“What made you choose the name Portland?”
“Well, I had to call myself something.” Portland laughed and a gold tooth flashed. “I was on Portland Avenue when Kelly arrested me.”
“But couldn’t you remember anything?”
“Not a thing.”
“Hadn’t you any marks of identification?”
“No. When I was arrested I had three dollars in my pocket, a white handkerchief, a fountain pen and curiously enough an English penny.”
“An English penny?”
“Yes. I’ve still got it. Look, it’s on my watch-chain.”
Portland was wearing a waistcoat. Temple wondered if he did so purely in order to accommodate a gold watch and chain. He inserted two fingers in the left-hand pocket and withdrew one of the big old-fashioned pennies. The copper glittered in the morning sunlight. Either it had been treated with some lacquer or he polished it every day. Temple leant over to study it but Portland had quickly slipped the coin back into his pocket.
“How does this fellow Madison fit into the picture?”
“I’ll tell you.” He hitched himself round in his chair to face Temple more squarely. “For years now I’ve been making inquiries in the hope of finding things out about myself. If you were in my shoes wouldn’t you want to know who your parents were, where you came from and why on a certain afternoon in the year 1952 you were suddenly discovered wandering down Portland Avenue in Chicago?
Well, two weeks ago Hubert Greene, my London representative, ’phoned through to New York. He told me that a man called Madison – a well known private inquiry agent in London - had discovered certain facts concerning my identity. As you can imagine this sort of thing wasn’t exactly new to me so I told Hubert to look into the matter.”
“Did he?”
“Yes he did. Three days ago he telexed me. He said he was convinced that Madison was on the level.”
Portland leant forward and gripped the arms of his deck chair. “I’m finding this sea breeze a little too healthy for my liking. What do you say we move into the Midships Lounge? I hear they serve a very good hot bouillon there at eleven o’clock.”
The two men stood up and began to stroll down the starboard side of the ship.
“Frankly,” said Portland, “I was rather surprised just now when you told me that you’d never heard of Madison.”
“Well, I can soon check on him for you. I’ve got some very good friends at Scotland Yard.”
“I hope that won’t be necessary, but if it is I’ll let you know.” Portland laid a hand on Temple’s arm. “Oh, by the way, if you happen to meet Mrs Portland don’t mention this Madison story. She doesn’t know anything about it.”
“No?”
“No, you see my wife takes the attitude that I should let the past take care of itself. ‘Why should you worry, Sam,’ she says, ‘you’re sitting pretty anyway’.”
“Well, that’s certainly a point of view,” said Temple, laughing. “Is your wife an American, Mr Portland?”
“No, she’s English although she’s lived in America for a great many years. As a matter of fact we’ve only been married six weeks.”
“Oh!” Temple quickly controlled his surprise. “Congratulations!”
“Thanks,” said Sam, accepting the congratulations with the satisfied expression of a cat that had scooped the milk.
“Why are you making this trip - for business reasons or simply to meet Madison?”
“Well, my wife thinks I’m making it because of Moira. Oh, Moira’s my daughter – by my first marriage, of course. She works in my London office. Actually, however, I must confess I’m coming over simply because of Madison. I’m sold on Madison, Temple. I really think he’s found some- thing. Hello, here’s George.” Portland had spotted a man pushing his way towards them beckoning excitedly with one arm. “Now what does he want?”
Temple estimated George Kelly’s age as about forty. He was wearing sneakers, jeans and a brightly coloured sports blouse. All in all he seemed an unlikely appendage for the multi-millionaire.
“There’s been a ’phone call from the New York office,” he announced excitedly. “I couldn’t find you so I told ‘em you’d ring back. They seemed to be all steamed up about something.”
“Yes, all right, George.” Sam answered him with an almost fatherly pat on the shoulder. “How’s Mrs Portland?”
“About the same. She don’t look too good.” Kelly’s high- pitched laugh twisted his thin mouth. “I reckon she don’t feel too good either.”
“O.K. I’ll be right down.”
Kelly nodded, glanced at Temple, then departed.
“That’s George Kelly.” Sam was watching the man’s receding back thoughtfully. “When poor old Dan died I promised to find his son a job. He’s my secretary. I guess you wouldn’t think so though to hear him talk. George is a drip! He hasn’t got the old man’s guts, personality or anything else. Still, what can you do?” He shrugged resignedly. “Well, I’ll go down and see how my good lady’s getting on. Nice to have met you, Mr Temple,” offering his hand. “Let’s all have a drink together sometime.”
“Yes, let’s do that.”
“Say we meet in the Princess Bar at seven o’clock? I’ll bring Mrs Portland along. How’s that?”
“Fine.”
“And don’t forget to bring Mrs Temple.”
“Well,” said Temple, laughing. “I will if she can make it.”
“She’ll make it all right.”
Sam was lighting another cigar as he moved away in the wake of George Kelly. Temple gave him a minute’s start then made his own way to the door that led to the Midships Lounge. He was less interested in the bouillon than in locating the ship’s Business Centre with it’s Telex, Fax, up-to-date financial reports and secretarial facilities.
The Princess Bar, adjoining the Princess grille, was on the Boat Deck, conveniently placed for the occupants of the prestigious suites just aft of the signals and communications tower. By seven o’clock it was already well filled and virtually everybody there had already changed into evening dress. The sun was sinking towards the horizon and the orange glow of its reflection on the sea cast a warm light on the ceiling of the bar. There was little movement on the well-stabilised ship. The tremor of the nine diesel engines in the belly of the liner was hardly detectable. Already they had thrust Princess Diana seven hundred miles out into the Atlantic.
Temple was shepherding Steve towards an empty table by the window. She was walking gingerly, not too sure of her sea legs. More than one pair of eyes rested on them with frank appraisal. They were a striking couple. With his tall build, clean-cut features and the confidence with which he wore his London tailored clothes, Temple looked as British as the ship they were travelling on. Steve always turned heads, for she kept her figure in marvellous trim.
“Are you feeling all right, Steve?”
“Yes, I’m all right now, Paul.”
“You certainly look better than you did this morning.”
“I certainly feel better!”
They settled into low armchairs facing the colourful gathering. At once a waiter in the ship’s grey and green livery materialised before them.
“What can I get you, madam?”
“What would you like, darling?” Temple enquired. “Have a champagne cocktail.”
“Is that a good idea?” She looked at her husband doubtfully.
“It’s a very good idea. Two champagne cocktails.”
“Yes, sir.”
The waiter hurried towards the bar. Steve’s eyes were checking over the men in their black and white tuxedos.
“I don’t see Mr Portland.”
“No, he hasn’t arrived yet.” Temple had hardly spoken when he saw George Kelly coming in with a woman. The secretary’s wiry body had been crammed uncomfortably into a black jacket and trousers. He and his companion were ill-matched. She was a good looking blonde in her forties, with a generous, full figure and slightly florid face. Her dre
ss was obviously a model from a top designer. “But here’s his secretary!”
“Who’s he with?”
“I don’t know, unless it’s Mrs Portland.”
“She’s not that young, surely.”
George Kelly quickly spotted Temple. He pushed his way through the tables, clearing a passage for Stella Portland.
“Excuse me, Mr Temple. Have you seen Mr Portland?”
“No.” Temple had stood in expectation of being introduced to the lady. “We arranged to meet here at seven o’clock but I am afraid he hasn’t shown up yet.”
“I’m beginning to feel very worried, George.” said Stella, biting her lip.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Kelly reassured her. He added with his cracked laugh, “He’s probably found a quiet corner somewhere and fallen asleep.”
Stella shook her head. “That’s not like Sam. He doesn’t do that sort of thing.” Then she turned her baby-blue eyes on Temple. “Are you Mr Temple?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Stella Portland,” she said, holding out her hand.
“I’m glad to meet you, Mrs Portland.” Temple took the hand which was held for a moment in her warm grasp. “This is my wife …”
“How do you do, Mrs Temple?” Wisely, Steve did not stand up. “I hope you’re feeling better now, my husband told me that you were not too good this morning.”
“I’m much better, thank you.”
“Seasickness must be really dreadful,” Stella said, with earnest sympathy. “I always feel frightfully sorry for anyone who suffers from it. Fortunately, I’m a very good sailor.” She turned to the secretary who was staring at Steve with undisguised admiration. “George, I do wish you’d go and look for Sam. I’m really dreadfully worried.”
“O.K.” Kelly was reluctant to be banished from the party. “O.K., Stella!”
With unconcealed ill-humour the secretary departed, fidgeting his shoulders in his jacket.
“I don’t know what’s happened to Sam.” Stella was too worried to take one of the vacant chairs. “No one seems to have seen him since lunch time.”
“Have you looked in the gymnasium?” Temple too had remained standing.
“My husband’s hardly the sort of man to spend an afternoon in the gymnasium.”
Her tone was sharp but Temple put it down to tension.
“Well, what would you like to drink, Mrs Portland?”
“May I have a scotch? On the rocks.”
“Yes of course.”
Temple was trying to attract the attention of the waiter when one of the ship’s officers came into the bar. He had his cap under his arm and his sleeve was braided with gold. His eyes searched the assembly and quickly spotted Mrs Portland and Temple. Her back was turned and she did not see him approaching.
“Paul!” said Steve, sotto voce. “This must be the Captain and he’s coming to talk to us!”
“That’s not the Captain, darling. It’s the Purser.”
“Excuse me, sir.” The Purser already knew Temple, as he had prevented a television crew from filming his arrival on the ship. He turned to Stella. His face was grave. “Mrs Portland?”
“Yes.” Stella had paled. She already sensed that some- thing was wrong.
“The ship’s doctor would like to see you in the Health Centre, Mrs Portland.”
“To see me?”
“Yes.”
“But why should I – ? What is it? What has happened?”
The Purser licked his lips. He did not want to come out with the news. Then, with unintentional abruptness he announced, “I’m afraid Mr Portland’s met with an accident, madam. One of the passengers found him in the swimming pool. The doctor seems to think it was a heart attack.”
Stella’s eyes glazed immediately. She looked round wildly as if searching. “Where is he? Where is Sam?”
“Well-?”
Temple cut through the Purser’s indecision. It was better to have the truth out and be done with the agony. “Is he dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Purser’s answer was almost a whisper but Stella heard it.
“Oh, no!” Her cry stopped all conversation in the bar. Every head turned towards the group by the window.
“Watch out, Paul! She’s …”
Temple had forestalled Steve’s warning. He had seen Stella sway and caught her as her eyes rolled upwards and her knees buckled.
The tragedy cast its shadow over the rest of the voyage, though deaths on board luxury liners were not uncommon. The average age of the passengers was high and it was not unknown for invalids to go on cruises merely for the sake of the excellent medical attention that was available. But the doctors had been unable to do anything for Sam Portland. He was dead before they hauled him out of the swimming pool and though the most modern techniques of resuscitation had been applied all was to no avail.
Temple had gone up to the Health Centre and in view of his reputation was allowed to see the body. He could find no reason to query the doctor’s conviction that the portly American had suffered a heart attack. He had been unable to ascertain whether he had any previous history of heart trouble. Stella Portland was prostrate with shock and grief and she had been sedated by the doctor. Steve, who felt very close to the tragedy, had gone to the Portlands’ suite next day to see if she could be of any comfort, but George Kelly had told her that Stella was either unable or unwilling to see anyone.
The Temples had tried to make the best they could of the remaining three days of the crossing. Steve had got her sea legs well enough to become a regular visitor to the shopping arcade where such firms as Harrods, Cartier, Turnbull and Asser, Gucci had displays. Temple spent some of his time in the well-stocked library and in the business centre and kept himself fit in between times in the health spa. The sea behaved itself until the very last night, when a storm blew up. Steve was glad when they sailed into the tranquil waters of the Solent on a predictably overcast October afternoon.
George Kelly had spoken to Portland’s London office on the telephone and informed his representative there of the tragedy. Hubert Greene would be coming down to Southampton to collect Mrs Portland by car. Rather reluctantly Kelly had passed on Temple’s request that Portland’s London representative should see him as soon as he came aboard the ship.
They met by arrangement in the library, which was disused, apart from the librarian, who was checking returned books. Temple whiled away the time of waiting by reading Stalker.
“Mr Temple?”
Greene had come into the library through the door behind him.
Temple put his book down and stood up to face him.
“Yes.”
“I’m Hubert Greene. I understand you want to see me?”
Hubert Greene was obviously a man of strong personality. He wanted to dispel any possible impression that he was at Temple’s beck and call. His tone was faintly challenging. He was tall, even taller than Temple, and wore his clothes well.
“Yes. Do sit down, Mr Greene.”
Greene chose a leather-upholstered, fairly upright arm chair. He crossed his legs, tweaked one trouser-leg and checked the alignment of his cuffs.
“This is a most distressing business. I’ve just been on the ’phone to Moira …”
“Have you seen Mrs Portland yet?”
“No. I came up here as requested by you.”
“Moira’s Portland’s daughter?”
“Yes - by his first marriage of course. The poor girl is heart-broken.”
“I rather expected Miss Portland to come on board with you.”
“No, as a matter of fact she couldn’t leave town so I …” Greene checked and shot Temple a wary look. “Do you know Moira?”
“No, but her father spoke to me about her. I understand she works for you.”
“Well, she’s attached to my office, yes.” The corners of Greene’s mouth turned down and he tilted his head wryly. “Whether she does any work or not is open to question. Poor Sam! He th
ought the world of Moira.” Greene’s expression suddenly changed. He uncrossed his legs and leant forward, quizzing Temple. “How did this business happen? You know, it seems perfectly extraordinary to me. Do you think he did have a heart attack, Mr Temple or …”
“Or what?”
“Or was it an accident?”
“The doctor seems convinced it was a heart attack,” Temple answered him blandly.
Greene stared at him for a second before shooting his next question.
“How well did you know Sam?”
“Not very well, I’m afraid. We met for the first – and the last time unfortunately – on Friday morning.”
“Sam was a great guy,” Greene said with warm enthusiasm “A real American. That’s the only way you can describe him.”
“Was he an American?”
“But of course!” Greene exclaimed, surprised by the question.
“I mean, was he born in America?”
“Why yes, I’ve always thought so. I was always under the impression he was born in Chicago.”
“I think perhaps I ought to tell you, Greene, before we go any further,” Temple spoke slowly, emphasising his words, “Portland took me into his confidence. He told me why he was coming to England.”
Greene took that on board thoughtfully. “He did?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I hope you won’t say anything about it, Temple. Now that the old boy’s dead, I don’t see any reason why we should go ahead. After all, it puts rather a different complexion on it. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, but if you’ve no objection, I’d like you to do me a favour.”
“By all means. What is it?”
“I want you to introduce me to Mr Madison.”
“Mr Madison?” Greene repeated the name as if it meant nothing to him.
“Yes,” said Temple, watching him.
“Who’s Mr Madison?”
“Why, he’s the private inquiry agent, the man you …” Temple broke off. In a few seconds this affair had taken a whole new twist. “Are you trying to tell me that you’ve never heard of Madison?”
“Of course I haven’t heard of him,” Greene said with exasperation. “Who is he?”
“Two weeks ago you telexed Portland with the news that a private detective called Madison had discovered information concerning his identity.”
Paul Temple and the Madison Case Page 2
