He speculated as to what this girl would be like. Maybe he would recognise her. Probably he would have come across her in one of the many night clubs he had patronised during the past five years. In that case, he decided, he would most certainly follow up the case himself. Or would he? He recalled one or two of the shadier type of women he had encountered in an unpleasant frame of mind, and shuddered at the recollection.
A stout woman bumped into him and he caught his breath in fear. But she paid him no further attention and bustled off into the station below.
Ten minutes went by, and Serflane began to get restless. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Forbes standing in the entrance to a large store opposite. The Honourable Charles suddenly felt very self-conscious, as he stood there, clasping his attache case. To the hundreds of people who surged past him, he was just a city clerk waiting for a girl to turn up, and getting a little more agitated as every minute passed. There were half-a-dozen detectives nearby expecting him to play his part. There was a strange woman expecting him to hand over that innocent case. How could he avoid looking rather strained?
Another thought struck him. Supposing the woman had already arrived. Suppose she were surveying him carefully from some point of vantage. The Honourable Charles fingered his tie uneasily and looked round as casually as possible. There were several women gazing in shop windows near at hand – it might be one of them, waiting to make quite certain that the coast was clear.
He felt that he could stand the strain no longer. He had to make a move of some sort. He walked down the steps and into the booking hall. Streams of people seemed to be perpetually swirling around him. He became tired of looking into women’s faces for some sign of recognition. After a while, he strolled over to the bookstall and gazed with unseeing eyes at the array of books and periodicals. Hot gusts of air from the tube below swept past him as every train volleyed into the station. The homeward rush was slackening a little now. Serflane looked at his watch once more. Ten minutes to seven. He decided to walk up the stairs to the Regent Street exit, and he waited about five minutes. Still no one accosted him.
He began to wonder if this was some stupid joke of Laraine’s. Of course, she had sworn she knew nothing about it, and that the letters had been stolen from her flat. Still, that was the sort of thing she would say if she had been planning some trickery of this sort. Serflane frowned thoughtfully as he speculated upon this possibility. He had been crazy about Laraine at one time, but this did not blind him to the fact that she was not over-scrupulous about other people’s property or feelings. There was that time when the club was raided, and Laraine had picked up an exquisitely chased gold cigarette case which one of the guests had left behind in her hurried exit. Charles had told her that he had an idea the case belonged to Lady Welland, but Laraine had merely shrugged her pretty shoulders and made no attempt to pursue the matter.
Then there was that fur coat for which he had given her a cheque for nine hundred guineas. He had seen an identical mink coat in a shop in Bond Street marked £650. At that time, he had been too infatuated to inquire into the matter. But he had always wondered …
He walked slowly and thoughtfully round the corner of Regent Street and back to the Oxford Street entrance of the tube station.
Meanwhile, Inspector Ross, who had followed him into the booking hall, had decided that he would be less conspicuous if he took up his position inside a telephone booth, and kept an eye on Serflane from there. After he had busied himself with the telephone directory, he picked up the receiver as if he were making a call, and pretended to be listening. In this manner he watched Serflane for quite five minutes, standing with his back to the right-hand side of the booth.
As Serflane went up the steps to the Regent Street exit, Ross replaced the receiver, and opened the door of the booth. Then he noticed that a woman was leaving the box on his left. He had been standing with his back to her, or he would have recognised her at once.
“Well!” he exclaimed. “What brings you here?”
She gave him a cold stare.
“I just happen to be minding my own business,” she retorted, insolently. “Pity some other people can’t do the same.”
And with that Parthian shot, Dolly Fraser swept past Ross, pushed through the barrier, and vanished down the escalator.
Temple gave the taxi-driver the name of their destination in a discreet aside, and it was not until they had travelled some distance that Steve found an opportunity to interrupt her husband’s light-hearted chatter and ask: “Paul, where are we going?”
“Oh, just a night club, darling!”
“But we seem to have been travelling for hours.”
Steve peered through the window into the blackness, and she somehow got the impression that they were at the Northern end of Baker Street.
“Paul,” she cried in exasperation, “if you don’t tell me where we’re going, I’ll get out and walk.”
“Then I fail to see how you’d get there,” he replied, urbanely. “I’ve already told you we’re going to a night club.”
“Do I know it?”
“I should imagine not – though I never quite fathom the extent of your general knowledge. It’s called The Clockwise.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” said Steve. “Is it one of those draughty cellars where one pays ridiculous prices for food and drink?”
“One pays ridiculous prices, all right, but it is emphatically not a cellar. A couple of years ago it was called The Oriental, and before that The Madagascar. In those days it had a most peculiar reputation and was run by a man called Arnaud Perriolia. It was Perriolia who bought up the adjoining premises for extensions, and had lifts installed. In fact, he transformed it into a veritable Corner House of night clubs. Nowadays, of course, it’s highly respectable, and shunned by all the gay young set accordingly. I remember going there one night just before I met you—”
“I believe you, darling,” interrupted Steve, urgently. “But what are we going there for now?”
Temple lighted a cigarette quite deliberately.
“Because I have an appointment,” he replied, in a level tone. “Rather an important one.”
“Would it be indiscreet to ask who with?”
Temple placed a foot on the opposite seat and smiled in the darkness.
“It’s no use telling you, Steve. You simply wouldn’t believe me.”
“Why not try me?” she suggested, in a voice which seemed to suggest that her patience was almost exhausted.
Temple expelled a mouthful of smoke.
“Very well,” he agreed, as one who is making a generous concession. “I have an appointment with Sir Felix Reybourn.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘THE CLOCKWISE’
Steve was still bewildered and confused when the taxi wheezed to a standstill.
“Here we are,” said Temple, opening the door before the driver could get round, and stepping on to the pavement.
“But Paul, surely Sir Felix is …”
“Now, no more questions, darling! Your friends might still be following us.”
He turned to pay the taxi-driver, and they made their way towards the dim blue light which was the only indication of the entrance to the club. Steve held his arm tightly, blinking as they came into the brilliant lights of the entrance lounge. Several people, all of them expensively dressed, were chatting desultorily while they waited for their friends. From the distance came the steady beat of drums and the gentle wail of the saxophone. The music grew louder as a glass-panelled door opened, and a middle-aged man of slightly swarthy appearance came to welcome Temple with outstretched arms.
“Hello Gus, how are you?” smiled the detective.
Gus began to rub his hands.
“I am fine, Mr. Temple, but this is the first time you have honoured us by bringing Mrs. Temple.”
“I promised I would. It’s rather an important occasion.” Temple turned and introduced Steve.
Gus bowed.
&
nbsp; “I am honoured, Mrs. Temple. The Clockwise is honoured!”
“All right, Gus,” interrupted Temple. “My wife was once a reporter, so addresses of welcome don’t mean a thing in her young life!” He handed over his hat and coat to the smiling cloakroom attendant.
“I think you will find everything has been arranged, Mr. Temple,” said Gus.
“Is Maisie here?”
Before Gus could answer, the panelled door swung open again to reveal a vivacious titian blonde of just under average height. She wore an emerald green chiffon dress, and her every line and movement exuded self-confidence.
“Hello Paul!” she cried in exuberant tones, flinging her arms around him with a complete disregard for any spectators. Temple gravely disentangled himself.
“Why Maisie! It’s good to see you again!” he laughed.
“And I guess this is Mrs. Temple,” she hazarded, indicating Steve. “I always used to warn you, Paul, that you’d fall for a dark-eyed charmer!”
“Steve, this is Maisie Delaway, an old friend of mine,” said Temple. Maisie took Steve’s hand, and eyed her appraisingly.
“You certainly can pick ‘em, brother,” she decided. “Glad to know you, Mrs. Temple. I’ve heard a lot about you. Paul and I are old friends, you know.” She displayed a flash of teeth that would have done credit to a dental advertisement.
“Yes, I rather got that impression,” said Steve, just a little bewildered, and wondering what would happen next.
“We met way back in Chicago – or was it Kansas City? – in 1931,” continued Maisie in her attractive husky voice. “Those were the days!”
“Oh,” said Steve, suddenly enlightened. “You’re that Maisie! Paul told me about you when we were in Chicago. But I thought he said your name was Maisie Kelvin?”
“So it was. I’ve changed it twice since then,” laughed Maisie. “But my luck remains much about the same!”
“Paul always told me how lucky you were,” said Steve, recalling to mind some of the varied phases of Maisie’s hectic career which Temple had related at odd times.
Starting life as a dancer in a juvenile troupe that clung precariously to the fifth-rate vaudeville circuits, Maisie had always been the star performer amongst the bunch of chattering precocious youngsters. This fact had not escaped her notice, and at the age of ten she threatened to resign and start her own solo act unless her salary was raised to eight dollars a week. The ex-ballet dancer who ran the troupe could cheerfully have murdered Maisie, but she had to give way, for she was well aware that most of her bookings depended upon the light comedy touches with which Maisie enlivened a singularly uninspired set of mechanical movements.
Maisie picked up new routines like a circus terrier acquires fresh tricks, and was showing every sign of developing into a first-rate comedienne when, at the age of twelve, appearing in a back-street burlesque theatre in Los Angeles, she succumbed to the lure of Hollywood. For six lonely, heart-breaking months, she trailed round the agents and studios, and at the end of the six months it dawned on Maisie that Hollywood had no use for her! So in desperation she joined a small-time family act, playing five shows a day, week in, week out, and wearing through a pair of dancing shoes every two months.
It was not surprising that by the time Maisie reached the age of eighteen, she looked twenty-five and was more experienced in the ways of the world than most women of forty. Prohibition came into force soon after her eighteenth birthday, and brought with it the inevitable army of bootleggers and their satellites. Among the latter was a certain Luke Zwar, with whom Maisie scraped up an acquaintance. Luke had ambition. He intended to join the bootlegger kings just as quickly as his nimble brain would propel him to the top of that strange profession. Incidentally, Luke prided himself on recognising a good thing when he saw it. He saw Maisie!
Before the war was out, ‘Maisie’s Craze’ was on the way to being one of the most popular speakeasies in Chicago, and Maisie – who sang Sophie Tucker songs and acted as mistress of ceremonies – was widely recognised as a figure of some importance. The liquor at Maisie’s Craze was, of course, supplied exclusively by Luke Zwar, at an average profit of a thousand dollars a week.
“Not bad for a start, kid,” Luke told her in their apartment one evening, “but we’re going to do this in a big way. Next month, we open a Maisie’s Craze in Pittsburg and another in Toledo. Inside a year, I’ll have a chain of ‘em right across the States. Guess that’ll keep you busy looking after the cabarets.”
But it turned out that Zwar was too ambitious, for, although he opened a dozen speakeasies, there was only one Maisie, and while the Chicago speakeasy showed increasing profits, these were eaten away by losses on others, where the territory was less favourable.
Matters were slowly beginning to improve, when Zwar was killed in a fracas with a rival gang who were trying to break in on his territory.
But Maisie’s reputation as a night club queen was now established, and there was keen rivalry for her services. She decided to break away from Chicago and all its associations, and accepted an offer to open a new club at Kansas City, where Paul Temple had met her for the second time, being quite needlessly introduced by a friendly police official. They had renewed their strange friendship, this night club hostess and the young detective-novelist. They had sat up till four o’clock one morning while she told him the events of the two years since they had first met.
Although she had been in Kansas City less than a year, Maisie knew everybody with any ‘pull,’ and found a new interest in putting the English-man, who had such a lively sense of humour, wise to local proceedings. Now in her twenties, she was beginning to penetrate a little deeper into various aspects of life outside her own rather artificial surroundings, and never tired of asking Temple questions on every subject under the sun. She was always a little awed at the fact that he was a Master of Arts, and actually made a living by writing books. Temple, on his side, was equally intrigued by the naive questions asked by this amazing young woman who had seen so much of the seamy side of life in such a short time.
She was very sorry when he had to return to New York, and she made him promise to visit her whenever he was in America. This had not always been possible, but he had managed to find her on two other occasions – once in Baltimore and then in New York, where her reputation as a cabaret star was second only to that of Dwight Fiske.
“Now remember, if ever you come to England, phone me as soon as you dock,” had been his parting injunction, and Maisie had promised to do so. But she had forgotten his promise and had been established in London for quite a little while before, shortly after their return from America, Paul Temple realised that the ruling spirit at The Clockwise was none other than his old friend Maisie Delaway. When he did realise it Temple had no hesitation in asking her to help him out of a difficulty: a difficulty which he had explained to her in outline without going into detail.
“Well, how is the guest of honour?” he asked her, as she squeezed his arm affectionately.
“Oh, he’s swell,” she replied, with a laugh. “Queer old bird – we seem to talk different languages, but I guess we understand each other.”
“So you’ve been gossiping, eh?”
“Oh yes, I talk to him about dance routines and bootleggers, and he comes back about ancient Egypt. Never a dull moment, as you might say!”
She stopped her chattering for a second, looked at Temple curiously, and asked:
“Say, confidentially, Paul, what’s the layout in this business?”
He brought his face near to hers and whispered.
“Confidentially, Maisie, it’s confidential!”
Maisie shrugged her shapely white shoulders.
“I catch on! Well, you’ll find him on the second floor, first door on the right.”
She pressed a button and the lift slid silently down to them. As soon as they were ascending, Steve turned to her husband.
“Maisie seems an even closer friend than I thought.”
“Practically a sister,” Temple assured her. “And she’s a friend in need all right this time.”
“But, seriously, Paul, is Sir Felix alive?”
“Very much so, as you’ll see in a few moments.”
They found the door Maisie had mentioned, and on opening it, Steve was surprised to hear the voices of Sir Felix and Superintendent Bradley. She was even more surprised to see them sitting, in comfortable armchairs on either side of the electric fire, in a modernly furnished small lounge.
They rose to their feet and wished the bewildered Steve a polite ‘good evening.’ Sir Felix appeared quite at ease as he shook hands with her, and begged her to take his chair.
“Are you all right, Sir Felix? Quite comfortable here?” inquired Temple as they settled down.
Sir Felix offered a chocolate from a large box, then took one himself.
“Yes, I’m all right,” he replied. “Providing I don’t have to stay here too long.” He looked round the room, eyeing the lavishly inscribed signed portraits on the wall. “I’ve been in some queer places in my time, but I’m getting a little old for these adventures.”
“I quite appreciate that, Sir Felix,” said Temple, seriously. “I particularly asked Miss Delaway to see you have everything you want.”
“Oh Miss Delaway looks after me very well,” said Sir Felix. “Indeed the young lady seems to be quite a character!” He chuckled reminiscently.
Bradley at last succeeded in cornering Temple, and, looking very worried, asked: “Have you seen Sir Graham, Mr. Temple?”
“Now there’s nothing for you to worry about, Bradley. I gave you my word on that, and I shan’t let you down.”
“I know that, sir, but I am a bit worried. I’m not used to working on these lines, and if anything should go wrong …”
“I quite appreciate your position, Bradley,” said Temple, patting his shoulder. “And whatever happens, I’ll take full responsibility.”
Paul Temple Intervenes Page 13
