Paul Temple Intervenes

by Francis Durbridge

  “Bradley! What is it?”

  Bradley managed to speak at length, slowly and mechanically, like a man emerging from an anaesthetic.

  “She’s in the hotel,” he said. “We passed her in ten minutes before the fire broke out.”

  For a second the noise, confusion and glare of the fire seemed to whirl through Temple’s head like a deafening molten cataract. He felt Forbes take hold of his elbow and draw him away from the others, barking an abrupt order to Bradley as he did so.

  “Let’s move round to the back – we can get more of the layout from there,” said Forbes. “Don’t get alarmed, Temple. The escapes are all fixed now, and there’s a good pressure of water. We’ll manage to get everyone out without much trouble.”

  He led the way along a narrow alley, and presently they came into a partly covered yard. Here, they found Hart and Banks fully occupied in keeping order among the stream of staff and customers who rushed in and out of the hotel, carrying all sorts of packages and cases, which were dumped in a huge pile at the end of the yard.

  Forbes had some difficulty in restraining Temple from dashing into the hotel, and it was only a sudden blast of heat from the fire that deterred him. Still grasping Temple’s arm firmly, Forbes stepped back a few paces and surveyed the side of the building. Smoke was pouring out of the windows of the middle floor now, and there was a reflected glare on some of the windows beneath. Just below that, Forbes suddenly saw a door thrust open with considerable force, as if it had stuck and then wrenched outwards. His grip on Temple’s arm tightened.

  “Temple! It’s Steve!”

  Temple looked and saw Steve step out on to the small ironwork landing, and in a second she was calmly descending the hotel fire-escape which no one else had apparently thought of using.

  “Thank God!” sighed Temple in a relieved voice. “I hope that stair will hold.”

  “It’s iron—riveted to the walls,” Sir Graham reassured him.

  “But the walls! It must be a furnace inside, suppose they …”

  But before he could speculate any further, Steve was negotiating the last flight of steps and waving to them cheerfully. Temple ran to meet her and almost carried her down the last few stairs.

  “Hello darling,” said Steve casually, pulling her hat an inch forward,

  “Steve, you little devil!” cried Temple, setting her on her feet. Steve opened her bag, took out a mirror, and by the glare of the fire removed a couple of smuts from her face.

  “Of course, this would happen,” she murmured. “Just as I was getting on the trail of—” She stopped and exclaimed anxiously: “Why, Paul, you look ill. You’re as white as a sheet!”

  “By Timothy, I feel even whiter!” retorted her husband. “Dashing into burning buildings to save damsels in distress – at my time of life!”

  “You didn’t dash into the building,” Steve pointed out, reasonably.

  “Well, I was going to!”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “Come to think of it,” smiled Temple, who had now regained a certain amount of composure, “I’m not so sure myself!”

  “The only one who seems to be positive is me,” said Forbes, grimly. “I had a devil of a job to hold him back, Steve. You gave us a hell of a scare.”

  Three men came rushing towards them with an uncoiling hose. They were obviously in a considerable hurry.

  With them was Sergeant Banks, who came towards his chief. “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance, sir,” he apologised, “but the firemen want to work here. Could you move a little further back?”

  As they turned to go, there was a roar of falling masonry, and a section of the roof came down a few yards away. Amidst the dust and smoke, they managed to find their way back to the car, coughing and rubbing their eyes. When they had settled inside, Forbes looked round.

  “Hello, where did they put Ross?” he demanded.

  But the cheerful features of Sergeant O’Brien appeared at the window to reassure him.

  “I’ve got Inspector Ross in the next car, sir,” he announced. “Fellows is with him – but sure he’s as quiet as a lamb.”

  “All right, O’Brien, report to me again before we start back.”

  The sergeant saluted and returned to his car.

  After he had gone, Temple turned to Steve.

  “Now Steve, what’s the big idea? I told you to go to the theatre! I bought you a ticket to go to the theatre! I even offered to buy your mother a ticket!”

  “Yes, I know,” smiled Steve imperturbably. “But I wanted to satisfy my curiosity. Anyhow, I found out something.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, the hall porter at the hotel is the man who came for me at Bevensey, the one who called himself Morris.”

  “Then why didn’t you have him arrested? You knew the place was swarming with police.”

  “Easier said than done. As soon as he saw I’d recognised him, he dashed upstairs like a flash of lightning. And it was just after that the fire alarm went. So I found out something, even if The Marquis didn’t turn up.”

  “But The Marquis did turn up,” interposed Temple gently, in a remonstrative tone.

  Steve sat up with a jerk. It would be difficult to decide whether she or Sir Graham was the more surprised. “He did turn up?” queried Forbes, incredulously.

  “That’s what I said,” murmured Temple, gazing thoughtfully at the fire outside.

  “I don’t follow you, Paul,” protested Steve in bewilderment. “I tell you I sat in the lounge for a quarter of an hour and no one …”

  “Temple!” interposed Forbes, urgently. “You mean to say you know who The Marquis really is?”

  Temple nodded calmly. “I do. And what’s more, I’ll introduce you to him, Sir Graham, at the first suitable opportunity.”

  “When?” demanded Forbes bluntly.

  Temple considered this for a moment, then announced: “Tomorrow night. We might even make a party of it, a nice friendly sort of party. Just the people who have been hunting The Marquis, with one or two others, such as—”

  “Well?”

  “Such as Sir Felix Reybourn, for instance. And of course, Mrs. Clarence. We mustn’t forget that good lady. You must meet her, Sir Graham; she has considerable influence with the Morning Express,” chuckled Temple. He turned to his wife.

  “How d’you feel about it, Steve? Are you equal to the strain of a party?”

  “Certainly, darling. Anything you suggest.”

  “All right then. There’s hardly time to get cards printed, but”—he turned to the Chief Commissioner—”Mr. and Mrs. Temple request the pleasure of Sir Graham Forbes’ presence at an informal party on Wednesday. Cocktails at seven …” He paused, then added quietly: “to meet The Marquis.” Noticing Forbes’ grim expression, he added with a smile:

  “It’s all right, Sir Graham. We shan’t be playing Murder … I hope!”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  INTRODUCING THE MAQUIS!

  In a South London police court which was furnished rather like a university lecture room, the coroner looked over his pince-nez at Superintendent Bradley and frowned thoughtfully.

  “I suppose we must take your word as to the rather remarkable manner in which the deceased met his death, Superintendent, but I must say that never before in my ten years’ experience as a coroner have I encountered a police report which has been so unsatisfactory.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” replied Bradley, in a tone that was almost pugnacious.

  “I’m sorry, too, Superintendent!” The coroner scanned his notes and made a small correction. Then he looked up again.

  “You tell me that the deceased has a criminal record. How far back does that go?”

  “Somewhere about twelve years, sir. I’ve got his record here, sir, if you’d care to see it.”

  Bradley passed over a sheet of paper.

  “H’m, yes …” murmured the coroner as he scrutinised it, “not exactly a desirable citizen.”

  “He’
d given us a lot of trouble, sir,” declared Bradley, with some emphasis.

  “Quite so. But that unfortunately does not alter the fact that this man was apparently murdered in cold blood.”

  “I was there to arrest him,” explained Bradley patiently. “We had evidence that he was implicated in the cocaine traffic.”

  “Then why didn’t you take him away immediately?”

  “I was giving him a chance to tell me one or two things off the record.”

  “Isn’t that rather an unorthodox procedure?”

  “In this case,” replied Bradley, firmly, “it was necessary to exploit unorthodox methods. There were certain important issues involved, and I was anxious to save as much time as possible.”

  This reply sounded impressive, but served only to whet the general curiosity, and did not satisfy the coroner.

  “You must understand, Superintendent, that we are viewing this case from rather different angles,” he insisted. “I am merely anxious to establish the exact cause of the death of this—er—Lannie Dukes.”

  “I told you, sir, he was shot by someone at the door who …”

  “Yes, yes,” interrupted the coroner, testily, “but you have no proof of that. No witnesses have come forward.” He took off his pince-nez and frowned at Bradley. “For all we know, Superintendent, it would be just as feasible to say that you shot Dukes …”

  “I had no weapon,” replied Bradley, stolidly.

  “Yes, I daresay, but we have only your word for that again. You had ample opportunity to dispose of any weapon. Don’t misunderstand me, Superintendent,” he added hastily, noting Bradley’s change of expression. “I am only putting forward a theory, which on the face of it is quite as credible as your own statement.”

  He polished his pince-nez and replaced them.

  “Now, Superintendent, supposing we accept your statement, have you any idea as to who might be likely to shoot this man?”

  “Yes sir,” replied Bradley, flatly. “Since you ask me, there isn’t much doubt in my mind that The Marquis shot him.”

  “The Marquis?” repeated the coroner. “Isn’t that the gentleman we read so much about in the newspapers?” From his tone of voice he might have been discussing a character in fiction. Master criminals were obviously rather outside his experience.

  “That’s the man,” said Bradley abruptly, in reply to the question.

  “H’m, well, to continue … what motive do you suggest The Marquis might have for killing this man Dukes?”

  “Dukes was a member of his gang, sir,” replied Bradley.

  “But surely that’s hardly a satisfactory explanation—”

  Rather reluctantly, Bradley took a wallet from his pocket and extracted an envelope.

  “I would like to produce this letter as evidence of motive, sir. But I must ask that the contents are not published.”

  There was a considerable amount of whispering in court as the coroner took the slip of notepaper, and read:

  You were clever, Bradley, but not clever enough. I have been watching Lannie for some days in case something like this happened. This time, there was only an opportunity for one shot. Next time may be different.

  The Marquis.

  Temple spent the greater part of that morning securing the ingredients for a strange new cocktail, the recipe for which he had brought back from America with him. The ingredients were both numerous and peculiar, and he could not resist mixing a small quantity by way of trial. Steve sampled it dubiously, but decided that it was at least different from any other cocktail she had ever tasted.

  After that, Temple spent an hour or so making a number of telephone calls. He also sent a wire to Inspector Ross.

  During the afternoon he shut himself in his study, and wrote solidly for nearly three hours, much to the mystification of Steve, who could not suppress a growing feeling of excitement, mingled with intense curiosity. However, when she had made the least tentative attempt to cross-question her husband, he had returned flippant replies or changed the subject with disconcerting ease.

  Just before tea, he telephoned The Clockwise and asked for Maisie. When the familiar voice greeted him, he said: “How would you like to come to a party at my place tonight?”

  There was an annoyed imprecation from the other end.

  “I’d have loved it, Paul,” she replied in a regretful tone. “But I guess it’s impossible tonight. This is a fine time to ask a girl! Somebody let you down?”

  “Certainly not! You see, Maisie, it’s one of those last-minute parties. Sir Felix will be there,” he added as an afterthought.

  “Don’t tempt me!” she cried, “We’ve got a special night on here – Freemasons or Elks or some other kids’ party. They stipulated that I’ve got to play hostess, or the deal’s off.”

  After a little further badinage, he replaced the receiver and went in to tea.

  “I have a bit of news for Sir Felix,” he said to Steve, as he stirred his tea. She sat up expectantly.

  “Yes darling, what is it?”

  “I’ve decided that I really will start a book about Egypt,” he informed her. And to Steve’s annoyance, he still refused to discuss The Marquis.

  Sir Felix Reybourn and Mrs. Clarence were the first to arrive, soon after seven. The Egyptologist was quite meticulously dressed in a well-cut lounge suit, and affected a bow tie which made him appear even more distinguished. Mrs. Clarence followed him rather reluctantly, as though she had been brought along against her better judgment. In fact, Steve imagined she heard a muttered protest as Mrs. Clarence handed Pryce her voluminous umbrella, and trailed along the hall in the wake of her employer. When Temple offered her a drink, she immediately refused a cocktail in no uncertain manner, but eventually agreed to ‘a nice glass of sherry.’ Sir Felix was in a more venturesome mood, and declared himself quite ready to sample the new cocktail.

  “M’m …” he sipped it, thoughtfully. “What did you say this was called, Temple?”

  “Serpent’s Tooth,” replied the host, watching him rather anxiously.

  Sir Felix shook his head. “I wouldn’t like to take the consequences if it were administered to my serpents,” he declared. “Still, it’s most—er—refreshing—and invigorating. I’m almost tempted to try another.”

  Just as Temple was refilling his glass, Roger Storey came in, apparently in a hurry as usual. Temple left Sir Felix to talk to Steve, and went across to offer Storey a drink. Rather to his surprise, he observed that Roger was wearing a suit he had seen before, though there was no mistaking the fact that his blue and white silk tie was brand new.

  “A whisky, if I may,” he replied, when asked what he would drink. Then he lowered his voice. “What’s the idea of this party, Temple?”

  “Oh, just a sort of celebration,” replied the novelist evasively. “We’re making an announcement later on.”

  “I see—one of these anniversary affairs,” concluded Roger with a grin, taking a sip at his whisky. “You should have told us more about it, and we might have rallied round with gifts.”

  “I was afraid that would reduce the attendance,” replied Temple, hastily. “By the way, have you met Sir Felix Reybourn?”

  “Well no,” said Storey, with some hesitation, “I can’t say I have. Heard a lot about him of course …”

  Temple took Roger over and introduced him to Sir Felix, at the same time refilling Mrs. Clarence’s glass. That good lady now appeared a little more cheerful, and was relating to Steve with a certain ghoulish satisfaction all the ‘goings-on’ she had witnessed at The Clockwise.

  Ross entered unobtrusively before Pryce could announce him. His manner was quiet and somewhat subdued. He had waited in his office at the Yard all day for a summons from his chief, but none had come. He had varied between moods of uncertainty and extreme depression, and had finally left early, to find Temple’s telegram awaiting him at home. It had been quite a pleasantly worded invitation, and one he felt he dared not refuse.

  Temple seem
ed very pleased and just a little surprised to see him.

  “Why, hello, Ross,” he called across the room. “I am glad you managed to get here. You look cold. Have a drink?”

  “Thanks, Mr. Temple, I could do with a whisky,” Ross admitted.

  “You got my telegram then?” said Temple when he brought the drink.

  Ross nodded. “I thought maybe you wanted to see me alone – about Lydia—”

  “Presently,” said Temple, as another arrival was announced. It was Sir Graham Forbes.

  “Good evening, Ross,” said his chief pleasantly enough, as if he were greeting an acquaintance at the club.

  “Good evening, Sir,” replied Ross respectfully, wondering if and when things would come to a head.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Sir Graham,” said Temple. “Whisky and soda?”

  “Please.”

  Temple busied himself fetching drinks and introducing his guests, and Steve was also kept fully occupied dispensing hospitality. The last arrival was Superintendent Bradley, who seemed both mildly astonished by the number of people and the party atmosphere. Moreover, he was not in a very pleasant mood, having spent rather a trying afternoon at the inquest of the mysterious death of Lannie Dukes. The coroner had thrown more than one strong hint that it was Bradley’s job to enlighten him as to the identity of the killer, and that he was falling woefully short of his duty in maintaining a discreet silence on this subject.

  Bradley had quite understood that his invitation to Temple’s flat was strictly concerned with business.

  “I’m not much of a party man, Mr. Temple,” he declared in a gruff voice which contained a note of reproach. However, he accepted a tankard of beer. “Come to that,” he continued, “I can’t see much call for a party just now.”

  “This is business as well as pleasure, Bradley,” Temple gravely assured him. “And I want you to be on your guard. I’m telling you quite seriously, anything may happen!”

  “Very good, Mr. Temple,” replied Bradley, looking somewhat sceptical nevertheless. At that moment, Pryce came in to announce: “The drawing-room is quite ready now, madam.”