Paul Temple and the Madison Case

by Francis Durbridge

“I said, did you know she had a key?”

  “Yes, I gave it to her.”

  “There’s no doubt that it was suicide, Sir Graham?” Temple asked.

  “No doubt.” Forbes did not even look at Temple to answer the question. “Boyer, what did you mean just now when you said ‘I was afraid of that’?”

  “Well, Moira’s been very strange lately. She’s been terribly overwrought and at times quite impossible to talk to. As a matter of fact I was talking to Temple about it only a few minutes ago.”

  “Mr Boyer was saying that he’d just broken off his engagement.”

  “Oh! When did that happen?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Was Miss Portland upset?”

  “We were both upset,” said Boyer and added dryly. “It wasn’t exactly a pleasant afternoon.”

  “Where did you see her?” Forbes asked.

  “At her flat. I arrived about a quarter to three and left just after four.”

  “Did anyone else call on her while you were there?”

  “No, but there was a ’phone call.”

  “Who was it, do you know?”

  “Yes, it was Mrs Portland.”

  “Did you hear the conversation?”

  “Part of it. They seemed to be making an appointment to see each other.”

  Forbes leant back in his chair and exhaled his breath. “Well, we can soon check on that.”

  “She’s here, Sir Graham,” Steve said.

  “What? Here - at the Manila?”

  “Yes, we were talking to her a few moments ago. She may have gone through to the dining-room. She was with a party.”

  “Boyer, would you mind asking Mrs Portland if she can spare me a moment?”

  Boyer nodded and got up from the table. He was probably quite glad of a respite from Forbes’ relentless questions.

  “Oh, dear, poor girl,” said Steve. “Why do you think she did it, Sir Graham? Because Boyer broke off the engagement?”

  “I don’t think the engagement had anything to do with it. She’d been taking cocaine – did you know that, Temple?”

  “I know she was on hard drugs. What can I get you to drink, Sir Graham?”

  The waitress had disappeared, so Temple had to go to the bar himself to fetch Forbes a large brandy. When he returned to the table Forbes was answering a question from Steve.

  “A woman went to see Moira this afternoon just after Boyer left her – from the description we’ve received it sounds remarkably like Mrs Portland.”

  “Well, that rather ties up with the ’phone call, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. Oh, thank you.” Forbes looked up as the balloon-shaped glass was put down in front of him. “You know, Temple, we’ve got four first-class suspects in this Madison mystery.”

  “Who are the four?” Steve started to count them on her fingers. “Stella Portland, Hubert Greene, George Kelly …”

  As she paused Temple supplied the fourth name. “And Chris Boyer.”

  “But you said that you didn’t think he had anything to do with Moira committing suicide.”

  “Exactly,” Forbes stated crisply and clammed up. He had seen Boyer coming across the room alone.

  “Mrs Portland suggests we move into the ante-room,” he told Temple. “It’s quieter there.”

  The four of them picked up their glasses and carried them into the smaller bar adjoining the dining-room. It was empty now, last orders having been taken and the diners having moved into the restaurant. Empty, that is, except for Stella Portland, who was sitting alone on one of the couches. It was evident from her face that Boyer had already broken the news to her.

  “Sir Graham, is this true what Chris has just told me about Moira?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is, Mrs Portland.”

  “Oh the silly, stupid girl! Whatever made her do it? I told her that…” She bit back a sob.

  Forbes had decided after all to take off his overcoat. He dropped it over a chair and sat down facing her across a low table. “Mrs Portland, when did you last see your step- daughter?”

  Stella had been watching as Steve, Paul and Boyer took chairs close to her, so that she was surrounded on all sides.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said,” Forbes repeated his question with icy distinctness, “when did you last see your step-daughter?”

  “Oh, er – several days ago. As a matter of fact I haven’t seen her since the weekend.”

  “You didn’t call on her this afternoon?”

  “No – I’ve told you, I haven’t seen her for several days.”

  “Did you speak to her on the telephone?” Forbes persisted.

  “No I – “ For the first time Stella met his eye and what she saw there warned her. Abruptly she changed her tack. “Yes I did. I spoke to her this afternoon.”

  “Did she ring you or …”

  “No, I rang her. I wanted to arrange” – she glanced at Boyer – “a luncheon date.”

  “Did you arrange it?”

  “Yes – for next Friday.”

  Forbes picked his glass up, cupped his hand under it and expertly rotated the brandy. “Mrs Portland, you must forgive me if I ask you a rather personal question …”

  “I’m getting quite used to personal questions, Sir Graham,” said Stella, with a flash of her old good humour.

  “How did you get on with your step-daughter?”

  “As a matter of fact, I got on quite well with her. I don’t expect you to believe that, but the fact remains, I did! When we first met we took an instant dislike to one another and then gradually things began to change. I think she realised that I was a friend not an enemy.”

  “Had she many enemies?”

  “I should ask Mr Boyer that question. After all, he was her fiancé.”

  Temple said, “Boyer broke off the engagement this afternoon.”

  “Broke off the …” The look Stella gave Boyer was both shocked and angry.

  “Didn’t you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t,” she said, still fixing Boyer with her eyes.

  “What was Moira like on the ’phone?” Temple asked. “Did she sound worried or depressed at all?”

  “No more than usual. She hadn’t a lot to say. I had the impression there was someone with her.”

  “I was with her,” Boyer stated.

  “Oh.” Stella shook her head, like a boxer who has been punched once too often.

  “Have you any idea why she committed suicide?” asked Forbes.

  “No, I haven’t unless it was the breaking of her engagement?”

  That did not satisfy Forbes. “You can’t think of any other reason why she should have taken her life?”

  “No …” Steve felt almost sorry for Stella as she stared at Forbes obviously distressed. “No, I can’t.”

  “I think you can, Mrs Portland, if you try.”

  The Temples did not linger at the Manila that evening. After hearing the news of Moira’s suicide and Forbes’ grilling of her step-mother Steve had not felt like dancing. The bouncer whistled up a taxi for them and they were home soon after eleven. Temple had seen from the street that all the lights in the front rooms of the flat were on.

  “Perhaps Charlie thought we wouldn’t be home till late and decided to throw a party. I wouldn’t put it past him, would you, Paul?”

  Temple withdrew his key from the lock. “I think we’d better ring the bell. I wouldn’t want to catch him in flagrante delicto.”

  As the buzzer sounded inside the flat Steve was staring at the mat outside the door.

  “That can’t be a drop of blood, Paul? It’s still wet.”

  Paul stooped to examine the glistening stain. He touched it with a finger and put the finger to his nose. “By Timothy! It is blood! I wonder if Charlie’s had an accident.”

  This time Temple did not wait. He put his key in the lock and opened the door. To his relief he saw Charlie coming across the hall.

  “Sorry I couldn’t answer the
door, Mr T. I was in the bathroom helping Mr Kelly tidy up.”

  “Mr Kelly?” said Steve.

  “What’s happened, Charlie?”

  “Mr Kelly’s ‘ad a bit of a rough house. E’s been tidying up in the bathroom.”

  Steve was on Temple’s heels as he strode into the bathroom. George Kelly had his head over the basin. He raised it and turned round when he heard footsteps. His face was bruised, the skin torn in several places. The water in the basin was pink and flecked with blood. He had taken his jacket off and thrown it on the floor.

  “Hello!” he greeted them with remarkable cheerfulness. “Say, I’m glad you’re back.”

  “What on earth have you been up to?”

  “You might well ask!”

  “Have you been in a fight?”

  “I’ve been in a fight all right, I don’t know what happened. It seemed to me I was hit by a hurricane. One minute I was standing on my feet – the next I was fighting for dear life.” Kelly stared with concern at the battered face in the mirror. “Just look at my face! Uncle Sam certainly took an awful beating.”

  “Suppose you start at the beginning. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Well, I was passing your apartment so I thought I’d drop in for a few minutes.”

  Temple ostentatiously looked at his watch “It must have been well after eleven.”

  Kelly ignored the comment. “The elevator was on the top floor and I rang for it.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, it came down. The light wasn’t on so I took it for granted it was empty, but just as I put my hand on the gate it was thrown open and - wham! For a moment I just didn’t know what had hit me.”

  “You mean to say someone stepped out of the lift and deliberately hit you?”

  “Hit me!” Kelly gingerly rubbed his chin. “He certainly did!”

  “But why?”

  “Either the guy was nuts or he didn’t want me to see him. Anyway, we went at it hell for leather. Suddenly he landed me a real Mike Tyson – and when I recovered the guy had disappeared.”

  “Would you recognise him again?”

  “No, I don’t think I would. You see, we were more or less in the dark and the whole thing happened so quickly.”

  “All right, Kelly,” said Temple, “join us when you’re ready. I daresay you can do with a whisky.”

  “And how!”

  “You know, Kelly, that’s rather a remarkable story of yours.”

  Now that he had a large Scotch in his hand Kelly was feeling a lot better. Thanks to Charlie’s styptic pencil the cuts and contusions on his face had stopped bleeding. He had a plaster over one eyebrow and another on his chin. Charlie had rifled Temple’s dressing-room to provide him with a shirt to replace the torn, bloodstained one. It was far too big, but as he was not wearing a tie that did not matter.

  “Remarkable? It’s fantastic! If I was in your shoes I just wouldn’t believe a word of it.”

  “You’re quite sure you wouldn’t recognise the man again?”

  “I’m quite sure.”

  Temple was pouring himself a whisky. He added a generous measure of water. “Anyway, sit down and tell me what you wanted to see me about.”

  Kelly sat down and cradled the glass in his lap. “Well – you know that brooch, or rather clip, I found – the one I handed over to you this morning?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe that was a tactless thing for me to say when I found the brooch very near the spot where Mrs Greene was murdered.”

  “Why tactless?”

  “Well, I don’t want to throw suspicion on to Moira Portland. I don’t want to throw suspicion on to anybody.”

  “Don’t worry, you won’t throw suspicion on Miss Portland. You see, Kelly - she’s dead. She committed suicide.”

  “You don’t mean it! When?”

  “Earlier this evening.”

  “A young kid like that, why …” The glass in Kelly’s hand shook. “Whatever made her do such a stupid thing? What made her do it?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. It might even be better.”

  On the low table beside the fireplace the telephone had started to ring. Temple rose to answer it. “Excuse me.” Temple put the phone to his ear, said, “Hello?”

  “Temple? … This is Elzec.” The voice was no more than a croak.

  “Dr Elzec … ?”

  “Temple, listen … There’s something I … must tell you … “ He was clearly finding it very difficult to talk. Each phrase was punctuated by a gasp.

  “Elzec, what’s happened?”

  “I’ve been… attacked, knifed… I… I …”

  “Elzec! Where are you … ? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes … can hear you …” He broke off to cough. “Want to see you … the cottage at Lockdale … going there the night… night Madison double-crossed us … ”

  “Elzec, listen!” Temple said urgently “Where are you? Where are you speaking from?”

  “I’m upstairs … in the flat … You’d better … be quick …”

  Temple heard a clatter, as if nerveless fingers had dropped the receiver. He slammed his own instrument down. Kelly was already on his feet. The glass in his hand had been emptied.

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “Elzec’s been stabbed! He’s in the flat above. Come on, Kelly, quick!”

  The lift was at the ground floor. Temple did not waste time summoning it. He took the stairs to the top landing three at a time, with Kelly panting in his wake.

  He knew that there would be no point in ringing the bell, and trying to fiddle the lock would take too long. His eye fell on a cylindrical fire extinguisher standing in the corner of the top landing. Filled with liquid it was as heavy as the barrel of a small cannon.

  “Come on, Kelly, give me a hand. We’ll use this as a battering ram. Aim just below the lock.”

  The two men hefted the extinguisher to shoulder height and swung it against the door. The sound boomed down the stair-well. Luckily the key of the mortise lock had not been turned and the door had only closed on the latch. At the third impact it gave way and the door shuddered open.

  Temple was first in, groping for the switches in the darkened flat. When the sitting-room lights came on they revealed overturned chairs and tables, scuffed-up floor mats, smashed lamps and ornaments.

  “Gee, what’s hit this place?” Kelly had come into the room behind Temple. “There’s been a whale of a fight by the looks of things.”

  The sitting-room telephone was still on its cradle. It was one of the few objects that had escaped damage. Temple was looking for an instrument that had been dropped to the floor.

  He found it when he went through to the bedroom, although the receiver itself was not visible. It lay beneath the body that had slumped to the floor. The concertina connecting-wire led to a wall socket by the bed. A trail of blood led across the bedroom. Elzec must have used his last ounce of strength to crawl to the telephone. Gently Temple turned him over. The head rolled back. Like Chunky Brooks he had been stabbed repeatedly.

  “I’m afraid we’re too late, Kelly.”

  “Gee, that’s terrible!” Kelly looked at the face once then turned away quickly. “Temple, you know that character I bumped into. He’s responsible for this! He murdered Elzec!”

  Temple had freed the telephone and got a dialling tone. He stabbed the number 9 three times.

  “It’s possible, quite possible … “he murmured.

  “Emergency. Which service?” came the operator’s voice.

  “Ambulance first, then police.”

  Steve could usually read Temple’s mind very well, but this morning he had her really guessing. In spite of the terrible events of the previous evening he appeared to be in a remarkably good mood. She was certain that he had something up his sleeve but she knew better than to try and prise it out of him. She did as he asked and made herself ready to go out, exactly as if she had a
date to meet some friends for coffee. When she had chosen a handbag and inspected herself in the mirror she went to the study.

  Temple looked up from his desk with genuine admiration.

  “I say, you do look glamorous!”

  “Well, I don’t feel glamorous! Look, have I got to go out this morning?”

  “Yes, Steve, you have. And don’t forget what I told you!”

  “Paul, do you really want me to do that?”

  “I do.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense.”

  “Doesn’t it, darling?” Temple was still contemplating her with a pleased expression.

  “Well, don’t worry about it.”

  The door opened and Charlie appeared.

  “I’m off now, Mr Temple.”

  “All right, Charlie. Have a good time.”

  “And where do you think you’re going?” Steve demanded.

  “I’m having the day off,” grinned Charlie.

  “Oh, you are, are you?”

  Steve looked from Charlie to Temple, more than ever suspicious.

  “S’right. Mr Temple said it’d be O.K.”

  “That’s all right, Charlie,” Temple told him. “Run along!”

  When the door closed Steve faced her husband across the desk. “Now look here, Paul, I don’t know what’s going on here this morning, but I intend to find out.”

  Temple was spared the need to answer by the reappearance of Charlie.

  “Here’s Chief Inspector James to see you, sir,” he announced briefly.

  As Charlie vanished again Temple came out from behind his desk to greet the visitor.

  “Why, hello, Inspector. Come in!”

  “Good morning, Mrs Temple,” James greeted Steve respectfully.

  “Good morning, Chief Inspector,” she replied, a little severely, though it was hardly James’ fault that he had interrupted her inquisition. “I’ll be on my way now, Paul.”

  “Yes, all right, darling. Don’t forget what I told you.”

  Steve did not deign to answer and a few seconds later the front door banged for the second time.

  “Come along, James, let’s go into the drawing-room.”

  To Temple’s relief James declined a coffee, but asked permission to light his pipe. His face showed the strain that comes inevitably with a murder investigation. He had spent another night without sleep.