Paul Temple and the Curzon Case (A Paul Temple Mystery)

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘Well well well,’ said Paul. ‘Did you know this was here?’

  ‘Yes, of course. When I first found it I tried to crack the combination. I’d been reading Edgar Wallace and I thought it ought to be easy, listening for the right digits to fall into place and all that. But I never managed it. I’ve no idea what father kept in there.’

  ‘When was it installed?’

  ‘I suppose about a year ago. That was when the complete works of Trollope appeared, and some of the books are real. Father read The Prime Minister over Christmas. I thought he intended going in for politics.’

  Paul fiddled for several minutes with the combination while he wondered where the smell of burning was coming from. But if the safe had defeated a determined fourteen-year-old, he decided, it was unlikely that he would open it in a spare five minutes. The job needed special tools: a stethoscope or a charge of gelignite.

  ‘I think something’s on fire,’ Roger announced suddenly.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Paul said flippantly, ‘you’ll get used to my wife’s cooking.’

  ‘We thought she was a very good cook.’

  ‘Yes, actually she is.’ Paul looked about him in surprise. ‘By God, I think the house is on fire!’ There was a crackle of burning which became a roar as he ran into the hallway. Flames were leaping and snapping down the stairs and he saw that the upper part of the house was blazing uncontrollably.

  ‘Paul!’ he heard Steve shout from behind the fire. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes!’ he called. ‘Can you get down?’

  ‘No, the stairs are going!’

  As she spoke the bannisters folded in a shower of fireworks and the top flight crashed down into the hall. Smoke was billowing down the stair well and making it impossible to breathe. Paul found that his eyes were smarting and his whole body was wet with perspiration.

  ‘The roof,’ Roger Baxter called. ‘You can climb out of the back window on to the roof!’

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Paul shouted.

  ‘Yes.’

  Paul hurriedly followed the younger brother into the garden. The whole lawn was floodlit by the flames. Paul peered up into the raging furnace and could just make out two silhouetted figures on the low protruding roof above the kitchen.

  ‘Jump!’ shouted Paul. ‘This is no time for caution!’ The effort of shouting filled his lungs with burning smoke and he choked briefly until a section of chimney tumbled on to the grass beside him.

  Michael Baxter shinned rapidly down the drainpipe, using the kitchen window ledge with the expertise of a child who has practised the route before. Steve jumped at Paul’s outstretched arms and they tumbled into a heap in the rhododendron bushes.

  ‘Sorry, darling,’ she murmured. ‘Your new suit as well.’

  ‘Damn my new suit. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘How about the boys?’

  The Baxter brothers were standing together a safe distance from the house. They were watching in silence. Too many things had happened to them for one day, and there was nothing much to be said. They simply watched while their home was consumed like a beacon in the night.

  ‘We didn’t get a chance to telephone the fire brigade,’ said Paul.

  Steve shrugged. ‘It would take more than a few fire engines to put this lot out,’ she said. ‘It’s such an old house, and there hasn’t been much rain this summer.’

  People were beginning to arrive in the lane, a large car drew up and voices could be heard asking each other whether anybody was inside. The two brothers took no notice, so Paul edged his way round the house to reassure the spectators and persuade somebody to send for the police.

  ‘Yes yes,’ he agreed, ‘it’s a fire. No, we all got out in time. It is most unfortunate.’ In the face of a natural disaster such as this the questions were all well-meaning and the expressions of shock a trifle stereotyped. It wasn’t an occasion for originality. ‘Indeed we might have been burnt to death,’ he agreed, ‘but we’re all alive. I wonder whether you could pop back home and telephone the police?’

  The large car was parked on the far side of the road. ‘Hello, Mr Temple!’ a girl’s voice called from the passenger seat. ‘What’s happening?’

  Paul went across to Diana Maxwell. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a fire,’ he said wearily. The driver of the car was Peter Malo. ‘Fancy you two being in the vicinity,’ he said. ‘Taking a drive?’

  ‘We saw the fire from the hall,’ said Peter Malo, ‘so we came to see whether we could help.’

  ‘I suppose you didn’t think of sending for the fire brigade?’

  The young man laughed. ‘Good Lord, yes. We gave them a ring as soon as we saw the flames, didn’t we, Di?’

  Diana Maxwell was watching Paul thoughtfully. ‘Yes,’ she said automatically, ‘they should be here any minute now.’

  Diana Maxwell climbed from the car. ‘Will you wait here, Peter? I must have a quick word with Michael Baxter.’ She took Paul Temple’s arm and walked with him back to the house. She clung to him as they passed the raging debris of the conservatory. ‘I wanted to talk with you privately, Mr Temple,’ she said. ‘I don’t want Peter Malo to hear.’

  ‘About Curzon?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, if you like. Can you spare an hour sometime tomorrow?’

  ‘We seem to have made appointments like this before.’

  Her body stiffened at the criticism, but her tone was suitably amenable as she answered. ‘I know, I’m sorry. I usually spend my summer days on our yacht out in the bay. It’s more private than Westerby Hall. Can you come out tomorrow morning?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Paul. ‘What do you call this yacht?’

  ‘Windswept,’ she said with a toss of her hair. ‘Ask any of the local fishermen, they’ll take you out to it.’

  Diana Maxwell left him on the lawn and went over to talk with Michael Baxter. At that moment the fire brigade arrived with an urgent clanging of bells. There were two tenders, and almost at once the crowds were being moved back and the house was surrounded by busy men in uniforms with a job to do.

  ‘Stand back, please!’ they were calling. ‘Bring it through here, Turner! That’s it, Wilson, straight through to join number eight!’ Great jets of water soared up into the remnants of the roof while other firemen hacked away at the charred wood and plasterwork with their axes.

  But they were too late to save much from the ruins. Somebody seemed to have ventured inside the house, and occasional chairs and pieces of blazing furniture were being tossed through the windows. Paul hoped rather cynically that Philip Baxter had been fully insured.

  ‘We shall have to do something about those trees, sir,’ a fireman called out.

  The trees were ranged along the edge of the garden, and Paul just had time to pull Steve clear as a jet of water was redirected over their heads and into the foliage. ‘They should have been sprayed already,’ somebody said angrily. ‘Stand clear, you two!’ But the warning was too late.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Steve. ‘It’s cool, isn’t it?’

  They ran across to the dry safety beside Diana Maxwell and the two boys, then wiped the spray from their clothes and faces with handkerchiefs. Meanwhile the men inside the house were leaving for the last time. The walls were about to collapse.

  ‘I’m taking Michael and Roger back to Westerby Hall,’ said Diana Maxwell. ‘Your wife has been very kind, but after this they need somewhere to stay while they put their lives back together.’

  The two boys said goodbye and thank you, then followed the girl meekly away to the car. Paul watched them go feeling apprehensive and helpless. They might well be walking into the centre of danger.

  ‘You mean they’ve been safe until now?’ Steve asked ironically. ‘There’s only one way to make Dulworth Bay safe for them, and that’s to clear up this case as quickly as possible. Shall we go?’

  ‘In a moment,’ said Paul. ‘I want to pluck something from the ruins, if it survives the fire.’

&n
bsp; He went across to the west wall of the house, a jagged pile of masonry that had fallen inwards and was still smoking, flaring up suddenly and moving with its own internal fire. He tried to guess where the study had been.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ asked Steve.

  ‘This,’ said Paul. He kicked aside a pile of smouldering rubble to something that lay gleaming among the burnt wood. It was a steel box, and as he turned it over with his foot Paul saw the combination lock that he had tried to open in the study. ‘This is Philip Baxter’s safe.’

  ‘Whatever was in there,’ said Steve, ‘it’ll be charred to a cinder now.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Paul carried it carefully on to the grass and then dropped it. ‘Ouch!’ He rubbed his hands painfully. ‘That was hot.’

  The safe was still intact and impossible to open. Paul glanced about him to see who was watching, but the firemen were still busy with the last of the crumbling walls. Paul picked up a brick and battered at the steel three inches to the left of the lock. As he raised the brick above his head for a further assault somebody gripped his wrist.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Temple. Lost the key to your safe?’

  It was Inspector Morgan, looking profoundly displeased.

  ‘I was saying to my sergeant as we drove here tonight, well at least that chap Temple is in Whitby because we took him there ourselves. But I didn’t really believe it. As soon as I heard there was trouble I guessed you would be here. Good evening, Mrs Temple. Very warm this evening.’

  When they got back to the police station in Whitby it was extremely late, but Inspector Morgan didn’t seem perturbed. He picked up the telephone, demanded two cups of cocoa from someone, and then sprawled back in his chair. ‘Sit down, Temple, relax. I had a conversation with Charlie Vosper this evening and he told me something you might find of interest.’

  They were interrupted by a thump on the door and a dauntingly square shaped woman police constable brought in the cocoa. ‘This’ll make you sleep, love, if it doesn’t kill you,’ she said to Paul.

  ‘It’s too late for humour,’ snapped Inspector Morgan. ‘Send young Masterson in with his safe-cracking equipment.’

  The woman stared at the safe on the desk. ‘He isn’t on duty, sir. Shall I have a go at it?’

  Inspector Morgan said yes so she went off to fetch whatever precision instruments were required.

  ‘We keep abreast of all the criminal skills, Temple,’ he said proudly. ‘That’s how a copper keeps in the race, we can think like criminals and we can do their job better than they can themselves. Now, what were we saying?’

  ‘Charlie Vosper. You were saying he told you—’

  ‘Ah yes. Inspector Vosper is taking a long distance interest in this trouble. We were having a chat this evening, and I told him about Tom Doyle’s story. I mentioned this American who was seen with Lord Westerby the evening before the boys disappeared. And do you know what?’

  Paul tried to look guileless. ‘Charlie Vosper knew him?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what. How did you guess?’

  ‘I know my Inspector Vosper.’ Paul grimaced and put the cup of cocoa on the floor to let the sediment settle. ‘So what do we know about this man Walters?’

  ‘Don’t let that cocoa get cold, Temple. It seems that you were involved in the death of a girl called Bobbie Jameson a few days ago. Inspector Vosper has been conducting some routine enquiries, looking into her habits and background. Her boyfriend was Carl Walters.’

  Paul was impressed. ‘I like the way Charlie Vosper ties everything in so neatly. Did he say whether Walters has a record?’

  Inspector Morgan shook his head. ‘Not in this country he hasn’t, although he might be known to the FBI. He’s a bit of a corkscrew. He owns three amusement arcades down in London.’

  ‘He sounds worth knowing,’ Paul murmured thoughtfully.

  The woman police constable returned with a sledge-hammer. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ she said. ‘This shouldn’t take a moment.’ And while Paul watched in astonishment she placed the safe in the centre of the floor. ‘Stand back!’ She stood over the safe, flexed her muscles and then swung the sledge-hammer in a mighty curve. The impact was deafening.

  When Paul opened his eyes again he saw that the door of the safe had snapped at the hinges and was buckled inwards. The stone floor of the office appeared to be unharmed.

  ‘Thank you, Jackson,’ said the inspector. ‘That seems to have done the trick, doesn’t it?’

  The woman winked at Paul. ‘You have to know exactly where to bash it.’ She left with the sledge-hammer over her shoulder.

  ‘What,’ asked the inspector, ‘do we expect to find now, eh, Temple? Can I have your prediction?’ He came from behind his desk and knelt beside the safe. ‘Come along, man, you must have arrived at some tentative conclusions.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what we might find,’ Paul said cautiously. ‘Although I guess that Philip Baxter was involved in some shady business, and that was why he couldn’t go to the police when his boys were in danger. In all probability it was a shady business that involves Lord Westerby.’

  ‘And Carl Walters,’ said the inspector, ‘we mustn’t forget him. The big time racketeers from London could very well be involved. Perhaps that was why Philip Baxter wanted to draw back. He may have thought the shady business was getting out of hand.’

  ‘Very likely,’ said Paul. He wished impatiently that the inspector would look inside the safe. ‘But with any luck we shall soon know what it’s all about.’

  ‘What kind of rackets,’ the inspector asked sceptically, ‘do you think might be operated in the north riding of Yorkshire?’

  ‘I don’t know. What are the usual run of petty crimes?’

  Inspector Morgan chuckled. ‘You know what these folk are like. They sometimes get caught with their fishing-boats in somebody else’s territorial waters. A century ago they used to do a spot of poaching, and some of them weren’t above a little smuggling on the side. During the eighteenth century the villagers of Dulworth used to lure cargo vessels on to the rocks at night and steal from the wreckage. But these days they’d be the despair of any ambitious policeman. They don’t even try to dodge paying their television licence fees.’

  ‘The thing about Philip Baxter,’ said Paul, ‘is that he was a retired stockbroker. He wasn’t your average Yorkshireman.’

  ‘Ah, very true.’

  Inspector Morgan tipped the safe on its side. There were several piles of burnt paper, which had probably been about twenty-five pounds in notes and some stocks. And there was a leather bound notebook. The leather was rigid and brittle from the fire, but it was still possible to read the notes inside.

  ‘What is it?’ Paul asked.

  ‘I think it’s in code. Columns and columns of figures, with a few dates and diagrams. I’ll send it to Scotland Yard to be translated.’ He looked up at Paul and grinned. ‘Well, at least we know one thing. Mr Baxter hadn’t retired. And if that cottage was destroyed to make sure that nobody found this notebook then I think we must be on to something.’

  Paul nodded. ‘Somebody is probably anxious to find this. Anxious enough to torture Philip Baxter and effectively kill him. I suppose you’ll be calling in the Yard?’

  ‘We’ll see.’ The inspector showed the usual reluctance to call outsiders in to solve a case and steal the glory. ‘We’ll wait and see what this notebook shows when it’s been decoded. I’ll send a man down to London with it tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m going back tomorrow evening,’ Paul said impulsively. ‘I’ll take it and hand it over personally to Charlie Vosper.’

  The inspector thought for a few moments, and then agreed. ‘All right, but I’ll have the thing photocopied first. Call in sometime during the afternoon and I’ll have it ready. Wrapped up and sealed.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Paul, ‘you can trust me.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘Oh good,’ Steve said excitedly, ‘I love picnics. And it’s such a glorious morning for it.
’ She loaded the hamper into the boot of the car. ‘I know a superb spot beside a stream.’

  ‘No. We’re going along the cliffs,’ said Paul. ‘I prefer the sea and a spot of rock climbing to your endless Wuthering Heights.’

  Steve watched him bring out a large first-aid box. There was something about this expedition that Paul hadn’t admitted to. But Steve climbed into the car and enjoyed the illusion of being on holiday. She lapsed into memories of her own, spurred by the sight of a road or a house or a distant village to remember her childhood friends and excursions. She hoped desperately that in years to come she would still remember the pleasant early associations instead of the violence of these last few days.

  She caught occasional glimpses of the picturesque little railway and realised that Paul was watching it carefully as well. Steve knew her husband well enough to guess what was in his mind. But she was damned if she was going to become involved again. She had watched Paul sit for an hour on the hotel veranda before they left. He had been smoking that odious pipe, which was a sure sign that he was solving a mystery or planning a novel.

  The road swung inland and rose at a sharp gradient until the bay and Dulworth village were suddenly revealed low in the distance, spread out and glittering in the sunshine. The railway had vanished into the rock somewhere beneath them. Paul continued driving for another five minutes and then pulled into the side of the road.

  ‘Shall we walk from here?’ asked Paul.

  A stray sheep had been chewing absent-mindedly at a gorse bush. It paused to watch them unload the hamper and the medicine box and rug, then bounded away as they set off for the cliff’s edge. It wasn’t accustomed to people.

  ‘How far do you think we are from the village?’ Paul asked with an elaborate air of unconcern. ‘We don’t want to bump into anyone we know. Might spoil our little treat.’

  ‘We’re three miles from the village,’ Steve said precisely. ‘The railway runs almost directly beneath us, with a sharp bend hereabouts, and it emerges from the tunnel somewhere over there, by that brown cliff face half a mile away.’