“Now, now Chris, you needn’t switch on the charm. I’ve already warned Mrs Temple you’re an out and out Casanova.”
“I take that as a compliment.” Boyer was still looking at Steve. “Perhaps you’d honour me with a dance when you’ve finished your dinner - if Mr Temple doesn’t mind.”
“Thank you, I should love to,” said Steve. Then she added “We were awfully sorry to read about your friend.”
“What friend?”
“The one you had an appointment with here.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“It was in the evening papers. He was knocked down by a taxi outside Harridge’s.”
Boyer’s smile had given way to a frown. “I don’t know what you are talking about. I had no appointment this evening, except with Moira.”
“There must be some mistake. I thought this man was a friend of yours. His name was Mark Kendell.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” Boyer said, annoyed at Steve’s persistence. “Who gave you the idea he was a friend of mine?”
“Oh, something my husband said.” Steve glanced at Temple, who was absorbed in cutting his cigar. “I must have misunderstood him.”
“I’m afraid you must have done,” said Boyer coldly. “And now if you’ll excuse me.”
“Somehow, Steve,” Temple remarked, as he watched Boyer make his way back to Moira, “I doubt very much whether you’ll be having that dance.”
“I doubt it too,” smiled Steve.
“Do you think he was telling the truth?”
“Yes, I do, Paul. He may be a smoothie but I don’t think he was lying.”
“You could be wrong.” Brooks applied a match to his cigar. “Old Chris is an accomplished liar. He lies even better than he dances.” He studied the glowing ash appreciatively. “By the way, Sir Graham told me to give you a message. You know those notes, the ones in the attaché case?”
Temple nodded.
“They were counterfeit. Darned good counterfeit too. Personally I couldn’t tell the difference.”
“Did Sir Graham tell you about Kendell - about what happened?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact I knew him. He used to be an artist with one of the big advertising agencies. Temperamental sort of chap from what I remember.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Oh vaguely. Very vaguely.” Brooks waved his cigar in a gesture that depicted vagueness. Then he looked at his watch, saw with a shock what the time was.
“I say, look here, Temple - it’s a quarter to twelve, would you mind terribly if we broke up the party?”
“No, of course not. I was going to suggest that we made a move.”
“Have you got a date, Mr Brooks?” Steve asked, amused by Chunky’s pantomime.
“Good Lord, no! Only I promised to pop round and see my sister. She’s got a flat just round the corner.”
“Your sister?” Steve echoed, on the verge of laughter.
“Yes.” Chunky laughed and gave Steve a look. “She’s been my sister for years. But Temple, you two don’t have to leave. Why not stay and enjoy yourselves?”
“Excuse me, sir.” Robert had been respectfully waiting for a gap in the conversation.
“Yes, what is it, Robert?”
“There’s a telephone call for Mrs Temple, sir.”
“For me?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Are you sure it isn’t for Mr Temple?”
“Quite sure, sir. The gentleman particularly asked for Mrs Temple. He refused to give his name, sir.”
Puzzled by the summons, Steve stood up. “Yes, all right, I’ll take it.”
“I’ll come with you, dear.” Temple had risen too. “Goodbye, Brooks. Thanks for the dinner.”
“Delighted, old boy.” Brooks responded with a cheery wave. “Goodbye, Mrs Temple. See you again sometime, I hope.”
Steve and Temple both managed to squeeze into the telephone booth near the cloakroom. Even with the door closed they could hear the beat from the amplifiers in the basement.
“Shall I take it?” Steve asked nervously.
“Yes, of course.”
Steve lifted the receiver and a few seconds later the club switchboard put the outside call through.
“Hello, is that Mrs Temple?”
“Yes.”
“This is George Kelly here. Do you remember me?” Temple nodded, he recognised the nasal twang of Sam Portland’s secretary. “We met on the boat coming over from the States.”
“Yes, of course I remember you. You’re Mr Portland’s secretary.”
“I was his secretary. Yes, you’ve got the right guy all right. Mrs Temple, listen. There’s something I want to say to you.”
“Well, I’m listening, Mr Kelly.”
“Now, don’t take this wrong. This isn’t a melodramatic warning, it’s a nice friendly piece of advice. I took a liking to that husband of yours, Mrs Temple. He looks a pretty regular guy.”
“Well, I think so.” Steve smiled at her husband. “Of course, I may be prejudiced.”
“Regular guys like that should be taken care of, you know. They shouldn’t be allowed to go around pushing their noses into affairs which don’t concern them.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tell your husband to keep out of this Madison case. If he doesn’t he’s going to get mixed up with a bunch of very unpleasant customers.” Kelly gave his high-pitched laugh. “I know, I happen to be one of them.”
“I don’t think you’re unpleasant, Mr Kelly,” Steve replied, “a little stupid perhaps, but not unpleasant.”
“You don’t know me, baby. Let’s hope you don’t get to know me. Remember what I’ve told you. You have a word with that husband of yours. If he’s smart, he’ll catch on.”
“Mr Kelly, just supposing your wife told …”
“I haven’t got a wife, honey.”
Steve was angry at being subjected to such a crude and banal threat. Her voice hardened. “Well, supposing you had a wife and supposing you were mixed up in the Madison case and supposing she told you to keep your nose out of it. What would you do, Mr Kelly?”
Kelly paused before answering and when he did so there was no trace of humour in his voice.
“I’d take a slow boat to China.” Then he rang off. Steve replaced the receiver.
“Could you hear what he was saying?”
“Yes.”
“What did you make of it?”
“I don’t know, but one thing struck me. Did you notice, Steve? He said ‘Tell your husband to keep out of this Madison case.’ Not Portland case - but Madison. Yet when I spoke to Kelly on the boat he said he’d never even heard of Madison.”
“Yes, but who is Madison? If Portland was telling the truth and he’s a private detective, he shouldn’t be difficult to find.”
Temple opened the door of the booth, which had become stiflingly hot. The din of a hundred voices competing with the disco seemed louder than ever.
“Well, the Yard can’t find him. Sir Graham’s been on his track for almost a week now.”
“There’s another thing, Paul. How did Kelly know we were here?”
Temple did not answer that question. He was leading the way towards the stairs that led to the cellar.
“Where are we going?”
“To do some dancing. Chunky told us to stay and enjoy ourselves.”
The small oval of dancing space was not very crowded and they were able to slip in quite easily among the couples. Moira Portland and Chris Boyer were already on the floor. When the master of ceremonies put on the number that was top of the pops, Moira and her partner became galvanised. Gradually the other couples fell away, leaving them space to perform what was really a highly professional exhibition. Moira was inspired by Chris’s expertise. She became a completely different person from the petulant girl who had made fun of Hubert Greene.
But the amplification and the blaze of coloured lights was too much for Steve. She mouth
ed at Temple, “I’ve had enough of this.” He took the hint and followed her up the stairs. Oblivious to everybody else, Chris and Moira went on gyrating.
Temple had parked his car down a side street about a hundred yards from the club. Steve gripped his arm tight as they walked west up the King’s Road. Traffic was still heavy and there were bands of youths who had stayed in the pubs till the last moment.
Steve was relieved when they turned into the comparatively dark and deserted side street.
“Paul, I’ve been thinking about Hubert Greene. Do you think he simply invented that story about Madison to get Portland over here?”
“According to Greene he’d plenty of excuses for getting Portland over here.”
“His daughter, for instance? What did you think of Moira Portland?”
“I don’t know what to think of her. She’s either what Hubert Greene says she is, the spoilt daughter of a millionaire or … she’s putting on a very good act.”
“Well, I can’t say I like her fiancé – although he dances like an angel. Paul, you left your side-lights on!”
They had reached the car. Temple frowned, reaching in his pocket for the keys. He moved out into the road, towards the driver’s side. He was about to insert the key in the lock when he froze.
“That’s funny, I could have sworn …”
“What is it?”
“Steve, listen.”
Then Steve heard it too, a low gasping moan from somewhere inside the car. She pressed her face against the glass of the back window. It was misted by condensation on the inside.
“There’s someone on the floor in the back. I can’t quite …”
Temple had turned his key to operate the central locking system. He ran round to Steve’s side, opened the back door. As he did so he felt the weight pushing against it. A body slithered out. The head struck Steve’s foot and inert arms slumped in the gutter. The legs were still trapped behind the front seat. The interior light had automatically gone on and its ray illuminated the ghastly upturned face.
“Paul! It’s Archie Brooks! What’s happened?”
“Don’t touch him, Steve.” Temple had seen the blood- stained clothing. He guessed that there had been several stab wounds. The awful pallor of Brooks’ face showed that he had lost a great deal of blood. “Run back to the club and phone for an ambulance. Find out if there’s a doctor – ”
“No!” The word came from the injured man. “Too late … I…” Brooks’ head rolled with the effort to speak.
“Quick, Steve!”
“No, wait!” Temple knelt on the pavement his ear close to Brooks. “Must tell you … man was killed … Mark – !”
“Mark Kendell? Yes, go on!”
“Thought – “ Brooks was fighting pain, weakness, lack of breath. “Thought he had a meeting… Chris Boyer?”
“That’s what we thought. It was in his diary. Appointment with C.B.”
“Not Chris Boyer …” The thing that Steve would never be able to erase from her mind was the terrible effigy of a grin that twisted the dying man’s mouth.
“Brooks … everybody… calls me Chunky …”
Temple did not try to feel for his heart or check his pulse. He’d seen death often enough to recognise its countenance. He straightened up.
“He’s dead, Paul?”
Temple nodded, unable to speak.
“Paul, how did they get into the car – if it was locked?”
Temple did not answer. He was still staring down at the bloodstained bundle of clothing that had so recently been Chunky Brooks. There was something frightening about the way he was lying, arms and legs in the car, head still in the gutter. The voices of a group of people who had turned into the street from the King’s Road echoed from the walls on the opposite side. Temple got his hands under Brooks’ armpits and heaved the upper part of his body back into the car. He held it with one hand, the head lolling against his forearms, and managed to close the door on it. The light went out.
“I broke my rule and left my keys in the pocket of my overcoat while we were in the club.” He was panting from the effort of moving the dead weight. “Steve, you know Sir Graham’s number. Go back to the Manila and ’phone him. Tell him exactly what’s happened. If you can’t reach him get through to the Yard. Then take a taxi back to the … What is it? What are you looking for?”
Steve had stooped. Her hand was groping over the edge of the kerb. Just before the light went out she had seen something glinting in the gutter. It had been hidden by Chunky’s body. She straightened up and wiped the dirt off the object she had found. By the dim light of the street lamps she could just see that it was one of the large old- fashioned pennies.
“What is it?” Temple asked again.
Silently she handed it to him. He opened the front door of the car to activate the interior light. The large penny lay on the palm of his hand, the head of George VI uppermost. It had been pierced so that it could be attached to a keyring. He turned it over to peer at the date.
“1952.”
3
Eileen
“Another cup of coffee, Sir Graham?”
“Yes, Steve, if I may.”
Forbes handed his cup over to Steve, who refilled it. The three of them were in the Temples’ sitting-room. Steve had pulled back the curtains to admit the grey light of dawn. There had been no question of sleep for the Temples that night. It had been half past five before the police car dropped them off in Eaton Square. Forbes had arrived just as a sleepy Charlie rustled up a large jug of strong coffee.
“I’m very concerned about Brooks, Temple.” Forbes was restlessly pacing the room. “I’d always looked upon him as being completely trustworthy. Admittedly he was an extravagant sort of person, even inclined to overstep the mark so far as expenses were concerned, but we never doubted his integrity.”
Temple glanced at Steve and smiled. They’d had a taste of Chunky’s generosity. “Well, I can only tell you what he said, Sir Graham.”
“He told you that he had an appointment with Mark Kendell, that he was the C.B. referred to in the diary?” Forbes was still reluctant to accept the facts Temple had given him.
“There’s no question about it, Sir Graham,” Steve confirmed. “I heard it as well as Paul.”
“What exactly did Brooks do?” Temple asked. “Was he attached to the CID?”
“Yes. He had rather a curious position, Temple. He started with us about seven or eight years ago. He had quite an unimportant job to start with and then one day Superintendent Henson asked him to investigate the activities of a certain night club. We’d had our suspicions about this particular club and we wanted a detailed report of what was going on behind the scenes. Brooks got it for us - in fact, he put in a first rate report. Ever since then we’ve used him almost exclusively as a contact, a sort of … ”
“Our man in London?”
“Exactly. I’d rather taken to Brooks, Temple. I’m very sad this has happened.”
“I can understand that, but it does rather look as if he was mixed up in this affair, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does,” Forbes agreed, still perturbed. “You know, Temple, I may be dense but I don’t quite see how all these pieces fit together. Take this man Kendell for instance. Kendell was quite obviously mixed up in the counterfeit racket and yet it was Kendell who broke into your flat. Now why on earth should he do that? What was he looking for? Was it the watch-chain or something else?”
Outside in the hall the front door buzzer sounded. Steve went to answer it. Charlie had gone back to bed again to complete his interrupted night’s sleep.
“Shall I tell you what I think, Sir Graham? This Portland affair, the murder of Archie Brooks, and this business about the watch-chain and the 1952 penny are part and parcel of the same case.”
“You think it’s all mixed up with the counterfeit racket?”
“I do, and I’m convinced that you’ll never smash that racket until you’ve solved the mystery of the pen
ny and revealed the identity of Madison. What is it, darling?”
Steve had appeared at the doorway, masking the person who was waiting in the hall.
“It’s Chief Inspector James.”
“Show him in, Steve.” Temple went to meet the CID man who was hesitating to break in on a conversation between his chief and the novelist. “Come in, Inspector,” he welcomed him warmly. “Sir Graham’s here.”
Chief Inspector James was a small, compact man with features which appeared to have been attracted towards the centre of his face. Temple guessed that he must have barely passed the height qualification for the Metropolitan Police. He seemed a little old to have risen no higher than the rank of Chief Inspector. Perhaps that had something to do with his almost aggressively wary manner. He was very dark and an early morning shadow of stubble ringed his jaw.
“Good morning, sir.” He made a point of greeting Forbes first, then turned a shuttered face towards his host. “Good morning, Mr Temple. I don’t think we’ve met before, sir.”
“No, I don’t think we have. Can I get you a coffee, Inspector?”
“No, thank you.” James declined with the firmness of a man who does not permit himself frivolous luxuries.
“Well, have you finished?” Forbes asked him.
“We’ve finished with the car, sir. It’s been photographed from more angles than Marilyn Monroe.”
“Did you find anything?”
“No dabs, sir. We’ve sent some stuff to forensic, including the penny, and will just have to wait and see if they come up with anything.”
“How far is the club from where the car was parked?”
“About fifty yards, Sir Graham. The street’s a cul-de-sac. I can’t imagine what poor old Chunky was doing down there.”
“Was Brooks a friend of yours, Inspector?” Temple intervened.
“I don’t think I’d exactly call him a friend, sir.” James permitted himself a faint smile. “I knew him a little better than most people at the Yard because we once did a double act together at a police concert.”
“What did you do, James?” Forbes asked with a hint of banter. “Song and dance?”
“No, sir. I did impersonations. Brooks was the song and dance man. And very good he was too.” James shook his head and for once allowed some emotion to stir his features. “It’s a damn shame about Brooks, sir.”
Paul Temple and the Madison Case Page 6
