Copyright & Information
Paul Temple and The Madison Case
First published in 1988
Copyright © Estate of Francis Durbridge; House of Stratus 1988-2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Francis Durbridge to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
075511910X 9780755119103 Print
0755125940 9780755125944 Pdf
075512605X 9780755126057 Kindle
0755126173 9780755126170 Epub
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author‘s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
Francis Henry Durbridge was born in Hull, Yorkshire, in 1912 and was educated at Bradford Grammar School. He was encouraged at an early age to write by his English teacher and went on to read English at Birmingham University. Whilst an undergraduate he started to develop the radio play format for which he first became known. At the age of twenty one he sold a play to the BBC and continued to write following his graduation whilst working as a stockbroker‘s clerk.
In 1938, by this time writing full time, he created the character Paul Temple, a crime novelist and detective. With Steve Trent, a Fleet Street journalist and later his wife, Temple solved numerous crimes.
Durbridge‘s style was very much in the mode of the earlier ‘Golden Age’ middle class amateur detectives . The first book, Send for Paul Temple, was written with John Thewes as the novelisation of a radio serial. Many others followed and they were hugely successful until the last of the series was completed in 1968. In 1969, the Paul Temple series was adapted for television and four of the adventures, prior to this, had been adapted for cinema, albeit with less success than radio and TV. He also invented a new character, Tim Frazer, an undercover agent who appeared in both novels and as a TV series.
Francis Durbridge also wrote for the stage and continued doing so up until 1991, when Sweet Revenge was completed. Additionally, he wrote over twenty other well received novels, most of which were on the general subject of crime. The last, Fatal Encounter, was published after his death in 1998.
1
My Name is Portland, Sam Portland
“I think I’ll go up on deck for a few minutes, Paul. I’d like to take a last look at the New York skyline.”
“Isn’t it a bit late, Steve? You said you wanted to change your dress before going down to dinner.”
“Yes, I know, but it will clear my head a bit.”
“You’re not feeling off colour already, are you? It’s only ten minutes since we sailed.”
“No, darling, I’m fine. It’s just that I feel a little sea air will do me good.”
“Well, take a wrap or something. And for heaven’s sake don’t get lost. Do you know the number of this cabin?”
“I know we’re on the Signal Deck and isn’t it eight hundred and something?”
“We’re on the Sports Deck and it’s number 8020.”
Mr and Mrs Paul Temple were on their way back from a stay in New York. They had flown out by Concorde and were returning in more leisurely fashion on the newly refurbished Princess Diana. Temple had been attending the International Conference of Anti-Crime Agencies. As an eminent criminologist as well as an author of world renown, he had been invited to deliver the key-note address. His New York publishers had timed the publication of his new book to coincide with the conference and had offered to pay both his and Steve’s expenses. After a week of lectures and seminars, interspersed with book signings and television interviews, he was looking forward to five days crossing the Atlantic at 29 knots instead of the Mach 2 of Concorde.
Steve had not been telling the complete truth when she said she was feeling fine. She was a bad sailor and whenever she boarded a ship and knew that she had left terra firma she began to feel queasy. Even on this huge liner, the length of three football pitches, she had a sense of being somehow trapped and enclosed.
As always, coming out on deck made things better. She was glad that she had not missed this magical moment. The great liner, dwarfed by the soaring skyscrapers on Manhattan Island, was just passing between the upraised arm of the Statue of Liberty and the twin towers of the World Trade Centre. Already the city was beginning to sparkle as lights were switched on in offices where staff would be working till the small hours. She tried to pick out the Waldorf Astoria in the closely packed muddle of buildings. The hotel had been their home for the last six days.
“Isn’t that just the most fantastic skyline?”
Steve did not turn round at once. The voice was American but she was not sure whether the remark had been addressed to her. She was adept at dealing with approaches from strangers who could not resist the lure of an attractive woman on her own.
“The Big Apple. It’s a sight that always brings a lump into my throat.”
Steve turned. The man leaning on the rail beside her was wearing a white suit and a gaily coloured tie. His hair was grey and thinning on top, but she did not put him at much more than fifty. His colour was high but whether from recent sunshine or blood pressure she could not tell. There was an unmistakable air of prosperity about him and she guessed that his corpulent build was a consequence of good living.
“I was just trying to make out the Waldorf Astoria. That’s where my husband and I stayed.”
“Say, you’re English! I just love that accent. How long you been over here?”
“Only a week. We flew over on Concorde but decided to make a holiday of the return journey.”
“You’re dead right. No better way to spend five days than in a ship like this.”
The American leant a hand against the rail and stared up at the single red smoke stack. The wisp of pale blue vapour from the three diesel turbines was tugged westwards by the fresh sea breeze.
“It’s funny,” Steve said. “I can’t see the Empire State Building.”
“I guess it just slipped behind the World Trade Centre. You’ll see it in a minute. You spend your week in New York?”
“Most of it. My husband was attending the ICACA conference.”
His expression had not changed at these mentions of a husband.
“How did you like it?”
“New York? I liked it enormously.”
“It’s some city, isn’t it?” He gave her an infectious grin. “You know, I’ve heard a lot of English people say they wouldn’t like to live in New York, but I just can’t imagine why they say that. It’s got everything.”
“That’s probably why they wouldn’t like to live there.”
“Yeah?” His voice had become a little suspicious, wary. “That’s too subtle for me.”
“Is this your first trip to England?” Steve asked, deciding to keep the conversation on more conventional lines.
“M’m-m’m, I guess it is.” He nodded then added seriously, “At least I don’t th
ink I’ve been there before.”
“You don’t think … ?” Steve laughed, taking it as a joke. “Don’t you know?”
“Well, you see, I only…” He hesitated, then abruptly his manner changed. He held out his hand. “Maybe we ought to introduce ourselves. My name is Portland, Sam Portland.”
Steve took the proffered hand, which grasped hers strongly.
“I’m Mrs Temple.”
“Was that your husband I saw you with – the tall, tired- looking gentleman?”
“Yes, that was my husband.”
Sam Portland was looking at her with renewed interest. “I’ve read quite a lot about your husband, Mrs Temple, but somehow I never imagined he looked like that.”
“Confidentially he doesn’t.” Steve smiled. “He’s suffering from an overdose of American hospitality.”
“Oh, so that’s it,” Portland said with a conspiratorial chuckle.
“He’ll look quite different tomorrow.” Steve assured him.
“Maybe we’ll all look different tomorrow.”
“Why, is it going to be rough?”
Hearing Steve’s tone of alarm Portland put his hands up, palm towards her. “No, no! Aren’t you a good sailor?”
“Not very,” Steve admitted.
“Well that’s O.K. I’ll fix it,” Portland promised with a twinkle. “I’ll have a word with the Captain. Don’t worry Mrs Temple, it’ll be as smooth as a glass of milk.” Then he added, as an afterthought, “I hope.”
“Look!” Steve exclaimed. “There’s the Empire State coming into view now.”
As if to salute it, the Princess Diana gave two blasts of her horn. A few seconds later a multiple echo came back across the water from the impressive skyscrapers. Steve shivered and pulled the shawl tighter round her shoulders.
Thanks to the generosity of the American publishers the Temples had one of the special state rooms on the topmost deck of the liner. The suite consisted of a bedroom with bathroom en suite and a luxuriously appointed sitting room with VCR, TV, compact disc and radio plus a direct dial satellite telephone. A door gave access to their private veranda on the starboard side.
Temple was tying his bow tie in the bedroom mirror. Two cocktail glasses, delivered by room service, stood on the low table.
“I ordered your usual dry Martini, darling. I hope that’s right.”
“Perfect.” Steve slid open the door of the long wardrobe where her dresses had been hung. “Now, what shall I wear?”
“What about that Yuki you bought at Bloomingdale’s?”
“No, I think I’ll keep that for the last night.”
Steve selected a dress, laid it on the bed and began to take off her tights.
“Paul, have you ever heard of a man called Sam Portland?”
“Sam Portland? Good lord yes! Why?”
“He’s on board. I’ve just been having a chat with him.”
“You’ve heard of Sam Portland. Portland’s Yeast… It’s all over America.”
“Oh, is that him?”
“Yes, that’s Mr Portland all right. What’s he like?”
“I rather liked him, but …”
Temple gave his bow a final tweak and turned. “But what?”
“He said rather a peculiar thing, darling. I asked him if he’d ever been to England before and he said, ‘No, I don’t think so’.”
“He doesn’t think so? Surely he knows whether he’s been to England or not! He was pulling your leg.”
“No, he wasn’t.” Steve threw her discarded tights onto a chair. “He was serious.”
“Must have been pulling your leg.”
“Paul, he wasn’t,” she insisted. “I simply asked him whether he’d ever been …”
“Steve, for goodness sake stop arguing and get dressed, otherwise we’ll be late for dinner.”
Steve stood up and put a hand on the back of the chair.
“Oh dear…”
“What’s the matter?”
“The cabin’s swaying … I hope it’s not going to be rough …”
“You’re imagining things. We’re only just passing Ellis Island.”
Room service had brought the Temples breakfast in bed, served on two trays with short legs. The lavish spread was entirely wasted on Steve, who could only nibble a piece of toast and sip a cup of coffee. Temple had got up and dressed soon afterwards and taken the lift down to the Promenade Deck. He wanted to get some exercise and had made three circuits of the ship before he paused, leaning on the rail and looking out over the bows. The ship was sailing at her cruising speed of 29 knots.
It was a fine, sunny day and the sea was calm. America had long since slipped down over the horizon, somewhere beyond the straight white wake churned up by the twelve blades of the twin propellers.
“Excuse me, sir …Mr Temple?”
Warily Temple turned to look at the man who had come up to lean on the rail beside him.
“Yes?”
“My name is Portland.”
Temple’s face relaxed into a warm smile. “Oh, good morning, Mr Portland.”
“I had the pleasure of meeting your wife last night, Mr Temple …”
“Yes, so she told me.”
“I was wondering how the little lady was feeling this morning.”
“She’s not too good, I’m afraid.”
“On a diet?” Sam Portland suggested tactfully.
“Strictly on a diet,” Temple replied with a straight face.
“Well now, that’s too bad. If there’s anything I can do for Mrs Temple, please let me know.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
A little posse of youngsters in jogging gear trotted past, laughing and joking amongst themselves. Temple pointed to the deck chairs which had been set out by the crew.
“Won’t you sit down?”
“Why thank you, sir!” Sam Portland lowered himself carefully into a chair and held up his large half-smoked cigar. “Does my smoking bother you?”
“Not at all.”
“Would you like a cigar?”
“Thank you, not at the moment.”
The American drew thoughtfully on his Havana cigar. “Mr Temple, I was very thrilled when I saw your name on the passenger list last night.”
“Indeed?”
“I’ve been an admirer of yours for some considerable time. As a matter of fact I once wrote you a letter.”
“I can’t recall ever having received a letter from you, Mr Portland.”
“No, you didn’t receive it, for the simple reason that I didn’t post it.” Portland chuckled. “My wife persuaded me to change my mind.”
“I see,” Temple said, somewhat mystified.
“Mr Temple, forgive me talking shop at this time of the morning but have you heard of a private investigator – a detective – by the name of Madison?”
“Madison? No.”
“I rather imagine he’s pretty well known in your country.”
“Well, he can’t be very well known or I should have heard of him.”
“Are you sure you haven’t? Madison.” Portland spelt the name out letter by letter.
“Quite sure.”
“Well, now that’s very curious.” Portland shrugged “Still, why should I worry if he gets the results.”
“Is he working for you?”
“Er-yes. Actually he’s employed by my London representative, a man called Hubert Greene.”
“What is Madison doing exactly?”
“He’s on a research job.”
“Sales? Statistics?” Temple prompted.
Portland paused, then said slowly “No, no, no, nothing like that. Purely a private investigation. He’s trying to find out who I am.”
Temple stared at him. “Who you are?”
“Yes,” said Portland, nodding.
“But you know who you are! You’re Sam Portland.”
“Sure. Sure, I’m Sam Portland. Samuel L. Portland, President of the Portland Yeast Company. New York, C
hicago, Detroit, Michigan and all points west. I’m one of the wealthiest men in America, Mr Temple, did you know that?”
Temple laughed. “I had a shrewd suspicion.”
“Right now I could lay my hands on four hundred million dollars. It’s an awful lot of dough.”
“It’s an awful lot of dough, Mr Portland.” Temple agreed seriously. He drew his legs in as another group of joggers, more elderly ones this time, ambled past.
“Four hundred million bucks and I don’t know who I am! Mr Temple, would you like to hear my story?”
Too late Temple was regretting the encouragement he had given the American.
“Well, as a matter of fact I did promise my wife …”
“You’re going to hear it anyway, so you might just as well relax!”
Temple echoed Portland’s laugh. The American leant on the arm of his chair and spoke in a confidential tone.
“Thirty-five years ago, on October 9th 1952 to be precise, a Chicago policeman by the name of Dan Kelly arrested a young man for jay walking - you know what I mean, trying to beat the traffic. The young fella turned out to be something of a problem. He was suffering from what the doctors called amnesia, or to put it bluntly, just plain loss of memory.”
Portland waited for a couple who had paused in front of them to move on.
“Go on… “ said Temple, intrigued in spite of himself.
“The young man was acquitted and the policeman – Kelly – took him under his wing. Kelly was convinced that sooner or later the young man’s memory would return, Mr Temple, but the young fella never established his true identity.”
Portland’s cigar had gone out. He gave it an accusing look then laid it on the deck beside his chair.
“Go on, Mr Portland.”
“I lived with Kelly for the best part of seven years. We got along famously together. I guess he was like a father and the proverbial big brother rolled into one. In 1958 I moved to New York and started the Portland Yeast Company. The rest you can guess. It was just a long, long trail leading to four hundred million dollars.”
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