Send for Paul Temple Again!

by Francis Durbridge

  “You’ll never know!” laughed Steve. “I paid cash.” She went on knitting for a while and her husband idly rolled the ball of wool along the edge of the settee.

  “What did Sir Graham want?” asked Steve presently, doing her utmost to make the inquiry sound casual.

  Temple dropped the wool and felt for his cigarette-case.

  “Oh, he just happened to be passing,” he answered lightly.

  She did not speak again for a minute or two. Temple wandered rather restlessly round the room, lighting a cigarette and stubbing out after a few puffs. Presently Steve gave vent to a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness, that’s the heel finished!” she announced. Then, apparently as an afterthought, “Paul, have you seen the evening paper?”

  He turned quickly.

  “No, darling. Why?”

  Steve reached for her handbag, opened it and took out a small, neatly folded square of paper, which she opened out and passed over to him. The first thing to catch his eye was the streamed headline:

  SCOTLAND YARD SENDS FOR PAUL TEMPLE

  He glanced quickly at the report, then tossed the paper on the floor.

  “Darling, you know what they’re like in Fleet Street,” she murmured apologetically.

  “I know,” Steve nodded, the memories of her newspaper days always fresh in her mind.

  “I can’t think where they could possibly get this information from,” went on Temple hurriedly.” Considering we only got here last night—”

  “Did Sir Graham mention this Rex affair?” asked Steve in the same casual tone, though her heart was beating much faster than she would have cared to admit.

  “Oh, he mentioned it, of course, in a general sort of way,” replied Temple vaguely, glancing at his wrist-watch, and suddenly leaping to his feet. “I say, I must be off. I’m supposed to be at Broadcasting House at seven sharp.”

  “I’ll drive you down,” she offered.

  “Good!” he agreed “Then if you pick me up later we can have a spot of dinner together and I’ll tell you all the blunders I made.”

  “Yes, let’s do that,” she nodded. But she seemed to have suddenly become restrained and on the defensive. He could see that she was troubled.

  “Steve, don’t worry,” he begged. “I’m not going to get mixed up in anything more dangerous than the Brains Trust. I promised you last time, remember?”

  Her face seemed to clear.

  “All right, darling.”

  “So come along, put on that ridiculous hat of yours and let’s go and earn an honest living.”

  “Okay. And don’t make a fool of yourself any more than you can help.”

  She thrust her knitting under a cushion and went out into the hall with him.

  “Good heavens, why should I? Just because I’m in the Brains Trust!”

  “Well,” murmured Steve, standing in front of the mirror and adjusting her hat to the correct angle, “what shall you do if they ask you some pretty awkward questions?”

  ‘’That will rather depend,” smiled Temple. “But I imagine I shall give them some pretty awkward answers!”

  It took them rather less than five minutes to reach the dignified entrance to Broadcasting House, but the clock showed three minutes to seven as Temple passed into the hall, and he chafed impatiently as he waited to announce himself to the receptionist, who dispatched a pageboy to accompany him to the studio immediately.

  He found the announcer talking to Donald McCullough and both eyeing the clock anxiously, while the members of the Brains Trust were sitting round a table in the centre of which was a microphone. They were all looking extremely cheerful and engaging in desultory bursts of conversation.

  “I’m afraid you’ve missed the ‘warming-up’ question, Mr. Temple” said the announcer, “but you’ll be all right.” He briefly acquainted Temple with the procedure, and a minute later they were ready to go.

  “Remember, although this is a recording, it’s the real thing! So get right on your toes,” smiled the announcer.

  “Really, I’ve never felt so nervous in my life,” admitted Lady Weyman, a tall woman with piercing eyes, who rather surprisingly proved to be an expert on international affairs.

  Next to her sat A. P. Mulroy, editor of the London Tribune, and a very young man for the job – a man who never hesitated to print what he thought.

  Sitting next to him was Sir Ernest Cranbury, Professor of Economics, who had a large following in America by reason of his readable book on the subject of the gold standard. He was a man in the early fifties, with pale, watery eyes, iron-grey hair and a protruding forehead.

  As he slipped into his seat next to C.E.M. Joad, who favoured him with a murmured greeting, Temple was overcome for a moment by the collection of such distinguished individuals, and wondered what he could possibly add to the remarks of such a company. However, he nodded and smiled at the producer, who was sitting behind Donald McCullough. Suddenly McCullough began to introduce them.

  He paused for a moment, then continued: “Our first question this evening comes from Mrs. Palfrey, Chorley Forest, Abingale. She would like the Brains Trust to explain what is meant when one speaks of the Science of any particular subject. Is it correct, for instance, to speak of the Science of History?”

  McCullough looked round his team, who were reading duplicates of the question on slips of paper passed round by the producer. Presently, Joad raised a languid hand, and McCullough nodded to him.

  “Well, of course, it all depends what you mean by the word ‘science’,” Joad was beginning in his inimitable fashion, when there was a strangled gasp from Sir Ernest, who suddenly fell forward across the table, knocking a carafe of water and two glasses on to the floor. Lady Weyman could not suppress a scream and Joad stopped speaking.

  Temple took a quick look at Sir Ernest and lifted him back into his chair, where he sprawled in ungainly fashion.

  Meanwhile, the announcer had gone to the microphone and given the curt order, “Stop recording!”

  “It’s my heart!” gasped Cranbury, clutching aimlessly at his coat. “I can feel it ... racing . . .”

  “Are you all right, Sir Ernest?” cried Lady Weyman rather unnecessarily.

  “I’ll be all right presently,” Cranbury told them. “I’m most terribly sorry.”

  “Get some more water,” said McCullough, and one of the studio assistants ran to obey.

  Sir Ernest tried to struggle into an upright position.

  “Don’t try and get up, Sir Ernest,” advised Temple, who was feeling Cranbury’s pulse. The sick man gave a little cry of pain and relapsed into his former position.

  “Don’t excite yourself, and lie perfectly still,” insisted Temple still holding Cranbury’s wrist. He turned to tell McCullough that it would be advisable to get a doctor, and the latter replied that the staff doctor was on his way.

  Cranbury took a sip at the glass Temple held to his lips, then said in a weak voice: “Temple, listen! There’s something I want you to know, just in case anything happens.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen,” Temple tried to reassure him though he felt far from confident on the subject.

  “It’s just a sort of giddy turn,” said Mulroy comfortingly. “We all get ‘em at times.”

  “No!” gasped Cranbury. “I know it isn’t! Listen, Temple – I want to tell you about—about Rex!”

  The word was spoken very softly, but they all heard it, and there was a tiny gasp of astonishment.

  “Rex!” repeated Mulroy, alert as ever for news.

  “That’s right,” breathed Cranbury heavily. “Now listen . . . when I first received the letter . . .” His voice faded away. Temple and Mulroy had both leaned forward to catch every word, but suddenly Cranbury’s head dropped helplessly.

  “Here’s the doctor,” said Mulroy. “Perhaps an injection . . .” Temple shook his head.

  “No, it’s too late,” he said, dropping the lifeless wrist. “He’s dead!”

  Chapter II


  PAUL TEMPLE TAKES OVER

  When the body of Sir Ernest Cranbury had been taken away conversation seemed to flow more easily, and there were three or four animated groups in the studio, busily discussing what could be done, what had caused Sir Ernest’s death, whether or not he could be replaced on the Brains Trust at such short notice – and what precisely had Rex to do with his sudden and mysterious death?

  They apparently expected Temple to enlighten them upon this last point, but discovered that he seemed to know as little as they did. For one thing, he had never met Sir Ernest before and had not the least idea why he should be singled out by Rex in this manner. It was this aspect of the case which intrigued Temple. Rex’s victims appeared to come from all classes of people – as far as Temple could judge the only thing they had in common was a certain degree of financial stability, though this was by no means absolutely certain. On the face of it, Norma Rice was successful actress, but that did not necessarily mean she had great deal of money.

  Temple mused upon these and other things, taking little part in the conversations that seethed around him. Meanwhile, the producer of the programme was busily telephoning the Programme Controller.

  It was eventually decided that it would be advisable to cancel the present session of the Brains Trust and substitute a recording of a much earlier session in the programme.

  Temple breathed a small sigh of relief and asked if he could telephone his wife. In the tiny control-cubicle which the engines had now deserted, he managed to get through to Steve and ask her to pick him up right away. In reply to her startled query about the broadcast, he told her that there had been an accident and the programme was cancelled. Having twice reassured her that he himself was in no way involved, she agreed to come right away.

  Accompanied by Mulroy, who was still trying to pump him, Temple took the lift down to the private bar in the basement. He drank a large glass of whisky, refused a second, and made his uncertain way along endless corridors and upstairs until he came into the entrance hall once again.

  A little knot of reporters had already gathered there, and among them was Rex Bryant, of the Evening Post, who had been considerably involved in one of Temple’s earlier cases. He caught sight of the novelist and came over to him eagerly. After various mutual inquiries, Rex Bryant said, “Well, now, what about a story on this Rex affair?” Temple shook his head.

  “I’m sorry to say you’re probably just as wise about it as I am,” he confessed.

  “Then tell me if that story’s true about your being called in on the case. Are you really going to work on it?”

  “That rather depends,” murmured Temple.

  “On what?”

  “Well, you’ve heard of actors appearing by kind permission some management or other?”

  “Yes, of course, but what—”

  “I”, explained Temple, “also take on a case by kind permission a lady who’s waiting for me outside in a car.” He turned to go, “Give me a ring a bit later on, Bryant, and I’ll help you if I can.”

  He found Steve sitting in the car outside with a tiny worried frown corrugating her forehead.

  “Are you sure here’s nothing seriously wrong, darling?” she asked as he opened the door of the car and got in beside her.

  “Nothing wrong with me,” he replied. “But Sir Ernest Cranbury has had a nasty heart attack, and I’m afraid . . .”

  She guessed the rest.

  “Have they told his wife?” was her next question.

  “Sir Ernest, so they tell me, is a bachelor who lived in a nice flat just off Park Lane,” explained Temple.

  Steve nodded thoughtfully, started the car, and they set off along upper Regent Street.

  As they waited for the traffic lights to change, Steve said, “It must have been a dreadful shock to everybody in the studio.”

  “Frightful,” nodded Temple. “We didn’t know what the devil to do. It was all so sudden. No doubt if we’d had to answer a question on how to deal with just such an emergency, we should have given long and plausible replies, but when the event was beneath our noses it was quite a different kettle of fish!”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  Temple shrugged.

  “There was nothing much for him to add to what we’d guessed. There’ll be an inquest, of course.”

  Steve nodded thoughtfully and released the clutch as the lights changed.

  “Do you think it was heart failure, just over-excitement?” she asked presently, trying to make her voice sound as casual as possible.

  Temple did not speak for a few seconds. Then he said thoughtfully, “No, I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because just before he passed out he said to me, ‘I want to tell you about Rex’,” replied Temple unemotionally, thinking he might as well enlighten Steve now, for she would be certain to hear or read his evidence at the inquest. She took it with comparative calm.

  “Rex . . .” she murmured thoughtfully, pulling up again at another set of lights. “What do you think he could have meant?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about that. There was something else too that rather intrigued me.”

  He began to fumble in his coat pocket, then leaned forward and switched on the overhead light in the car.

  “We had to search Sir Ernest’s pockets to try and find his address. Inside his wallet there was this piece of paper – it dropped on the floor. No one else noticed it, so I—er—naturally . . .”

  “Naturally,” smiled Steve. The lights were still against her, so she took the paper and looked at it quickly.

  “There’s nothing on it,” she said.

  “Look in the corner – it’s written rather faintly in pencil.”

  She held the paper closer and read, “Mrs. Trevelyan.”

  He took the paper and nodded. Steve suddenly sat bolt upright.

  “Paul, that was the name you told me about, the one on the visiting-card and in the diary belonging to Norma Rice.”

  “Exactly. Hi—look out, the lights have changed!”

  The car shot forward again, and they travelled for about two hundred yards without speaking. Then Temple happened to look through the side window and noticed a large black saloon edging dangerously near them and moving at a fair speed.

  “By Timothy, he seems to be in a hurry!” commented Temple as the car came almost level. With a sudden impulse he switched off the roof light.

  Quite suddenly, the overtaking car seemed to lurch towards them. Temple grabbed the hand-brake as Steve swerved to avoid the passing car. There was a scraping of metal and a slight bump as Temple’s car hit a lamp standard a glancing blow. The black saloon roared away down Regent Street, swung into a side turning, and was lost.

  Steve sat for a moment trying to regain her composure. ‘’He nearly forced us into that shop window,” she said breathlessly. Temple nodded.

  “It was done deliberately, no doubt about that.” He was debating in his mind whether to give chase to the black saloon, but the arrival of a constable forestalled that. Temple briefly gave him particulars, but on an impulse refrained from giving the number of the saloon, of which he had caught a fleeting glimpse. For one he was not quite certain, for another he thought he might like to follow up this clue himself. Unfortunately, neither he nor Steve had been able to recognise the man who was driving – he had worn a hat pulled well down, and his overcoat collar was turned up round his ears. After making one or two notes, the constable allowed them to proceed.

  “Why did you hesitate when he asked you the number?” said Steve, as she changed gear.

  “Because,” he answered softly, “I think I saw it. I wouldn’t be quite certain, but it looked like DVC629.”

  “Can’t you have it traced?” asked Steve eagerly.

  “I didn’t want an official job made of it, in case I happened to be wrong. What’s more, number plates can be changed pretty quickly. And then again . . .”

  “Yes?”

/>   “Well, supposing this business has got something to do with Rex?”

  “With Rex!” echoed Steve, completely staggered. “But it can’t have.”

  “But supposing it has!” insisted her husband.

  “Well?”

  “Well —would you still want me to trace that car number?”

  Steve suddenly swung round, a determined light in her eye.

  “Yes!” she replied in a definite tone. “Yes, I would. Forget that promise if you really want to.”

  Temple slapped his right fist into his left palm. “Okay, Mrs. Temple! If that’s how you feel, pull up for a minute and we’ll change places.”

  She did so. Then a thought seemed to strike him as he caught sight of a telephone-box, and he asked Steve to wait while he made a call. When he returned he looked very pleased with himself.

  “All right, darling, we’re all set. Hold on to that precarious hat of yours, and off we go.”

  “But, Paul, where—?”

  He smiled.

  “To a little pub in Limehouse known as the ‘Twisted Keys’.” He noted her expression. “It’s all right, darling, it’s not such a dive as all that. They’ve even got a saloon bar!”

  However, the Twisted Keys certainly did not look very inviting from the outside when they arrived there, though Steve could find little fault with the saloon bar, which had obviously been modernised.

  “I take it we’re supposed to be meeting somebody here,” said Steve, as she settled in a corner with a pink gin.

  Temple looked round cautiously.

  “Yes, an old friend of mine named Spider Williams. He specialises in car jobs – knows who’s out on the road and what they’re up to. If ever a car gets stolen, trust Spider to hear about it in next to no time. I told him to ‘phone his pals and let me know if he heard anything about a Milford saloon – gave him the number, of course, though that may not mean much.”

  He did not seem inclined to talk any more, but thoughtfully drank half a pint of ale and then ordered another. Half an hour slipped by; people drifted in and out, some eyed them suspiciously, others seemed intent only upon quenching their thirst, and minding their own business. Temple fetched Steve another pink gin and grinned at her cheerfully.