Paul Temple and the Madison Case

by Francis Durbridge

  “Miss Portland, you really oughtn’t to have another drink before dinner,” Eileen protested.

  “Do you agree, Mr Temple? Do you think I oughtn’t to have another drink?”

  “You’re over twenty-one, Miss Portland,” said Temple equably. “You know what you’re doing.”

  “You’ll finish up with a duodenal, baby.” Kelly told her. “That’s what you’ll finish up with.”

  “Why, Mr Kelly. I didn’t know you cared! Skoal everybody!” Moira tilted her head back and downed the drink in one long draught. She gasped, staring into the empty glass. “Don’t look so worried, Eileen, I can take it.”

  “Boy,” Kelly breathed in admiration, “you certainly can take it!”

  Stella had been watching this distressing exhibition with more compassion than the others. Now she stepped in. “I think you’d better go to your room, Moira.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort. Why should I go to my room? I’m not a school-girl. I’m not going to anybody’s room. I’m going to have another drink.”

  “Come along, Moira. I’ll take you up to your room.” Boyer took hold of her arm. She flung him off angrily.

  “Don’t touch me! Don’t put your hands on me! Do you hear what I say, leave me alone!”

  Abruptly her face crumpled. She swayed and her eyes rolled upwards. To his credit Boyer put a hand out to steady her.

  “Whatever is the matter with the girl?” Stella remarked, her disgust written on her face.

  “You know what’s the matter,” Moira shouted, galvanised by the comment. “You know what’s the matter with me all right. One of you in this room murdered Chunky! I only found that out tonight! He was the only friend I had. He understood me. There was no nonsense with Chunky.” The last part of her appalling declaration was drowned by her sobs. “He was a real friend.”

  “Come along, Moira,” said Eileen quietly. “Let me take you to your room.”

  In a way the drink had helped. Moira had given vent to the agony she was feeling. Leaning on Eileen, she allowed herself to be led away.

  It was Stella who broke the embarrassed silence. “Well! You said she was a temperamental young woman but I certainly never thought she was that bad.”

  “Oh, that’s nothing,” Hubert assured her. “Sometimes she gets completely out of hand. I really wonder what the devil we’re going to do with her.”

  “Who’s this guy Chunky she was on about?” Kelly demanded.

  “Chunky was a man called Archie Brooks,” said Temple. “He was attached to Scotland Yard.”

  “Was he murdered – or was she just making that up?”

  “He was murdered, Mr Kelly. Three or four nights ago. As a matter of fact he was murdered outside the Manila, the night you telephoned my wife.”

  “But why should I telephone Mrs Temple?” Kelly objected with a puzzled frown.

  “Don’t you remember what you said to me that night?” Steve asked him.

  “Well, if I don’t remember speaking to you I’m hardly likely to recall what I said.”

  “You warned me to advise my husband to keep out of the Madison case,” Steve told him tersely.

  “What’s the Madison case?”

  “Sam Portland had an appointment to see a private detective called Madison. Unfortunately he died of heart failure and was unable to keep the appointment.” Steve glanced at Paul, but he was listening without expression to the verbal duel. “I’ve got a hunch that if Portland had kept that appointment he’d have discovered that Madison was no more a private detective than you are. If you want my frank opinion …”

  “Sure,” said Kelly, leading her on with a mocking smile. “Let’s have your frank opinion, Mrs Temple.”

  “If you want my frank opinion I think Madison’s a blackmailer and the leader of a racket for distributing counterfeit dollars.”

  “You know, you’ve got some queer notions inside that pretty head of yours. What else am I supposed to have told you over the telephone?”

  “You said, ‘Tell your husband to keep out of the Madison case. If he doesn’t he’s going to get mixed up with a bunch of very unpleasant customers.’”

  Kelly pretended to be shocked at the suggestion. “Did I say that?”

  “You did, Mr Kelly.” Steve was angry now as she faced Kelly. “You also said that you were one of the unpleasant customers.”

  “Why, that’s a dreadful thing to say to anybody, it’s almost a threat.” Kelly appealed to the small audience who had been following the exchange. “You don’t think I’m an unpleasant customer, do you, Mr Temple?”

  “I think you are a very slippery one, Mr Kelly,” said Temple frankly.

  “What the hell does it matter whether he ’phoned your wife or not?” Boyer interrupted the dialogue angrily. “Didn’t you hear what Moira said? She said that someone in this room – one of us – murdered Archie Brooks. Now, who was she getting at?”

  “Don’t look at me, brother!” Kelly shrank away in mock apprehension. “I’d never even heard of Brooks until that crazy dame of yours mentioned him.”

  “Did you know Archie Brooks, Mr Boyer?” Steve asked shrewdly.

  “Yes, I did. I knew him, I liked him and I didn’t murder him.”

  “Well, that seems conclusive enough.” Stella turned to her host. “What about you, Hubert?”

  “I’d never heard of the fellow until Moira mentioned him.” Hubert glanced round with relief as Eileen came back into the room. “How is she?”

  “She’s all right now. I’ve given her a sedative and she’s lying down. Shall we go into dinner, Hubert?”

  The grandfather clock in the hall had chimed three quarters and then struck three reverberating notes.

  “Paul, are you awake?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s three o’clock.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Steve had put a dressing-gown on over her nightdress and got into bed. For the last two hours she had been trying to keep herself awake by reading that month’s number of Harper’s and Queen. Paul had discarded his jacket in favour of a cardigan and settled down in a wing-backed Victorian chair to read the latest Noel Barber novel, which he had found in the guest bedroom book-case.

  “It doesn’t look as if she’s coming, does it?”

  “Well, she promised to come, didn’t she? I hope she does because I’ve got a feeling that Mrs Greene knows quite a lot about this affair.”

  “Yes.” Temple laid the book down on the arm-rest. “You know, Steve, there’s one rather interesting point about all this. I don’t know whether you’ve spotted it or not.”

  “Yes, I’ve spotted it, darling. So far we haven’t heard from Mr Madison.”

  “So far.”

  “Did you hear them come up to bed?”

  “I heard Greene. I don’t know whether Eileen was with him or not. It must have been about half past twelve.”

  Temple got up from the chair and stretched. “Steve, where’s my cigarette lighter?”

  “It’s on the dressing table.” Steve swung her legs out of bed and put her bedroom slippers on.

  “Do you want a cigarette, darling?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I’m going to give her another half an hour.” Temple held the flame to his cigarette. “If she’s not here by half past three I’m …”

  “What is it?”

  Temple had cocked his head, listening. For hours now the big house had been silent, bar the occasional creak of a floor board settling.

  “I thought I heard something.”

  “Probably a bird down by the lake, they don’t seem to need any sleep.”

  “No. This was in the house. Sh! Listen!”

  They both strained their ears, listening. This time the creak of a floor board sounded nearer. Then came a faint, almost shy tap on the door.

  “There’s someone at the door, Paul!”

  “Good. I thought she’d come.”

  Before he had time to stub his cigarette out
the faint tap was repeated. Temple crossed to the door and opened it.

  “Why, Mr Greene!” he exclaimed. Hubert was standing there, wild-eyed and distraught.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m awfully sorry to disturb you, Temple - but have you seen my wife?”

  “Your wife?”

  “Yes.” Hubert came into the room and closed the door. Temple saw that his hands were shaking.

  “No, I’m afraid we haven’t.” ^

  “Isn’t she in bed?” Steve suggested.

  “No, I went along to her room about a quarter of an hour ago. Eileen wasn’t there and the bed hadn’t been slept in.”

  “She’s probably in the bathroom.”

  “No, Mrs Temple. I’ve looked in the bathroom.”

  “Well, perhaps she’s with Mrs Portland or … ”

  “No, she’s not with Mrs Portland or Moira.” Hubert’s face was bleak and strained. If Temple had been in his own house he would have prescribed a stiff whisky. “As a matter of fact I’ve been all over the house and there just isn’t a sign of her.”

  “Have you spoken to your staff?”

  “Yes, I’ve just come from their quarters.”

  “Well – what time did she go to bed?”

  “She went to bed when I did just after twelve. You must have heard us, Temple, your light was still on. It’s most uncanny, I just don’t – ”

  Hubert’s nerves were on edge. He started violently as there came a loud thud on the door. It was far too violent to be a knock. “Good God! What’s that, Temple?”

  Steve too had been shocked by the brutal sound in the silence of the night. “Paul, what on earth was that?”

  It took Temple only a few seconds to stride across the room and open the door. He stared out into the dark corridor. Then, as the door swung open wider, the light from inside the room showed a large knife embedded in the wood.

  “It’s a knife! Someone must have thrown it at the door.”

  “Did you see anybody?” Hubert asked in a shaky voice.

  “No, there’s no one in the corridor.”

  “Paul… There’s a note! Look! It’s on the knife.”

  Temple swung the door right back. Now he could see the slip of paper impaled on the knife, just where the blade met the handle. It required quite an effort to pull the knife free. Carefully he slid the folded note up the blade and opened it out.

  “What does it say?”

  Temple handed the paper to Steve. She stared at it. “It says - ‘Go to the boat-house’ …”

  “The boat-house?” Hubert echoed. “Is that all it says?”

  “Yes.”

  “That must be the boat-house on the far side of the lake, Steve. We passed it this afternoon. Greene,” Temple turned urgently to his host, “can you find a torch somewhere? I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  “Temple, you don’t think …”

  “Do as I say! I’ll meet you downstairs in three minutes!”

  When Temple went down Greene was already waiting in the hall. He had put on an anorak over the suit he had been wearing at dinner and armed himself with a substantial torch. Temple had donned a pair of strong walking shoes and an overcoat. He had instructed Steve to lock the door of her room and open to nobody until he returned.

  Greene was pale and apprehensive as he opened the front door. The moon was only half full and kept dodging behind clouds.

  “Don’t use your torch, Greene. We don’t want to advertise our presence. Someone may be waiting down at the boat-house.”

  Once they were clear of the house their eyes adjusted to the darkness. Temple could see the outline of the trees and the paler shape of the avenue snaking down the hill and around the lake. Its waters gleamed dully in the moonlight. In the gloom it was easier to believe the superstition that it was bottomless.

  Greene led the way down a footpath that cut across the loop in the avenue. Temple looked back once at the house. Only one light showed, in the window of the room where he had left Steve.

  Suddenly he wanted to be finished with this as quickly as possible, so that he could get back to her. The knife-borne message could have been no more than a ruse to lure him out of the house.

  “You lead the way,” Temple said when they reached the path leading through the wood to the boat-house. “I’ll cover your back.”

  He did not relish the thought of leaving his own back exposed to anyone so unpredictable as Hubert Greene.

  They were threading the same path as he had walked that afternoon with Steve, but in the opposite direction. Here among the trees it was very much darker.

  Greene stumbled over an exposed root and nervously flashed his torch on the ground.

  “Put it out!” commanded Temple.

  The boat-house loomed up suddenly, its gabled outline silhouetted against the faintly luminous lake. Greene stopped.

  “What do we do now?” he whispered.

  “We’ll have a look in the boat-house, there’s a boat in it, isn’t there?”

  “Should be,” muttered Greene. “We use the upper part for storing.”

  With Temple behind him, he went to the door and opened it. In the dark interior a rowing boat could just be seen, shifting restlessly on the moving water. The only sound was the gentle slapping of waves on its stern.

  “All right to use the torch now?” Greene asked, still whispering.

  Temple closed the door behind him. “Yes, it’s O.K. now.”

  Greene switched his torch on. He directed the beam round the wooden walls of the boat-house, into the boat itself.

  “There’s no one here. But the oars are wet. Someone’s been using the boat recently.”

  Temple still had his back against the door. He was listening to Greene but he was also listening for any other sound. His eyes had now adjusted to the more intense darkness inside the boat-house. He had avoided looking directly at Greene’s torch.

  Something seemed to be glowing in the water close to his feet, just under the bow of the boat, something lighter than the weeds that waved in the black water.

  “Shine your torch here, Greene. Under the bow of the boat.”

  Greene came back to where Temple was standing. He directed the beam into the water.

  “My God!” He went down on one knee to look more closely. He gasped and turned his head to look up. The light of the torch reflected by the water cast a weird shadow across his face. “It’s a hand, Temple. Somebody’s hand!”

  5

  Concerning Steve

  Temple untied the painter by which the boat was moored to a bollard on the wooden platform that ran round the sides of the boat-house. He pushed the boat out till it was at the full length of the rope.

  Greene shone his torch into the water again. “There is someone in the water.”

  Temple took off his shoes. Facing the wooden platform he lowered himself into the water, testing its depth. When it was at waist level, he touched bottom, a soft slithery bottom.

  “Give me your hand, Greene. I’m going to see if I can reach it.”

  The movement of the boat had disturbed the body which had wafted further away, as if reluctant to keep this rendezvous. With Greene’s hand to steady him and his torch stabbing through the water Temple managed to locate and seize the ephemeral hand.

  As he pulled, the body came to him quite willingly, made weightless by the water. It was face downwards.

  “It’s a woman.” Temple had seen that long, dark hair. “Help me. We’ve got to get her out.”

  Greene put down his torch. Its beam shone out across the lake. With Temple in the water and Greene hauling from the platform, they managed to heave the suddenly heavy body out and lay it face upwards on the platform.

  Temple hauled himself clear of the ice-cold water. Greene retrieved his torch and shone it on the face.

  “Temple! It’s Eileen!” He almost dropped the torch. Temple grabbed it from him. “Do you hear me? It’s my wife!”

  Hubert had gone down on hi
s knees, trying to lift and hold the lifeless form of his wife, still in the dress she had worn for dinner.

  “Help me, Temple! I’ve got to give her the kiss of life, artificial respiration, something.”

  Temple had focussed the torch on the pathetic tableau, the anguished husband clasping his wife, her head lolling in the crook of his elbow.

  “It’s no good, Greene. I’m sorry. Look at your hands.”

  “What?”

  “Look at your hands.”

  Greene kept a hold with one hand and stared at the other.

  “It’s blood!” he choked. “She’s been stabbed!”

  He let the body go. It dropped to the boards, the head striking them with a thud. A dreadful retching sound filled the boat-house. It was Greene, vomiting uncontrollably.

  As Temple passed through the hall, the hands of the old grandfather clock were pointing to seven minutes past mid-day. Nine hours had passed since Hubert Greene had knocked on the guest-room door and Temple had not been to bed during that time. Indeed there had been little sleep for anyone in the house that night. The Surrey CID had arrived within an hour of Temple’s ’phone call and the gravel circle in front of the house was soon filled with the cars of the Scene of Crime Officer, the CID Inspector, the doctor, pathologist and forensic scientist and half a dozen photographers, finger-print experts and plain-clothes detectives. The immediate area of the boat-house had been roped off and was now being subjected to a minute examination. Sir Graham had arrived with Chief Inspector James just as a very subdued house-party were finishing breakfast. The obvious link with the murder of Archie Brooks meant that they would work in close co-operation with the Surrey CID.

  Temple could hear the sound of voices as he approached the drawing-room door. The conversation ceased abruptly as he entered the room. Stella Portland was sitting on the sofa. She was obviously still suffering from the shock of the news with which she had been awakened at four a.m. There were shadows under her eyes and she had made no attempt to do her face up. Chris Boyer was at the french windows, staring moodily out over the terrace. George Kelly appeared to be his usual cocky self. He had been helping himself to whisky from the drinks cabinet.

  “Is Miss Portland here?”