Paul Temple and the Madison Case

by Francis Durbridge

  “Feeling cold, Steve?” Forbes had seen Steve shiver.

  “Just a bit.”

  “There’s a greatcoat on the bench over there. She can borrow that.”

  Temple brought the coat and put it across her shoulders. Ahead, as they rounded a bend in the river, the outline of Windsor Castle showed up against the night sky.

  “How on earth did you manage to find me, Sir Graham?”

  “Thanks to the PNC and a favour from Lady Luck.”

  “Have you any idea where they were taking you?” asked Temple.

  “I heard Elzec mention a cottage but I haven’t the slightest idea where it is.”

  “When do you think Dordrecht rumbled you?”

  “It might have been in the cocktail bar of the Kensington Garden Hotel. I made a slight slip there. Somebody hollered ‘Steve’ and my head jerked round. It was someone calling the waiter.”

  “That was bad luck.” They could all laugh about it now.

  “You’ve done a great job, Steve,” Forbes congratulated her. “I’m sorry we lost you for a while, but things might have turned out worse.”

  “A lot worse!” agreed Steve, with feeling.

  “But I’ve found out one thing, Paul. They both reacted to the name Madison …”

  “Dordrecht was the courier obviously and I hope James has got that Samsonite suitcase we found in the cabin under his eye. I’ll be interested to see what’s …”

  Temple’s remark was punctuated by a deafening explosion. An orange flash came from the cabin cruiser and with it a blast that rocked the police launch and knocked all three of them flat. Temple was the first to pick himself up. When he looked back the cabin cruiser was settling lopsidedly in the water. The whole of one side had been blown out. He could just make out three or four figures struggling in the water.

  “Is there anything in the paper about last night?”

  “Just a late news flash. They refer to it as a mysterious explosion on the Thames in which three people lost their lives. There aren’t any details.”

  “My goodness, I was lucky.”

  “Just how lucky I don’t suppose you’ll ever know.”

  Steve stared across the breakfast table at the patch of blue sky which was just visible above the tops of the houses. Even now she was not sleepy, though she and Paul had been able to snatch only a few hours in bed. She had been too stimulated by the previous evening’s events to sleep properly and the narrowness of her escape gave her a heightened awareness of ordinary, everyday things – like the smell of good coffee, the flavour of bacon and eggs, the sight of her husband reading the morning paper.

  The explosion that had ripped the side out of the cabin cruiser had not seriously damaged the launch of the river police.

  They had turned back at once, the searchlight in the bow sweeping the water for survivors. Chief Inspector James had had a narrow escape. He had been on the far side of the boat and had been hurled into the water, but without serious injury. He had been the first one hauled into the launch, shocked and gasping for air. Detective Constable Smith had been clinging to a spar with his last ounce of energy; both his legs were shattered. Bennet had been pulled out of the water dead, though there was not a mark on his body. By contrast the deck-hand, Harry, was a bloody mess but still breathing. A second river police launch had come speeding up-river from Windsor. Forbes had decided to let them take over the search and rescue operation so that the injured could be taken back to Windsor and transferred to Casualty at the King Edward VII hospital. Temple was glad of the decision. He knew that Steve had been through enough and he wanted to get her back to the flat and under the care of the ever-protective Charlie. Forbes’ driver had done the trip from Windsor to Eaton Square in twenty minutes.

  “Paul.”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “I’m glad you jumped us when you did – you know, instead of waiting.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “If you’d left me on the launch and simply followed us there’s a sporting chance we should have taken you straight to their headquarters.”

  Temple lowered his paper and looked at her seriously. “You don’t think I’d take a chance like that, do you?”

  “Do you think James was right? That it was a time-bomb in the suitcase?”

  “Either a time-bomb or a remotely-controlled device.”

  Temple made a wry face as the telephone shrilled insistently. It had been plugged into the dining-room and was standing on the side-board. “All right, I’ll take it.”

  “Hello?”

  “Is that Mr Temple?”

  “Yes, who is that?”

  “This is Moira Portland.”

  “Oh, hello, Miss Portland,” Temple said reassuringly. Moira sounded very edgy. “I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise your voice.”

  “Mr Temple, I don’t want to be a nuisance, but do you think I could see you sometime? I’d like to talk to you …”

  “Yes, of course. As a matter of fact I’d rather like to talk to you too.”

  “Could we – meet tonight?”

  “Yes, certainly. Would you like to come to my flat?”

  “No, I’d rather meet you at the Manila.”

  “We can talk much better here than at the Manila,” Temple countered. For him the Manila Club had lost its charm.

  “No. If I come to your flat I might be seen …”

  “All right.” Temple quickly changed his mind. “What do you want me to do - bump into you ‘accidentally’?”

  “Yes. I shall be there from nine o’clock onwards.”

  “Then I’ll come about ten.”

  “Thank you. Oh, Mr Temple …”

  Temple had almost replaced the receiver. Curbing his impatience he lifted it to his ear again. “Yes?”

  “I’m awfully sorry I was rude to you at the weekend but you see I haven’t been feeling very well recently and I’m afraid I’ve been rather overdoing things.”

  “Yes, I think you have, Miss Portland,” Temple agreed crisply. “If I were you, I should go easy.” He gave that a moment to sink in. “You know what I mean, don’t you?”

  “Yes. And there’s something else I wanted to tell you.” Temple waited, trying to make out from background sounds where she was calling from. He was pretty sure it was a call-box. “I – didn’t – murder Eileen …”

  “I never thought you did.”

  “No, but the police think so, at least they will think so when they find …” Moira bit the sentence off. It sounded like a bait to draw Temple to the Manila.

  “When they find what?”

  “I’ll tell you tonight.”

  “All right,” Temple agreed patiently.

  “And, Mr Temple. Whatever happens, please don’t change your mind about me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I – didn’t murder Eileen, honestly I didn’t. I’m just a red herring.”

  Temple put the ’phone down with a sigh, left his hand resting on it for a few seconds. “Well, what an extraordinary thing to say.”

  “What did she say? You seemed so surprised!”

  “She said ‘I didn’t murder Eileen I’m … ’” Temple frowned as Charlie knocked and opened the door. “What is it, Charlie?”

  “There’s a Mr George Kelly would like to see you, sir.”

  “Honestly,” protested Steve, “some people seem to think we’re a listening service.”

  “Yes, all right, Charlie.” Temple swallowed what was left of his coffee. “Put him in the drawing-room.”

  Temple went into his study to fetch a small notebook, which he slipped into his pocket. When he reached the drawing-room he found Kelly biting a nail and looking out of the window down at the street. He had bought himself a new suit but its loud check pattern still gave the impression that he was dressed for some part in an old Hollywood musical.

  Without preamble he launched straight into the reason for his visit.

  “Mr Temple, I’ve been doing
quite a lot of thinking during the past few days and I’ve reached a decision.” Kelly paused, as if this was going to be the big saying of the week. “Do you know what I think? I think somebody’s trying to make a monkey out of me.”

  “Make a monkey out of you?” repeated Temple politely, as if such a thought was inconceivable.

  “Yes. Somebody impersonated me that night. I was supposed to have telephoned your wife at the Manila. Somebody tried to give you the impression that I was mixed up in this – what do you call it? – Madison affair.”

  “Aren’t you mixed up in the Madison affair?”

  “Most certainly not!” Kelly shook his head vehemently. “And I’ll tell you another thing I’m not mixed up in either.” He wagged a finger at Temple. “This Greene murder. Now, I don’t know what your opinion is, Temple, but I’ve a hunch the police are trying to pin that rap on me.”

  Kelly had advanced round the sofa, still jabbing the air with his finger. Temple withdrew a pace or two to avoid the whiff of stale whisky on the American’s breath.

  “The police aren’t trying to pin a rap on anybody, as you so elegantly put it.”

  “Well, they’ve asked me an awful lot of questions – they keep on asking me an awful lot of questions.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “Certainly it does. Why pick on me of all people? Why not pick on Hubert Greene, or Stella or Moira Portland for that matter?”

  “You know how Eileen was murdered – she was stabbed.”

  “All right,” Kelly conceded. “So she was stabbed. But does that mean that I stabbed her?” Kelly’s brow wrinkled as his eyebrows went up. “Listen Temple, if I wanted to commit a murder would I use a knife? No sir, you bet your bottom dollar I wouldn’t.”

  “What would you do, Mr Kelly?”

  “Why – “ Kelly was momentarily stumped for an answer to that question. “I’d shoot the guy or strangle him or something. I certainly wouldn’t throw suspicion on to myself by using a dagger.”

  The two men had changed places. Temple was now at the window and Kelly was in front of the fireplace.

  “Are you suggesting, then, that someone is deliberately trying to throw suspicion on to you?”

  “I am. And what gets me is the fact that Scotland Yard can’t see through it. I’m not mixed up in this Madison mystery, Temple. I’m just a red herring.”

  “I see. And is that why you came here this morning, Kelly, to tell me that you’re just a red herring?”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Kelly, with a faint air of triumph. “I came here because I wanted you to have a look at this brooch.” He reached in his jacket pocket and produced a brooch, which he handed to Temple.

  “Where did you find this?” Temple was turning the brooch over in his hands. It was a largish oval emerald, set in diamonds, with a clip instead of a safety pin.

  “I came across it in the bushes, down by the lake, not so far from where you found Eileen Greene.”

  “Were you looking for it?”

  “No. I went down to the lake that night because – well – I wanted to see the scene of the crime. I guess you can put it down to morbid curiosity. I was probing among the bushes when I found the clip. It’s been rather badly knocked about, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, I can see that. Why did you not hand this to the police?”

  “Well,” said Kelly innocently, looking Temple in the eye. “I’ve handed it to you, haven’t I?”

  “Have you any idea who it belongs to?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I have.” Kelly was smiling, enjoying keeping Temple in suspense. “It belongs to Moira Portland.”

  Big Ben was going through his preliminary chimes and booming the twelve strokes of mid-day over Westminster as Temple paid off his taxi in Victoria Street. It takes the big clock nearly a minute to strike mid-day and before it had finished he was at the reception desk of New Scotland Yard. Sir Graham had left a message that he was expecting him. Without delay he was whisked up in a lift to the sixth floor and admitted immediately to the inner sanctum.

  “I’m afraid I’m a little late, Sir Graham.”

  Forbes glanced at the wall clock, which showed two minutes past the hour.

  “That’s all right. Greene hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “Greene? Is that why you wanted me here?”

  “Not exactly. As a matter of fact Greene made the appointment himself. I wanted to have a chat. Sit down.”

  The windows of Forbes’ office looked out over Victoria Street. They were high enough to afford a view of Westminster Cathedral to the right and the Abbey on the left. Despite the regulation paint work and standard furniture the room reflected something of its occupant’s personality. He had brought in his own big mahogany desk, and on one wall were Ackerman prints of his old school and Cambridge college. Another wall was occupied by a large-scale map of London divided into the various divisions and studded with a mass of colour-coded pins.

  Temple sat in one of the two comfortable leather arm chairs. Forbes resumed his seat at his desk, behind a signed photograph of the Queen and Prince Philip.

  “Temple, we don’t seem to be getting anywhere with this Greene murder. I had another talk with Kelly yesterday afternoon and he still sticks to his original story.”

  “Well, you’ve succeeded in rattling Mr Kelly if nothing else.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “Yes, he came to see me this morning. He produced this rather interesting trinket.”

  Temple stood up to put the emerald and diamond brooch on the desk.

  “What is it - a clip?”

  “Yes, apparently he found it by the lake near where Eileen Greene was found.”

  “Was that before or after the murder?”

  “After. He says he went down there that night – out of ghoulish curiosity.”

  “It looks as if it’s been trodden on. Why did he not hand this in to the police?”

  “I asked him that. He said he’d intended to give it to me.”

  “I see,” said Forbes, not too pleased. “Do you know who it belongs to?”

  “Well, according to Kelly it belongs to Moira Portland, but personally I rather doubt it. Anyway, I’m seeing her tonight, I’ll mention it. She asked me to meet her at the Manila.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know why – but I have my suspicions. Do you mind if I have it back?” Reluctantly Forbes pushed the brooch back across the desk. Temple put it in his pocket. “Any news of Elzec or the other man – Dordrecht?”

  “We picked up Dordrecht shortly after you left us. There was no sign of Elzec.”

  “Was Dordrecht dead?”

  “Yes.” Forbes made the statement unemotionally. “So were Bennet and Sergeant Taylor - their bodies were picked up this morning.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry about that. Do you think Elzec was lucky and escaped or do you think there’s still a chance of his being found?”

  “I don’t know.” Forbes was cocking an ear to the sound of voices in the outer office. “According to James he was standing no more than a yard from him when the thing exploded. I’m inclined to think Elzec was thrown clear by the actual explosion.”

  “So he could have been drowned or he could have made it to the bank and got away across the fields?”

  “If the frogmen don’t find his body we must assume the latter. How’s Steve this morning?”

  “In remarkably good form, considering. You heard what she said about the cottage?”

  “Yes, and I’m determined to find that place if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “If you do find it you’ll probably discover the whole set-up – the printing press and everything.”

  “Yes, I agree. Well, we’re combing every inch of the river, Temple – we can’t do more.” The sound of voices had approached the door. Now there came a brisk knock and a plain clothes detective swung the door open. “Yes, Sergeant?”

  “Mr Greene has arrived, sir.”

  “Righ
t, send him in.”

  Hubert Greene was wearing a dark suit and an obviously new black tie. A lot of his self-confidence had vanished and there was an air of permanent tiredness about him.

  “Come in, Greene,” Forbes invited encouragingly.

  “Good morning, Sir Gra – .” He stopped, realising that Forbes was not alone. “Hello, Temple! I didn’t expect to find you here.”

  “Would you like to see Sir Graham alone?” Temple offered.

  “No, as a matter of fact I’m rather glad you’re here.”

  “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Oh, thank you.” Still nervous, Greene accepted Forbes’ invitation and took the second armchair. He cleared his throat. “I’ll tell you why I wanted to see you, Sir Graham. I’ve been thinking about last weekend, as a matter of fact I can’t stop thinking about it. Sometimes, you know, it’s difficult for me to realise that Eileen isn’t…” He closed his eyes for a moment, and his mouth worked convulsively.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” said Forbes sympathetically.

  “I’m staying in town as much as possible. I just can’t bear the thought of going back to ‘Brown Acres’. I had to go for the funeral, of course. It was kind of you to release the body, Sir Graham. I scattered her ashes on the lake there, Temple. I’m sure that’s what she would have wanted.”

  “I can understand your feelings,” Forbes said gruffly. He then decided that Greene had had his ration of condolences. “What did you want to see me about?”

  “To tell you about something that happened, or rather something that was said the night before my wife was – murdered.”

  “Go on.”

  “We were in the library.” Greene glanced at Temple, inviting him too to visualise the scene. “Stella, Eileen, Chris Boyer and myself. It was before Moira Portland and Mr and Mrs Temple joined us. I overheard a remark which Chris Boyer made to my wife. I didn’t think anything about it at the time but in the light of what’s happened I … “. Greene’s voice faltered again. He sought refuge in a study of his left palm.