Design For Murder
Page 22
‘Well, quite frankly, I suspected Angus,’ he confessed, ‘and Lathom spent days hob-nobbing with Linder, quite certain he was our man.’
‘Even Sally knew better,’ smiled Wyatt in some amusement. ‘Her hunch turned out to be a pretty good one. I really think you should get her to give some lectures at Hendon, Sir James!’
‘I was never one to say: “I told you so”,’ said Sally, the merest trace of a self-satisfied smile playing round her lips.
As Sir James rose to leave he said to Wyatt:
‘If ever you should change your mind about coming back, I can promise you’ll be next in line for the first Chief Inspector vacancy.’
‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ promised Wyatt as he saw his guest to the door.
When he returned to the lounge Sally was collecting the glasses and generally tidying up the room.
‘Well, that’s the end of Ariman, alias “Mr Rossiter”,’ she murmured. ‘Are you satisfied, Inspector Wyatt, or does the idea of being promoted to Chief Inspector interest you?’
He squeezed her shoulder.
‘I’d sooner be plain Farmer Wyatt, of Green Orchard, Lusham,’ he replied. ‘What about you?’
She smiled provokingly and playfully ruffled his hair.
‘If it’s all the same to you,’ she said, ‘I’ll just go on being plain Mrs Wyatt of the same address.’
Paul Temple’s White Christmas
This complete short story was specially written by Francis Durbridge for the Christmas 1946 edition of Radio Times, following the original broadcast of Paul Temple and the Gregory Affair, whose final episode had aired on Thursday 19 December.
Steve stopped talking about Switzerland, tore up the Winter Sports brochure, and went out shopping. She said that she would meet Temple at the Penguin Club at a quarter past four. ‘I shan’t be a minute later than four-fifteen,’ she said gaily.
That was two hours ago.
It was now precisely twenty-seven-and-a-half minutes past five and Temple was still waiting. He sat with his back to the bar staring out at the rain and drinking a dry martini. Cecil, the bar-tender, was talking about The Gregory Affair. He’d been talking about The Gregory Affair for thirty-seven minutes. Temple was tired. He was tired of waiting, of the Club, of Cecil, of hearing about The Gregory Affair, and – most of all – he was tired of the rain. He was almost beginning to wish that he’d taken Steve’s advice about Switzerland.
It had just gone half-past five when Steve arrived. She put her parcels down on the high stool and smiled at Cecil. ‘It’s filthy weather, Paul – don’t you wish we’d gone to Switzerland?’
Temple brought his wristlet watch dangerously near her veil. He said: ‘It’s five-thirty, you’re just an hour and a quarter late, Steve!’
‘Yes. I bumped into Freda Gwenn and she never stopped talking. The poor dear’s wildly excited.’
‘Why is she excited?’
‘She’s going to Switzerland for Christmas and …’
Temple took Steve by the arm, said goodbye to Cecil, and picked up the parcels.
They stood for a moment in the doorway looking out at the rain. ‘If there’s anything I like better than a good old English winter,’ said Steve, ‘it’s a good old English summer.’
Temple said: ‘What do you expect at this time of the year?’
‘I know what I’d like! I’d like …’
‘You’d like to slide on your posterior all day,’ said Temple, ‘and dance your feet off all night.’
Steve said: ‘You are in a pleasant mood, darling! What you need is plenty of fresh air and exercise.’ She was thinking of St Moritz and the Palace Hotel skating rink.
Temple nodded. ‘It’s a good idea, we’ll walk back to the flat.’
It was still raining but they walked.
When they got back to the flat there was a note from Charlie. It was on the small table in the hall and like most of Charlie’s notes it was brief and to the point. ‘Off to the Palais de Danse. Sir Graham rang up – he’s ringing again. Be good. Charlie.’
Temple didn’t care very much for the ‘be good’ touch, but it was typical of Charlie. It was an hour later when Sir Graham telephoned. Steve was in the bathroom.
‘You remember that Luxembourg counterfeit business you helped us with last year?’ the Commissioner said. Temple remembered it only too well. For one thing the leader of the organisation – a man called Howell – had mysteriously disappeared.
‘Yes. I remember it, Sir Graham. Don’t tell me you’ve caught up with the elusive Mr Howell?’
‘We haven’t, but it rather looks as if the Swiss people have. They arrested a man they believe to be Howell just over twenty-four hours ago.’
‘What happened?’
‘Apparently this fellow had managed to get some sort of an organisation together and was ready to start work at Grindelwald. By a sheer stroke of genius the Swiss authorities caught up with him.’
‘Did they get the rest of the organisation?’
‘No, I’m afraid they didn’t.’ Forbes laughed. ‘As a matter of fact they’re not absolutely certain that they’ve got Howell.’
‘What do you mean?’
Forbes said: ‘Well, the Swiss people seem to think that while Howell was lying low after the Luxembourg business he had a fairly drastic facial operation: you know the sort of thing – plastic surgery.’
Temple could hear Steve splashing about in the bathroom. He said in a low voice: ‘Do I come into this, Sir Graham?’
‘I’m rather afraid you do, Temple,’ said Sir Graham. ‘The Swiss authorities want somebody to go out there and identify Howell. Preferably somebody who worked on the Luxembourg business.’
‘Where is Howell?’
‘He was arrested at Grindelwald but they’ve taken him to Interlaken. I rather gather the police are a little frightened that the rest of the gang might try to rescue him.’
Temple said: ‘When do you expect us to leave?’
He heard Forbes chuckling at the other end of the wire.
‘I thought Steve would have to come into the picture!’ he said. ‘You leave tomorrow morning on the eleven o’clock ’plane. You’ll land at Berne and go on to Interlaken by train.’
Temple said goodbye, put down the receiver, lit a cigarette, and sat watching the bathroom door. After a little while the door opened and Steve appeared. She was wearing a grey negligée. Temple had always thought it was a very nice negligée.
Temple said: ‘I’ve got a surprise for you. I’ll give you three guesses.’
Steve said: ‘It’s stopped raining.’
‘No.’
‘MGM have bought your last novel?’
‘No.’
Steve brushed her hair with the towel. ‘My intuition isn’t working tonight. I give up.’
Temple said: ‘It looks like being a White Christmas after all. We leave for Berne tomorrow morning.’
The ’plane landed at the airport and Temple and Steve made their way towards the Customs. Temple took one look at the weather. It was raining. ‘If there’s one thing I like better than a good old Swiss winter,’ he said, ‘it’s a good old Swiss summer.’
Steve laughed and took him by the arm. There was a man waiting for them at the barrier. A tall, clean-shaven, rather distinguished looking man in a dark brown overcoat.
He touched his hat to Steve and addressed Temple:
‘Mr Paul Temple?’
‘Yes?’
‘My name is Velquez, sir. Inspector Velquez. I’ve been asked by the authorities to drive you into Berne.’
Temple eyed him cautiously, and said: ‘Why Berne, Inspector?’
The man smiled. ‘We’ve taken Howell to Berne, sir. We thought it might save time. My car is at your disposal.’
Temple said: ‘Well, Inspector, my instructions are to proceed by train to Interlaken. I think I ought to get this change of programme confirmed by your superior.’
Velquez smiled. He had quite a pleasant smile. �
��Then I advise you to telephone through to headquarters,’ he said, ‘you’ll find the telephone in the waiting room and the number is Interlaken 9–8974. Ask for M. Dumas.’
Steve stayed with Velquez while Temple telephoned.
It was apparently M. Dumas himself who answered the telephone. He was extremely affable and rather amused by the precaution Paul Temple had taken.
‘Velquez is certainly one of our men,’ he said, ‘he’ll have you here within twenty minutes.’
‘How do you know he’s your man?’ said Temple, ‘he might be an impostor!’
‘Describe him!’ snapped Dumas, and there was no mistaking the note of asperity in his voice.
Paul Temple described Velquez.
Dumas said: ‘You’ve nothing to worry about, Mr Temple – that’s Velquez all right.’
Temple put down the receiver, walked out of the telephone booth, and went back to Velquez. Velquez was holding his umbrella over Steve and they appeared to be getting along famously together.
He smiled when he saw Temple approaching.
‘Well,’ said Velquez, ‘I take it I’m to have the pleasure of your company?’
Temple nodded, grinned, and put his hand in his inside pocket. Both Velquez and Steve expected him to take out his cigarette case: they were not unnaturally surprised when they saw the revolver he was holding. It must be recorded in fact that Velquez was surprised, nervous, agitated, and not a little frightened.
He had good reason to be – the revolver was pointing directly at him.
Paul Temple and Steve had left the electric train and were making their way towards the start of the snow run. It was Christmas Eve.
As she started to fasten her skis, Steve said:
‘I suppose Velquez – the man who met us at the airport – was a friend of Howell’s?’
‘A very close friend,’ said Temple. ‘The idea, apparently, was to abduct us and hold us as hostages until Howell was released.’
‘And what about the telephone call? Did you get through to that number Velquez gave you?’
Temple nodded. ‘I got through all right and the old boy at the other end – a confederate of Velquez’s – confirmed that Velquez was a member of the Police.’
‘Then what made you suspicious?’
Temple smiled. ‘I described Velquez to his friend as a tall, rather distinguished looking man with spectacles.’
‘But he didn’t wear spectacles!’
‘Of course he didn’t,’ said Temple, ‘but his friend was just a trifle too anxious to be obliging and immediately jumped to the conclusion that Velquez had disguised himself for the occasion!’
Steve looked puzzled for a split second, then she began to laugh. She was still laughing when she began her downward swoop with far less caution than her lack of practice warranted. At the first difficult turn she capsized in a smother of white foam, and Temple, barely ten yards behind, was unable to avoid her.
They sat regarding each other for a moment, then Temple managed to regain his feet and went over to give her a hand.
As they brushed the snow off their clothes Paul Temple looked at his wife and grinned.
‘We’re certainly having a White Christmas!’ he said.
Also in This Series
Send for Paul Temple
Paul Temple and the Front Page Men
News of Paul Temple
Paul Temple Intervenes
Send for Paul Temple Again!
Paul Temple and the Tyler Mystery
Paul Temple: East of Algiers
Paul Temple and the Kelby Affair
Paul Temple and the Harkdale Robbery
Paul Temple and the Geneva Mystery
Paul Temple and the Curzon Case
Paul Temple and the Margo Mystery
Paul Temple and the Madison Case
By the Same Author
Beware of Johnny Washington
When a gang of desperate criminals begins leaving calling cards inscribed ‘With the Compliments of Johnny Washington’, the real Johnny Washington is encouraged by an attractive newspaper columnist to throw in his lot with the police. Johnny, an American ‘gentleman of leisure’ who has settled at a quiet country house in Kent to enjoy the fishing, soon finds himself involved with the mysterious Horatio Quince, a retired schoolmaster who is on the trail of the gang’s unscrupulous leader, the elusive ‘Grey Moose’.
Best known for creating Paul Temple for BBC radio in 1938, Francis Durbridge’s prolific output of crime and mystery stories, encompassing plays, radio, television, films and books, made him a household name for more than 50 years. A new radio character, Johnny Washington Esquire, hit the airwaves in 1949, leading to the publication of this one-off novel in 1951.
This Detective Club classic is introduced by writer and bibliographer Melvyn Barnes, author of Francis Durbridge: A Centenary Appreciation, who reveals how Johnny Washington’s only literary outing was actually a reworking of Durbridge’s own Send for Paul Temple.
About the author
Francis Henry Durbridge was born in Hull, Yorkshire, in 1912 and was educated at Bradford Grammar School. He was encouraged at an early age to write by his English teacher and went on to read English at Birmingham University. At the age of twenty-one he sold a radio play to the BBC and continued to write following his graduation whilst working as a stockbroker’s clerk.
In 1938, he created the character Paul Temple, a crime novelist and detective. For thirty years the radio serials were hugely successful until the last of the series was completed in 1968. In 1969, Paul Temple was adapted for television and four of the adventures prior to this had been adapted for cinema, albeit with less success than radio and TV. Francis Durbridge also wrote for the stage and continued doing so up until 1991, when Sweet Revenge was completed. Additionally, he wrote over twenty other well-received novels, most of which were on the general subject of crime. The last, Fatal Encounter, was published after his death in 1998.
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