As Sir Felix tightened his scarf, the waiter whispered in his ear.
“It’s in the car, sir, and the lady’s waiting.”
Sir Felix smiled. “Ah yes, thank you Tom.” A coin changed hands. Sir Felix waved farewell to Steve at the door, and when he had gone the waiter said:
“Sergeant Morris is round at the side entrance, madam. If you’ll just come through the Smoke Room …”
He led Steve through the low-ceilinged Smoke Room to a doorway in a narrow passage. A thick set man, with hair slightly greying at the temples, was standing there. He saluted smartly.
“Sergeant Morris?” she asked, in a slightly mystified tone.
“That’s right, Mrs. Temple. And this is Detective Gleason.” He indicated a foxy little man who was hovering in the background. Steve decided that she did not like the look of the little man at all, but she reflected that he was probably a very capable detective, and after all few of the Yard men were Adonises.
“What’s the trouble, Sergeant?” asked Steve.
“No trouble, madam. Mr. Temple asked us to pick you up and take you to the Keystone cross-roads.” He pointed to a large saloon car which was ticking over just outside the door.
“Is he all right?” demanded Steve anxiously, for she could think of only one reason why her husband should want to see her.
“Yes, he’s quite all right, Mrs. Temple,” Detective Gleason assured her. “It was out of their way to come back here, so we said we’d come and fetch you and drop you at the cross-roads on our way back to Town. I believe Mr. Temple and Sir Graham are going on to dinner somewhere.”
Steve went back for a hat and coat, and presently they were moving swiftly in the direction of the Keystone cross-roads, with Morris at the wheel. Steve was not exactly pleased to find herself sitting in the back of the car with Gleason, but she decided to make the best of it, and tried several times to start a polite conversation. When she inquired about Kellaway Manor, Gleason proved singularly unresponsive, declaring that he had only been ‘standing by,’ had taken no part in any strategy, and had been prevented by the mist from seeing anything. Moreover, none of his colleagues had had time to tell him what had occurred. It sounded plausible enough.
Steve persisted quietly with an occasional question, for she could not repress a feeling that something was wrong, and that they were trying to withhold bad news from her.
Gleason began to show signs of losing patience, and when after the car had travelled some ten miles, Steve asked: “Isn’t it time we reached the cross-roads?”
He snapped back: “Keep your mouth shut!” His tone was offensive, and certainly hardly in the best traditions of Scotland Yard. Steve regarded him steadily. A pulse throbbed in her throat, but outwardly she showed no signs of fear.
“Who are you? Where are you taking me?” she demanded.
“You heard what I said,” retorted Gleason, angrily. “Keep your mouth shut and don’t ask any questions.”
“Stop the car!” cried Steve, suddenly flinging herself at Morris, who grabbed the handbrake and wrenched at the wheel as they skidded dangerously round a sharp curve.
“You little devil!” shouted Gleason, pulling her back, and thrusting her roughly into a corner. He held her there while she struggled furiously. He had completely lost his temper now; his face was flushed and a star-shaped scar over his right eye was noticeably inflamed.
“Don’t hit her!” gasped Morris, drawing the car into the side of the road. “Remember our instructions …”
“We’ll have to get rid of her,” panted Gleason.
“Not yet,” said Morris, pressing his foot on the accelerator and quickly changing gear.
Once more Steve flung herself desperately forward, only to be restrained by the perspiring Gleason, who was finding her a considerable handful. A little further on, however, Morris stopped the car.
“O.K. We’ve done the ten miles,” he announced.
“Thank God for that!” exclaimed Gleason, fumbling in an inside pocket of his coat. Eventually, he produced an envelope and then opened the car door nearest Steve.
“You can find your way back to The Silver Swan quite easily, Mrs. Temple. It’s ten miles, and a straight road.”
“What’s the meaning of this?” demanded Steve, indignantly. She was more than a little puzzled, for if this were a genuine abduction, why was she being freed at this stage?
“Never mind,” snapped Gleason. “When you get back, give your husband this letter.” He handed over the envelope.
“And mind you take great care of it,” he nodded.
“Why?”
“Because,” said Gleason, “it’s a letter from The Marquis.”
Without any further ado, the car door slammed, the engine roared, and the men who called themselves Morris and Gleason vanished into the mist, leaving Steve standing helplessly in the muddy road, confronted with the singularly unpleasant prospect of a ten miles’ walk back to the inn.
On their return to The Silver Swan, Temple made straight for the lounge fully expecting to see his wife surrounded by magazines of all descriptions, for she had announced with some satisfaction that she intended to spend the afternoon in this fashion. But there was no one in the lounge except the waiter carefully distributing fresh ashtrays.
“Have you seen Mrs. Temple, waiter?” he asked. The waiter blinked, as if a little surprised.
“Why yes, sir. She left about three-quarters of an hour ago. Sergeant Morris called for her.”
“What d’you mean—Sergeant Morris?” asked Forbes, who had just entered the room.
“That was the name he gave me, sir,” protested the waiter, “I was under the impression that he was a—er—plain clothes detective.”
“Oh my God!” breathed Temple, the full significance of the episode striking him. Forbes grasped his arm reassuringly, and turned to the waiter once more.
“What did this man look like?”
The waiter seemed somewhat bewildered. “Well, he was about your build, sir—rather good-looking,” he began vaguely. “I believe there was another gentleman with him in a car. Mrs. Temple drove off with them.”
“You don’t remember what the second man was like?”
“I didn’t take much notice, sir … he was shorter – rather swarthy, I think – but I couldn’t be sure.”
Forbes bit his lip, and appeared to be about to ask another question, but he was interrupted by the unexpected entrance of Roger Storey. Storey was obviously excited and he made very little attempt to conceal his emotion.
“What’s all the fuss about, Storey?” was Forbes’ rather irritable greeting.
“What brings you down here, Storey?” asked Temple.
“I came to see you—and Sir Graham—it’s very important—”
Forbes dismissed the waiter.
“Well now, what’s the cause of all this?” demanded Forbes, testily.
“I’ve been worried—hellishly worried,” confessed Storey, sinking into a chair. “I knew you were coming down here and—”
“How did you find that out?” interposed Temple, swiftly.
“I—er—I happened to overhear a remark at the Yard,” admitted Storey, rather sheepishly. “And then this morning I discovered that Sir Felix Reybourn had a house near here called Greensea House—”
“And how did you happen to hit on that bit of information?” demanded Temple. Roger smiled, disarmingly.
“It was quite by chance. I wanted to ‘phone the garage where I docked my car – it’s called the Reindeer Garage – and the name Reybourn happened to catch my eye on the same page of the telephone directory. So I thought I’d come down right away and—”
“Poke your nose into our business, as usual,” snapped Forbes, who was frankly rather bewildered by the rapid developments of the day. “Let me tell you, Storey, that this business isn’t your idea of a party, and we’ve tolerated your interference long enough—”
“Just a minute, Sir Graham,” Temple interrup
ted. “After all, Mr. Storey has brought us information about this house of Sir Felix Reybourn’s.”
He stopped as the waiter came in and looked round uncertainly.
“Would the gentleman mind moving his car, please? The brewer’s lorry wants to back over to the cellar and—”
“Certainly,” agreed Roger at once. “I’ll come right away.”
When he had gone, Temple and Forbes regarded each other in silence for some moments.
“That’s a queer bird. I can’t quite fathom him,” admitted Forbes, presently. “Outwardly, he’s just one of those damned playboys with a sight too much money. Yet he always manages to come on the scene at awkward moments!”
Forbes rammed a charge of tobacco into his pipe.
“D’you think it’s true about Sir Felix?” he demanded, gruffly.
Temple shook his head. His brain was still busy on the problem of the two men in the car.
“If it is,” pursued Forbes, playing with the idea, “if it is true, then it explains a good deal.”
But Temple was obviously far more worried about what had become of Steve. She was constantly assuring him that she could look after herself, as she had done in her newspaper days, and she was never tired of reminding him of the occasion when she had been confronted by a certain ‘Catty’ Larrabie, a desperate criminal who had eluded Scotland Yard for seven weeks after his escape from Pentonville. Following a remote clue, Steve had run Catty to earth just outside a deserted dock in the East End. Something in his eye told her that he was just as scared as herself, so she calmly offered him a cigarette, then one of the sandwiches she had with her. Catty had almost dissolved into tears, and provided Steve with a front page scoop that was the talk of Fleet Street for months.
But this was a long time ago, and present realities invariably appear more terrifying than past dangers. Temple fumed at himself for under-estimating The Marquis’ organisation, which was apparently equal to leading himself and Sir Graham into a trap and simultaneously kidnapping his wife. Furthermore, it was obviously an organisation that was relentless as it was calculating.
Pulling at his briar, Forbes was brooding upon similar lines. He was debating upon the most advisable course of action, and decided eventually that he must await the return of Ross and Bradley with his men, when some rather more extensive operation might be possible.
Temple paced distractedly up and down the lounge.
“Have you anyone named Sergeant Morris at the Yard?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Forbes, “as a matter of fact, we have. But he doesn’t answer to the waiter’s description, and furthermore, he’s busy on that suicide job at King’s Langley. He wouldn’t come down here with a cock and bull yarn of that description. No, we’ve got to face it, Temple. They were a couple of The Marquis’ men, and we’ve got to get after them just as soon as Ross and Bradley—”
He broke off and ran to the window as a car drew up outside, followed by another. A car door opened, and, imagining he heard a familiar voice, Temple crossed to the window. His ears had not misled him. Steve was calmly descending from the first car, chatting to Ross and Bradley. He rushed outside like a man possessed, and met Steve as she was just about to enter.
“Hello, darling,” she welcomed him. “Are you pleased to see me?”
“What’s all this about, Ross?” asked Forbes when the Inspector came in. “Are you anything to do with this mysterious Sergeant who called for Mrs. Temple?”
“No sir,” replied Ross, in an injured tone. “We picked up Mrs. Temple about eight miles away. She was walking. Seems a couple of damn fools passed themselves off as Scotland Yard men, took her out in a car and more or less dumped her, so far as I can gather. I can’t quite fathom what they were up to—”
“Did you know them, Steve?” asked Forbes.
“No—but I’d recognise them anywhere.”
“Can’t you recall anything outstanding?”
“Why yes—the one man who called himself Gleason had a star-shaped scar over his right eye.”
“Was he a little man with a foxy sort of face and ginger-brown hair?” interposed Bradley quickly.
“Why yes—that’s the man.”
“Sounds like Lannie Dukes,” said Bradley. “Perhaps you’ll come round to the Yard when we get back, Mrs. Temple, and I’ll show you some photographs of him.”
“Why of course, Inspector,” she readily agreed.
“What else happened, Steve?” demanded Temple, anxiously.
“Nothing very much, darling. They just took me ten miles, then handed me a letter and left me. The letter’s for you, by the way. I hope you don’t mind my opening it – you know I never open your letters as a rule. But the circumstances were a little unusual.”
She was about to hand it to Temple, when Bradley restrained her.
“Just a minute, Mrs. Temple. There may be some useful fingerprints on that envelope.”
Steve shook her head. “I don’t think so. I noticed the little man handled it with washleather gloves, and I expect whoever wrote it did the same.”
Temple took the letter and held it by the extreme top left-hand corner. Although it was only a brief note, he scanned it thoughtfully for two or three minutes.
“What’s it say?” asked Forbes at last, unable to restrain his curiosity any longer. Temple read aloud:
Next time will be different; but there will be no next time, Mr. Temple, if you are wise and do not interfere. The Marquis.
“Let Bradley have it, will you, Temple?” asked Forbes, and the Superintendent produced a pair of tweezers, with which he transferred the letter to his wallet.
“Did you find that power-house, Ross?” asked Sir Graham, anxious to formulate some plan of campaign. Ross nodded.
“Yes sir, Bradley and his men found it. It was a converted summer house in the wood—about a quarter-of-a-mile away.”
“Anyone there?”
“No, sir. Quite deserted, and all the power cut off. The dynamo was still warm.”
“Humph!” said Forbes. “Any fingerprints?”
“Not a sign, sir,” replied Bradley. “I imagine they were all wearing rubber gloves. I’ve left a couple of men there to comb the place over, but I doubt if they’ll find anything.”
Steve drew her husband towards her and whispered:
“Darling, did you know that Sir Felix Reybourn has a house down here?”
“Why yes,” he smiled. “Mr. Storey came down specially from Town to tell us.”
“Storey?” she seemed startled.
“That’s right, darling. Now, if you’re not too tired after all your hiking, perhaps you’ll run and put on your best bib and tucker—”
“Darling, you don’t mean we’re going out again?”
“I’m afraid so, darling. It really is rather important.”
“But where on earth …”
“To yet another desirable country mansion … Greensea House!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GREENSEA HOUSE
Forbes and Temple began to make plans immediately. It was decided that Steve and her husband should be accompanied by Forbes, Ross, Bradley and the inevitable Storey, all travelling in the largest of the cars which would accommodate the entire party. After some discussion, Sir Graham agreed it was best that Temple and Steve should visit the house alone, the others remaining within easy call. As Steve pointed out, Sir Felix had invited her to drop in at any time. On the other hand, the presence of police officers would most certainly put Sir Felix on his guard and possibly close all future avenues of approach, whether the visit proved fruitless or not. So it was agreed that Temple should carry a police whistle in case of extreme emergency, and the Yard men would be within earshot.
Following the landlord’s directions, they had little difficulty in finding Greensea House before dusk fell. The name was painted on the large gates at the entrance, and Forbes steered the car on to the grass verge at the side of the road under some overhanging trees. As the engine wheez
ed into silence, the Chief Commissioner asked:
“Have you decided what you’re going to say to Sir Felix?”
“Yes,” amplified Storey. “You can’t just mention casually that you’ve dropped in for a cup of tea.” He was doing his best to be helpful, for he felt that his presence was not altogether welcome. In fact, he had had to exert considerable persuasive powers to cajole Forbes into allowing him to join the party.
“On the other hand,” said Steve, “we can’t ask Sir Felix if his house happens to be The Marquis’ headquarters.”
“Leave it to me,” said Temple, “I daresay I’ll think of something.”
“All the same, Steve,” declared Sir Graham, with some emphasis, “if you as much as set eyes on one of those men who came for you this afternoon, give Temple the tip right away, and I’ll have a warrant out for Sir Felix immediately.”
They got out of the car and began to look round. There was a nip of frost in the air, and the moon was rising above the mist, giving it a strange luminous quality. It was almost dark now, but they could just discern the shadowy outline of the house through the trees.
“Pretty impressive-looking place,” commented Forbes. “Sir Felix must have a hefty income to keep two large houses going. I didn’t know Egyptology paid such good dividends.”
“Baronets do occasionally inherit money with their title,” Temple reminded him.
“H’m, yes, I suppose so. Oh well, better be moving. We’ll get behind those laurels in the drive and keep out of sight. Mr. and Mrs. Temple will walk up the drive in the ordinary way.”
“Give us a quarter-of-an-hour, Sir Graham,” said Temple, “then if you don’t hear from us …”
“We’ll storm the bastille!” said Roger.
“Righto,” laughed Temple. “Though on second thoughts, you’d better make it twenty minutes – the drive seems a fair length, and it’ll probably take an extra five minutes before we—er—make contact.”
“Twenty minutes then,” promised Forbes. “Good luck!”
Paul Temple and Steve set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the house. The mist was patchy, but they managed to find their way to the front door without making use of their torch. Finally, they had to use it, however, in an effort to discover the bell.
Paul Temple Intervenes Page 10
