chuckle: “in fact, I have been expecting you, Mr. Temple! Please take that comfortable chair, Mrs. Temple, and my housekeeper will bring some tea immediately.”

  And in spite of their protests he insisted on their remaining to tea. Meanwhile, he bustled about, moving an occasional table within reach of Steve’s chair, and placing another straight-backed armchair for her husband. “You’ll have to excuse my housekeeper, Mrs. Clarence,” he apologised. “She’s a dear old soul, but hardly as brisk in her movements as she was once, and we are some little distance from the kitchen here. But she has one great asset – she is always ready for visitors – in fact, she welcomes them. So unlike the modern type of servant.”

  When at last Sir Felix appeared to have completed his preparations, Temple asked: “What did you mean, sir, when you said just now that you were expecting us?”

  Sir Felix lowered himself luxuriously into his chair, then suddenly focussed a pair of penetrating grey eyes upon the inquirer.

  “Mr. Temple, correct me if I am mistaken,” he began in his dry, precise tones, “but I believe you are engaged in investigating a series of murders committed by an unknown and somewhat melodramatic individual who calls himself The Marquis.”

  Feeling a trifle foolish Temple nodded, and Sir Felix went on: “During the course of your inv
estigations you have hit upon certain salient facts. Briefly, they are as follows: forty-eight hours before Lady Alice Mapleton was murdered, she paid me a visit.”

  “That is my information, Sir Felix,” said Temple, seriously. “I also happen to know that twenty-four hours before the police found the body of Carlton Rodgers—”

  “He did me the honour of dining with me,” added Sir Felix, cheerfully. “Moreover, I believe I was also the last person to see Myron Harwood alive.”

  A little puzzled by his complacent attitude, Temple asked: “Doesn’t that strike you as being rather an amazing chain of coincidences, Sir Felix?”

  Reybourn did not appear in the least perturbed.

  “’Amazing’ seems to me almost an understatement, Mr. Temple,” he assented, calmly. “Why, in plenty of those books yonder, men have been arrested for much less.”

  Steve found her voice at last.

  “But surely, Sir Felix, you appreciate that all this places you in rather a peculiar position. I’m quite sure that in the face of your admission, ninety-nine out of a hundred people would immediately conclude that you are The Marquis.”

  Sir Felix permitted himself one of his rare smiles.

  “My dear Mrs. Temple, forgive me for saying so, but I am a little disappointed in you. Think now; if I were the elusive individual who seems to be defying the entire personnel of Scotland Yard, do you think I would be quite so stupid as to see Lady Alice Mapleton forty-eight hours before I murdered her? And do you think I would be such an utter nincompoop as to be the last man to see Myron Harwood alive?”

  His voice took on an injured tone, but there was the ghost of a twinkle in his grey eyes.

  “Now Mrs. Temple – I ask you, is it likely?”

  Temple and Steve exchanged an amused smile.

  “I see your point,” said Temple, gravely.

  Sir Felix rubbed his parchment-like hands.

  “I hope so, Mr. Temple, I sincerely hope so. In fact, I knew I would manage to convince you.”

  Temple nodded. “All the same, Sir Felix, if it isn’t breaking any confidence, I’d be curious to know why you saw Lady Alice and Harwood and Rodgers at that particular time.”

  “Very well, Mr. Temple,” agreed Sir Felix, as Mrs. Clarence bustled in with a large tea tray. “If it will set your mind at rest, I knew two of these people quite well. Rodgers came to dine on my invitation because I had not seen him since he returned from America three months ago, and I was interested to compare notes with him about certain things – he’s a Zoologist too, by the way, or rather he was, poor fellow. Harwood, as you know, is a brilliant scientist, who takes a particular interest in drugs used in bygone ages. He heard I had been making one or two minor discoveries in that direction—I think he read an article of mine in the Egyptologists’ Journal—so he rang me up and arranged a meeting.”

  “Were you able to give him any information?”

  Sir Felix shook his head rather wistfully.

  “Not very much, I’m afraid. You see, Harwood was a very clever man, and moreover he had a scientist’s mind with a passion for formulae. Rather out of my province.”

  “And Lady Alice Mapleton?” put in Steve softly, passing him a cup of tea which she had poured out.

  “Lady Alice? Ah yes! Lady Alice I had not met before.” He stirred his tea thoroughly. “I don’t know whether I should tell you this, and you must promise to treat it as a confidence.” Upon receiving their assurance, Sir Felix continued: “Lady Alice came to me because she heard a rumour: she never told me the precise source of her information, but I gather it was picked up at some party in Chelsea. That information concerned a small vessel containing a certain liquid that I had brought back with me on my return from Egypt. Someone had apparently told Lady Alice that the contents of that vessel were a sovereign remedy for breaking the cocaine habit.”

  Temple took a deep breath. “So that was it!” he murmured.

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t help the poor girl,” Sir Felix went on. “And I was very upset when I read of her death.”

  “You mean you know nothing of the drug you brought back?”

  “Very little. To be quite frank, I entrusted it to Myron Harwood, and since his death the small jar seems to have disappeared. I have made exhaustive inquiries of his executor, but he doesn’t appear to be able to help me at all.”

  “From what I remember,” said Temple, “you wrote something about those drugs—I happened to come across your article—”

  “Oh yes, but my theories were based purely upon local legend; they were in no way scientific. The mixture of drugs was supposed to constitute a very deadly poison the Egyptians called Diamos; a poison that has a most unusual quality. It leaves not the slightest trace in the body of its victim.”

  “In fact,” said Temple, “a very unpleasant weapon to be at large.”

  “Extremely unpleasant,” agreed Sir Felix. “Do try some of that home-made cake, Mrs. Temple. Mrs. Clarence will be mortally offended if you refuse.”

  “Are you sure that the poison would still be effective after all these years?” asked Temple with considerable interest. Sir Felix shook his head.

  “That is very much open to question,” he replied. “Harwood was going to make some tests, but he seemed very dubious about reaching any positive results. Of course, the jar was very well sealed, and appeared to be air-tight – but I have every reason to believe it was quite four thousand years old.”

  He passed his cup over to Steve to be refilled.

  “This has been a most interesting chat,” he declared, “and I am quite relieved my arguments finally convinced you in face of all the—er, circumstantial evidence. Of course, I was not entirely unprepared. I have to admit that I used the same arguments with similar effect upon a very intelligent young person a short while ago.”

  “Indeed?” said Temple.

  “Yes, she was a very promising lady detective named, er, let me see …”

  “Rita Cartwright?” asked Temple. And Sir Felix nodded.

  Strolling through the Mall that evening on his way to the Yard to compare notes with the Chief Commissioner, Temple was busily turning over in his mind the sequence of this amazing series of murders. His work as a writer of detective fiction was responsible for his interest in the machinations of the criminal mind, in which he had developed a rather more penetrative interest than that displayed by the average professional detective.

  The Marquis, reflected Temple, certainly had one thing in common with most crooks. He was inordinately vain, as evidenced by his choice of a title, and by his succumbing to the temptation to leave those cards on the bodies of his victims. He was as anxious for his deed to receive maximum publicity as if he were a press agent zealous to snatch a big write-up for some highly-paid film star. With the highly developed scientific resources at the disposal of the Yard, any one of these cards was liable sometime to betray The Marquis’ identity. Yet he took a chance, obviously with the utmost self-confidence.

  Temple decided that he was probably a man who had got away with other hazards in the past, and had come to the conclusion that he would always be a match for stereotyped police methods. He was bound to make a slip sooner or later. The question was how soon. The public was becoming distinctly alarmed, and certain newspapers were already making ominous comparisons with Jack the Ripper.

  While their visit to Sir Felix Reybourn had proved enlightening in some ways, Temple had the uncomfortable feeling that it had opened up several other possible avenues which were irritatingly vague at the moment. Sir Felix was still something of an enigma, and Temple told himself that he would not be surprised to find that the Egyptologist had a closer connection with the case than he would have them believe. He was obviously a man with a considerable brain, and moreover he was tremendously interested in criminology, displaying a wide knowledge of all the latest methods of detection. He would certainly be capable of circumventing these methods.

  On his arrival in Forbes’ office, Templ
e was mildly surprised to find one of the visitors’ chairs occupied by Roger Storey, whose right arm was in a sling. His coat was torn at the shoulder, and there was a patch of dried mud near his left temple. Inspector Ross was completing a professional-looking bandage round Storey’s forearm while Sir Graham looked on.

  “Hello Storey,” said Paul Temple, “what the devil’s been happening to you?”

  “Quite a lot,” replied Storey, with a rueful smile.

  “Things have been happening pretty fast since last night, Temple,” Forbes grimly informed him.

  “By Timothy! I can see that!” He crossed over to Storey. “That arm looks decidedly unpleasant.”

  Storey favoured him with a painful grin. “It isn’t exactly my idea of comfort, Mr. Temple, but it might have been much worse.” He eased himself into a more comfortable position as Ross finished the bandage, and turned to Temple.

  “Did you manage to see Sir Felix, sir?” he asked.

  Temple shrugged a trifle impatiently. “I saw him all right. But what’s been going on here?”

  He looked round the small group, noting that each of them seemed to be rather excited.

  “I think perhaps you’d better tell Temple all about it yourself, Storey,” suggested Sir Graham.

  “Just as you like, sir,” agreed Roger.

  “But before you start …” Forbes turned to Ross. “Tell Bradley to bring that young man up here again,” he instructed. Ross went out, and when the door had closed, Roger Storey swung round in his chair and half-faced Temple.

  “When I saw you last, Mr. Temple, I told you that accidents were always happening to me. I thought at the time that you were inclined to the idea that I was exaggerating.”

  Temple shook his head. “I merely reserved my judgment, Storey, that’s all. Sorry if I gave a wrong impression.”

  “Well, you can see for yourself I’ve had another accident today.”

  He grimaced as a spasm of pain ran through his arm.

  “This morning, I took my car out and went down to Canterbury to visit a relative. I had lunch there and started back in the middle of the afternoon. On the way back, about half-a-mile past the new by-pass road, much the same thing occurred as happened to you and Mrs. Temple on the Embankment the other evening. A car came out of a side-turning and made straight for me.”