“Thank you, Pryce,” said Steve, and looked across at her husband expectantly. Temple raised his voice.
“Listen everybody! There’s a very pleasant fire in the drawing-room, and a number of very comfortable chairs. I want you all to go in there – take your drinks along – and make yourselves as cosy as possible. I have one or two explanations to make, and it may take some little time.”
The guests eyed each other somewhat dubiously, as if they were being called on to start some strange new game. Their conversation died to a murmur as they made for the door in ones and twos.
When they had settled on the restful green upholstered settees and armchairs in the drawing-room, Temple leaned against a corner of the mantelpiece and faced his audience.
“I expect you are all wondering why I invited you here this evening,” he began. “Perhaps some of you realise that I had a most particular reason for doing so. Sir Graham, for instance! Last night, outside of the October Hotel, Sir Graham asked me if I knew who The Marquis was, and I promised to introduce him to The Marquis—tonight!”
There was a general stir amongst the guests. Bradley casually plunged his hand in the coat pocket where he carried his automatic pistol.
Sir Felix set down his cocktail glass.
“Do you mean that The Marquis is actually coming here tonight?” he asked, in an amazed voice. Temple stooped to poke the fire, then turned, still holding the poker.
“The Marquis is already here, Sir Felix,” he announced, quietly.
“What d’you mean—already here?” demanded Storey swiftly.
Bradley leaned forward in his chair at the side, where he had a good view of everyone.
“Mr. Temple, you don’t mean that he’s here in this room. Actually one of us!”
“That,” replied Temple placidly, as he carefully replaced the poker, “is precisely my meaning, Bradley.”
He could not repress a smile at the attitude of mingled alarm and dismay with which some of his guests were regarding each other.
“I know this is bound to upset Sir Felix’s liver again,” Mrs. Clarence informed Steve in a loud whisper.
Forbes took a cigar from his pocket, held it to his ear and cut it with great care. “I think you owe us an explanation, Temple,” he murmured quietly.
“Of course I owe you an explanation, Sir Graham, and I intend to give you one. Suppose we begin at the beginning. Let me, in fact, start with suspect number one! Sir Felix Reybourn!”
Sir Felix nodded approvingly, and cleared his throat.
“As a keen student of crime fiction I am extremely interested, Mr. Temple. Please proceed.”
Temple deliberately enumerated the points in the case against Sir Felix.
“Forty-eight hours before Lady Alice Mapleton was murdered, she paid Sir Felix a visit. Twenty-four hours before the police discovered the body of Carlton Rodgers, he had dined with Sir Felix at his house at St. John’s Wood. And the last person to see Myron Harwood alive, on his own admission, was Sir Felix Reybourn. Now, these are the cold, definite, undisputed facts.”
“I quite agree, Mr. Temple,” put in Sir Felix, with a trace of irritation. “But we have surely covered this ground before. I gave you the explanations for all those facts, and, as you very readily concurred, if I were The Marquis, I would hardly have drawn attention to myself in such a highly incriminating manner.”
“That’s so, Sir Felix,” Temple reassured him. “As soon as you pointed that out to me, I began to consider the possibility that someone – and whom else but The Marquis? – was deliberately throwing suspicion upon Sir Felix. The theory wasn’t very popular, I’m afraid, but I stuck to it.”
Temple paused to light a cigarette.
“Well now, how did we get to hear about Sir Felix?” he continued easily. “Speaking for myself …”
“I told you about him,” interrupted Storey quickly. “It was Rita Cartwright, you remember …”
“Quite so,” agreed Temple, “you told us about him, Storey. And that led eventually to Roddy Carson and suspect number two—Inspector Ross.”
Ross’s lean features betrayed no sign of emotion, and Temple continued: “When the body of Roddy Carson was discovered at Forard Glen he had, amongst other things, an envelope in his pocket. On the back of it was scribbled ‘Sir Felix Reybourn, 492 Maupassant Avenue, St. John’s Wood.’ Now you remember the first thing that struck me about this was the word ‘Maupassant’ being spelt correctly. I knew instinctively that Roddy Carson hadn’t written the words. For one thing, the writing didn’t tally with the letter he had previously sent Sir Graham. For another, he could hardly spell his own name, let alone the word Maupassant. Now why were those words written on the back of an envelope, and why was that envelope planted on the body of Roddy Carson?”
“Presumably to continue to throw suspicion on Sir Felix,” hazarded Bradley, from the depths of his tankard.
“Yes, but that wasn’t the only reason. You see, I discovered that the handwriting on the envelope was that of Inspector Ross.”
This caused quite a sensation, but Ross remained quite unperturbed.
“Now what did that mean?” went on Temple. “As I saw it, it could only mean one of three things. Either Ross was The Marquis, or he was a confederate of The Marquis, or …”
“Or he was a victim!” supplied Roger Storey, eagerly.
“In other words,” said Forbes, “Ross was being blackmailed!”
At last Ross betrayed some signs of interest.
“How did you find out, Temple?” he demanded, unable to suppress a note of curiosity in his voice.
“It wasn’t easy,” Temple informed him. “And I had to take Bradley into my confidence. Together, we arranged Sir Felix’s accident and ‘death.’ The whole country thought he was dead, including The Marquis. This threw a new complexion on the case. If Sir Felix was dead, it meant that The Marquis had to shift suspicion on to someone else for any future crimes.”
“And the obvious choice was Ross!” declared Forbes, grimly.
“That’s so. And you know what happened. Ross became our prime suspect almost immediately.”
“Yes, my God, yes!” cried Ross, really aroused by now. “The day we all thought Sir Felix had been killed I had a note ordering me to write to Serflane, demanding seven thousand pounds in the name of The Marquis.”
“But good God, Ross, why was he blackmailing you?” demanded the Chief Commissioner.
“That’s rather a long story,” said Temple. “Briefly, however, Ross was under the impression that he had committed bigamy, but fortunately for him, by a sheer coincidence, his first wife, Lydia Staines, died in New York a month before his second marriage.”
“Really, this is extremely interesting,” said Sir Felix, who had followed each step of the argument with great care.
“If Ross isn’t The Marquis,” put in Storey pertinently, “who is?”
“Can’t you guess?” asked Temple, lightly, blowing out a cloud of smoke.
“No, I’m damned if I can.”
“Look here, Temple,” said Bradley in some irritation, “if you don’t know who The Marquis is, for God’s sake say so, and let’s get back on the job.”
“But I do know,” said Temple softly, as he stubbed out his cigarette with a decisive gesture. “Bradley, you remember the lorry that smashed into my car on the embankment?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think they didn’t find the lorry driver?”
“He disappeared,” replied the Superintendent in a puzzled voice. Temple shook his head.
“Oh no! That’s just the point, Bradley. He didn’t disappear.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” replied Temple deliberately, and with sudden emphasis, “that the lorry was driven by Mr. Storey.”
“What!”
Roger leapt to his feet.
“Sit down, Storey. There’s more to come.” With a gesture Temple silenced him. Then Temple said: “Why did Storey t
urn up at the inn at Bevensey just before Slater was killed?”
“You know damn well why I turned up,” snapped Roger. “To tell you about Sir Felix and—” Temple waved aside his explanation.
“You turned up because you were already in the district, and were frightened of being seen.”
“But what about his car accident with Slater?” asked Forbes.
“Faked,” said Temple, briefly. “Storey is rather an expert at car accidents. He knew perfectly well what Slater was going to do.”
“That’s a lie!” shouted Roger.
“Naturally, if Storey could convince us that attempts were being made on his life, it would distract suspicion from falling on him,” pursued Temple, calmly. “Again, there was the doped cigarette. Who else could have planted it?”
Storey was on his feet again in an instant, but this time he made a deliberate move towards the door. As he passed a small bureau, he suddenly wrenched open the top drawer and pulled out a small revolver which Temple kept there, and which Storey had apparently discovered on a previous visit.
“Put that gun down, Storey; it isn’t loaded,” ordered Temple, making no move.
“Isn’t it?” said Storey. He plunged his hand into his coat pocket and produced an automatic. “Well, this one is, Mr. Temple!” He swung round menacingly. “Would you like me to prove it?”
Without any further ado, he fired at a photograph on the piano. There was a tinkling of glass as the frame toppled over.
“Stand back everybody!” advised Storey, who had now reached the door. “You Bradley! Put your hands up and move into that corner. And remember if anyone follows me out of this room I shall let them have it!” There was no mistaking the cold fury in his voice.
With his left hand he suddenly pulled the door open, and in less than a second he had vanished. There was an immediate movement towards the door. Temple got there first and opened it cautiously a few inches. Looking over his shoulder, Forbes was just in time to see Storey disappearing through a door at the far end of the hall.
“Where’s it lead to?” panted Forbes.
“Emergency exit,” replied Temple. “It opens on to a flight of stairs up to the roof.”
“Good enough,” snapped Forbes. “No time to lose. Ross! Bradley! Run down below and get all the men you can to watch the exits right round this block.”
Forbes and Temple rushed in Storey’s wake, and as they opened the door of the emergency exit they heard the thud of a wooden trapdoor on to the roof. When they reached the top of the stairs, Temple lifted the trapdoor without much difficulty, and after a moment’s hesitation they clambered out. The blackness was not completely dense when their eyes became accustomed to it.
“Can’t see anything of him,” whispered Forbes, looking quickly in all directions. “He might be hiding behind any of these chimneys.”
“No, I think he’s out to make a quick getaway,” muttered Temple. They advanced cautiously, moving as quietly and unobtrusively as possible.
“Shall I use my torch?” suggested Forbes.
“Better not,” Temple advised. “It’ll only present him with an easy mark – and he’s desperate.”
“Hsst …” said Forbes suddenly. “There he is!”
Temple followed his pointing arm, and saw a dark form near the edge of the parapet, some twenty yards away.
“Stay where you are, Temple!” shouted Roger suddenly. “D’you hear me? Stay where you are! I’ve got you covered!”
“My God! He’s going to jump down on the annexe!” breathed Temple incredulously.
“How far is it?”
“About twenty feet, but it’s the restaurant, and they’ve got a glass roof covered with a blackout sheet!”
“Phew!” whistled Forbes.
“Storey!” Temple called, advancing a pace. “It’s a glass roof! Don’t jump!”
“Stay where you are, Temple!” Obviously Storey had decided that the warning was a ruse on Temple’s part, for he placed a foot on the parapet, paused a moment, then disappeared.
There was a terrific crash, followed by a desperate shriek.
Temple and Forbes reached the parapet to see a star-shaped hole through which the light was shining. From below there came the sound of shouts and general confusion.
“Well, he didn’t fake that accident,” said Forbes, grimly.
At breakfast next morning, Temple had to contend with a further barrage of questions from Steve. For a time, he buried himself behind his paper, and refused to be drawn.
“I say, this is a frightful photograph of Sir Graham in the Morning Express,” he chuckled. “It rather reminds me of Charlie McCarthy.” He continued to read.
“I must say this is a very garbled report of the case,” he commented. “Not that I begrudge Sir Graham his lion’s share of the limelight.”
“Can you wonder he gets it?” said Steve, “when you won’t even tell your own wife how you cleared up the case. If I hadn’t told the reporters what little I know, I doubt if your name would have appeared at all.”
Temple laughed and laid down his paper.
“You’ve been popping questions at me all night like a third-degree expert. I’ve hardly had a wink of sleep,” he complained with an air of injured innocence. “I suppose there’s no peace until I’ve satisfied your feminine curiosity. Now, what was it you were so anxious to know?”
Steve considered for a moment.
“Well, in the first place, why did you get Storey to trail Ross?”
“For obvious reasons. I wanted Storey to believe I was under the impression that Ross was The Marquis.”
“Yes, but why did Storey always push himself to the fore? At the beginning, I mean, when he made all those inquiries about The Marquis. He was always here or with Sir Graham.”
Temple pushed his plate aside and lit a cigarette.
“Yes, he was almost brilliant there. He created a part for himself, and he played it very well. He was almost the amateur detective – and who suspects the amateur detective? No one, of course, except himself?”
“You said you suspected everybody,” she reminded him.
“That’s because I happen to be a novelist. We authors are a suspicious crowd,” he smiled. “Next question?”
She wrinkled her forehead.
“Let me see. Oh yes, about Lydia Staines! How did you discover she was dead?”
“Maisie found that out for me. She’s pretty good at that sort of research.”
Steve leaned her chin on her hand, and looked at him across the table.
“I must say I can’t understand Roger Storey,” she confessed. “A young man with a good education and apparently considerable private means. What was the motive of all these crimes he committed?”
Temple leaned back in his chair and toyed with his coffee spoon.
“Forbes and I were just about as curious as you are when we searched his flat late last night.”
“What did you find?”
“We found enough to bring us to the conclusion that Storey was a sort of cultured prototype of Jack the Ripper,” announced Temple, deliberately. “It seems that crime has always fascinated him. He began in a small way when he was at Oxford; stole money and valuables from dons and tutors and contrived to get the blame thrown on to other people. One undergraduate was actually sent down as a result.”
“It sounds incredible,” murmured Steve.
“It was all set out in his diaries,” Temple assured her. “He kept a very neat record of every crime, with dozens of press cuttings pasted on the opposite pages. When he was at Oxford, he had already collected a considerable number of books on criminology, and obviously the subject became more and more intriguing. I rather suspect that if he had confined his efforts to forging bank notes he could have lived in luxury for the rest of his life.”
“But what about Lady Alice?” Steve reminded him.
“I’m coming to that. Storey decided to go in for dope distribution in a really big way. That’s how he
came to meet Lady Alice. According to his diaries, she had a very strange effect on him. Up till then, he had not been interested in women, or indeed in any other human being apart from their criminal possibilities. Yet right from their first meeting, he found himself strangely fascinated by her. Indeed, during their engagement, Storey discovered a new and sadistic delight in inflicting a refined form of torture upon his fiancée: at one minute threatening to make public her dope-taking, at the next to withdraw supplies. God knows what minor cruelties he inflicted on the poor girl during those awful months. She dared not tell anyone the whole truth, though her mother found out about the cocaine. Can you wonder that Alice went to Sir Felix Reybourn in desperation when she heard a rumour about that habit-breaking drug he’d brought back from Egypt? It seemed to offer her a last, desperate chance.”
Temple paused.
“I’m afraid Sir Felix didn’t tell us quite everything. He is, I find, quite a friend of the Mapleton family and I suppose he was considering their feelings. However, Storey’s diary tells the approximate truth, as he extorted it from Alice. It seems that she wouldn’t take ‘no’ from Sir Felix about that habit-breaking drug, and to pacify her, Sir Felix told her that he had given it to Harwood. She went to Harwood’s house, and Storey followed her there. She confessed practically everything to Harwood, just as she had done to Rodgers on the night he dined with Sir Felix. That meant that three men knew that Lady Alice Mapleton was receiving dope from a criminal source. Either of them might go to the police any day. So Storey planned a series of murders, and”—concluded Temple—”so far as I can judge, he accomplished the murders in much the same frame of mind that a chess player removes pieces from the board.”
Steve poured out a second cup of coffee and as Temple stirred it, he murmured casually: “Pity about that photograph of your mother. The one that Storey shattered.”
“Yes, the bullet completely ruined it.”
“I was greatly attached to that picture,” he said, gravely. “The only glamorous photo we have in the flat.”
“Beast!”
“Anyhow, this was a grand recipe for American coffee your mother gave you. I shall be eternally in her debt,” he admitted, drinking appreciatively. Steve came over and stood by his side.
Paul Temple Intervenes Page 19
