Send for Paul Temple Again!

by Francis Durbridge

  Chapter III

  STEVE FINDS A TREASURE

  Temple glanced somewhat suspiciously at Lathom, but the letter’s expression was completely matter-of-fact.

  “Are you quite sure that’s the name?” asked Temple.

  “Of course I’m sure. Why?”

  “Oh—nothing.”

  Temple imagined he caught a glint of amusement in Lathom’s somewhat steely blue eyes, but decided he had been mistaken. Lathom picked up a glossy magazine, glanced aimlessly through it then turned to Temple again.

  “Come to think of it, Mr. Temple, I’ve been seeing your name the papers once or twice lately in connection with this Rex case. Was the report true in the Evening Courier a couple of nights back?”

  “Which report was that exactly?”

  “The one that said Sir Graham Forbes had finally decided to send for Paul Temple.”

  Temple shrugged, took out his cigarette-case, and offered one to Lathom.

  “Are you interested in this Rex affair?” he asked.

  There was silence for a moment, then Lathom said, “Yes, as a matter of fact I am. I don’t actually take an interest in murders and sordid crimes, but this business rather intrigues me. Maybe it’s partly because I knew Norma Rice.” He gave an apologetic laugh, then added somewhat self-consciously, “I’m afraid I’ve even got quite a little theory of my own.”

  “What is it?” asked Temple quietly.

  “Oh, really! You must get dozens of people trying to foist heir wild ideas on you. Doesn’t it get rather boring?”

  “I’m not easily bored, Mr. Lathom,” Temple assured him, he lit his cigarette. “In a case of this nature, one has to consider every possible angle, and there’s an old story about the onlooker seeing most of the game.”

  “Then, if you really want my opinion, Mr. Temple,” said Lathom earnestly, “I think this fellow Rex is nothing more than a homicidal maniac.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Well, look at the Norma Rice affair. If Rex really was responsible for murdering Norma Rice, what possible motive could he have had”I suppose Norma Rice had enemies, the same as anyone else. I believe she had rather a gift for alienating people.”

  “But poor old Norma never meant any harm. Everyone knew it was just her temperamental moods. And then take this murder of Cranbury in the Brains Trust. It sounds fantastic to me.”

  “Then you’ve heard of Sir Ernest’s death?”

  “Good lord, yes. Haven’t you seen the papers today? They gave you a pretty good show. But why did Rex pick on poor old Cranbury?”

  “Who says Rex killed him?”

  “Why, the papers. Anyhow, you were there – you know what happened.” He paused, evidently expecting Temple to supply some further information.

  “There was nothing very dramatic about it,” said the novelist. “Sir Ernest simply collapsed – it just appeared to be heart failure.”

  “Then why are the newspapers saying that he was murdered by Rex?”

  “Because,” Temple quietly informed him, “Sir Ernest mentioned Rex just before he died.”

  “Did he?” Lathom’s eyes widened. “Did he, by Jove! I didn’t know that. Can you tell me what he said, or is it a secret?”

  Temple smiled.

  “It wasn’t as startling as all that. He simply said, ‘Temple, I want to tell you about Rex.’”

  Again there was silence. Then Lathom asked:

  “That was all?”

  “All there was time for.”

  Lathom nodded his head thoughtfully, as if he were busy fitting facts into his theory. Suddenly he exclaimed, “Well, there you are! Obviously this fellow Rex is a lunatic. Must be as crazy as a hatter. Good heavens, why should anyone want to murder poor old Ernest?”

  “You knew Sir Ernest?” put in Temple quickly.

  “Good lord, yes! He was quite a man about town, you know. He wasn’t exactly a friend of mine, but we were always bumping into each other in clubs and places. Seemed quite a harmless old stick – completely wrapped up in his work – the last sort of person you’d expect to find at cross-purposes with a murderer.”

  As Lathom finished speaking the door opened, and Mrs. Trevelyan said, “The doctor will see you now, Mr. Temple.”

  Temple rose and thanked her. As he went to the door, Lathom murmured, “We shall meet again, I hope, Mr. Temple. I hope my theories haven’t bored you too much.”

  “Not at all,” replied Temple politely, and there was some degree of truth in his answer, for he had not made up his mind about Mr. Carl Lathom. And one is invariably intrigued by a stranger who retains some element of mystery.

  Outside, Mrs. Trevelyan closed the door behind them. “Before you see Doctor Kohima, could I have a word with you?” she said.

  Her voice was low and urgent, and Temple detected an expression of alarm in her eyes.

  “Yes, of course,” he answered.

  She led him a little way along the corridor, then turned once more.

  “Listen! I’ve got to talk to you!” she whispered, and there was a note of urgency in her voice. “I’ve got to talk to you about Rex.”

  She looked round cautiously as if she were scared of being overheard. Then she went on, “Please believe me, it’s desperately important.”

  Temple said, “I’m sure it must be.”

  “We can’t talk here,” she said nervously, looking at the row of doors, as if she expected any one of them to open suddenly.

  “Then what do you suggest?”

  She placed a forefinger and thumb inside a belt she wore, and produced a slip of paper.

  “Could you possibly come to this address—tonight?”

  Temple took the paper and glanced at it casually.

  “Tonight, at what time?”

  She moistened her lips, hesitated, then said:

  “Half past ten. You will come, won’t you?”

  “Yes, all right.”

  “You promise?” she insisted anxiously.

  Temple eyed her keenly, noting the attractive high cheekbones and keen grey eyes set widely apart.

  “Yes, I promise,” he slowly assured her.

  Obviously relieved, she went to a door opposite where they stood and opened it. “This way, sir, please,” she called, raising her voice.

  The room into which she showed him was quite plainly furnished. There was, however, a very comfortable couch in an alcove farthest from the window, and there was also a large armchair beside it.

  Doctor Kohima was sitting at a large desk in the middle of the room, and he rose to shake hands with Temple as he came in. The doctor was quite obviously an Egyptian. His skin was honey-coloured and he had a handsome profile that would most certainly find favour with a large feminine clientele. When he spoke he had a soft voice rather like the purr of a contented cat, a voice calculated to extract the most intimate confidences, however unwilling the patient.

  Temple had already looked up his record and had discovered that he was fully qualified in medicine, but had devoted five years to psychological analysis under the celebrated Pulitzer in Vienna he was, in fact, reputed to have been a favourite pupil of the great man.

  At a first meeting, Kohima always gave the impression of holding a tremendous reserve of very vital mental power which it was difficult to describe. There was a warmth in his handclasp, and he nodded to Temple to take a chair.

  “I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Temple,” he apologised in a sincere voice with the merest trace of accent. “Do sit down, please. According to your ‘phone message, you wish to consult me upon a purely personal matter.”

  He swung round in his swivel chair and smiled frankly.

  Temple could not restrain the feeling that here was a man with whom one could put the cards on the table. But this feeling was tinged with caution, for he was aware that the doctor must be an adept at breaking down defences, and knew every gambit to suit all types of individuals.

  “To be quite frank, Doctor Koh
ima,” he began carefully, “I should simply like to ask you a few questions.”

  A tiny frown puckered the loose skin round the doctor’s dark eyes.

  “This is not a newspaper interview?” he asked, still in the same pleasing tone, though Temple noticed that his expression had changed.

  “No,” he said. “Nothing like that.”

  “Then I shall be delighted,” said the doctor. “It will make such a pleasant change. It is always I who am asking the questions, hour after hour – day after day – probing into people’s private thoughts. However, you will not be interested in that. Please go on.”

  Temple hesitated a bare second, then suddenly shot the question.

  ‘’Have you a car, Doctor?”

  “A car?” repeated Kohima, obviously a little surprised. “Why, yes – is that unusual for a doctor?”

  “What make is your car?”

  “It’s a Milford. A six-cylinder Milford.”

  “Black?”

  The doctor nodded.

  “Registration number?”

  “DVC629,” replied the doctor, his voice betraying the fact that he was considerably puzzled. “Why do you ask?”

  “Thank you,” said Temple. “Now I’ll tell you exactly why I am here.”

  He went on to detail the story of the accident of the previous evening, telling it in a level, unemotional tone, and noting that his listener paid close attention to all the facts. Doctor Kohima was a perfect audience. When Temple concluded by repeating the description of the car that had forced them into the kerb, the doctor was patently startled.

  “You must have been mistaken!” he urged.

  “No,” replied Temple calmly. “I have every reason to believe that my description is accurate to the last detail.”

  “But it couldn’t have been my car, Mr. Temple,” replied the other, a little worried now. “Why, my car was never out of the garage at all last night.”

  ‘’Where do you keep it?”

  “Well, actually at my house near Regent’s Park. But all this week it’s been at Sloan’s Garage in Leicester Square for one or two minor repairs. As a matter of fact, I’m supposed to collect it tonight.” He hesitated, obviously more than a little puzzled, then suggested, “Why don’t you ‘phone the garage, Mr. Temple? Please, I wish you would.”

  “You’ve no objection?”

  “But of course not!” He picked up a little black notebook and turned the pages. “The number is Temple Bar 7178.”

  “Thank you,” said Temple, and drew the telephone towards him. The doctor poured himself a glass of water from the carafe on his desk and began to sip it slowly.

  “Sloan’s Garage?” said Temple into the mouthpiece. “I am speaking for Doctor Kohima. Would it be convenient for him to pick up his car this evening? . . . yes, the Milford . . . oh . . . it was ready yesterday? I see. Could you tell me, by any chance, if the car was taken out last night?” There was a pause while Temple listened to a lengthy explanation.

  “Have you any idea what time that was?” he said presently. “Half past seven? Who brought it back? Oh, the chauffeur – at about a quarter to ten. Right—thank you very much.”

  He slowly replaced the receiver and turned to the doctor.

  “Do I understand that the car was ready yesterday?” asked Doctor Kohima.

  “That’s so. It was also taken out of the garage last night by your chauffeur. He had it between half past seven and a quarter to ten. And of course it was during that period that our little accident happened. So you see it was obviously—”

  “But I don’t understand—” interrupted Doctor Kohima in a bewildered tone. “In fact, I’m afraid you’re going to get rather a surprise . . .”

  But Temple did not seem in the least surprised. With the merest suggestion of a smile playing around his lips, he said: “I don’t think so, Doctor Kohima. You are simply going to tell me that you haven’t got a chauffeur!”

  As Steve was not waiting with the car outside, Temple decided to walk back to the flat. As he strode along the wide pavements of Wigmore Street he turned over the mystery of Doctor Kohima’s car in his mind. The doctor’s surprise had seemed genuine enough, which was no more than one could expect, for one could hardly suspect an established psychiatrist of repute to be connected with an incident of this character. It was probably a sheer coincidence that his car had been chosen from the hundreds or more in the garage.

  And yet there was Mrs. Trevelyan.

  No doubt about it, this woman was in some way connected with Rex. There had been those clues on the dead bodies, and she herself had almost admitted as much. She was supposed to be going to tell him more tonight. In fact, she seemed terribly anxious to tell what she knew. Could it be a case of a guilty conscience? Mrs. Trevelyan might even be Rex herself, and tonight’s appointment some sort of trap. All the same, Temple meant to keep the appointment. He had found more than once that if one walked into a trap knowingly and kept one’s wits, the trapper was often himself caught. His mind went back to the elaborate and ingenious plans laid by the Marquis at the October Hotel . . . but they had culminated in an episode which had revealed the identity of The Marquis. There was such a thing as baiting the trap too generously.

  Temple pondered upon these and other similar ideas as he came into Oxford Street and crossed it to turn down into Mayfair. Finding that he had left his latchkey in his other suit, Temple had to ring the bell to be admitted to the flat. He was beginning to wonder if Steve had returned when the door swung quickly open, and a bland yellow face smiled up into his.

  “Good afternoon. You are Mr. Temple, yes?” said a cheerful voice which was of obvious Oriental origin.

  “Er—yes—” murmured Temple, somewhat taken aback.

  “Welcome home, Mr. Temple,” continued the little man, with a slight inclination of his head as he stepped aside for Temple to enter.

  “Thanks very much,” was all Temple could manage by way of reply.

  As the door closed, the man said, “I will take your hat and coat, thank you.”

  “Thank you,” murmured Temple politely, secretly wondering what all this was about.

  “Not at all,” smiled the other, quite unabashed. “It is a pleasure to serve you, sir.”

  At that moment, to Temple’s great relief, Steve came out of the lounge.

  “Hello, Paul,” she greeted him. Then turned to the little man. “Oh, Ricky – this is Mr. Temple.”

  Ricky smiled even more widely than before.

  “I recognise him,” he announced proudly. “We get on pretty well together – I hope.”

  Even Steve seemed slightly at a loss.

  “Yes, well, that will be all now, thank you, Ricky,” she said, and the little man bowed and went into the kitchen. In the lounge, Temple said, “Steve, where on earth did you pick him up?”

  “At the registry office. He was waiting for a job there – and I was looking for someone – and they hadn’t another soul on their books, so I thought, well, there’s no harm in giving him a trial.”

  “By Timothy, what next?” exclaimed her husband. “Ever since Pryce left, there’s been one long succession—”

  “Paul, you don’t seem to have any idea just how difficult it is to get servants,” said Steve, faintly exasperated.

  “Difficult!” echoed Temple. “We’ve had three Czechs, a Viennese, a Hungarian, a Greek . . . and now, for Pete’s sake, a Chinese!”

  “Siamese, darling!” she corrected him. “And, anyway, he’s got awfully good references. I was lucky to catch him before he registered, or he’d most certainly have been snapped up by some film star. As it was, I only got him through mentioning your name.”

  “My name?”

  “Yes, he’s quite an admirer of your books. He says he reads them to improve his English!”

  Temple caught Steve’s eye and could not repress a smile.

  “Okay, we’ll give him a trial,” he grinned. “But chop-suey for breakfast just once and he’ll need al
l those references!”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” said Steve quickly. “Sir Graham’s in the study.”

  “What does he want?” asked Temple.

  “I’ve no idea, darling. He’s been talking most interestingly about the weather. Inspector Crane’s with him – you know – the sandy one with the unfortunate manner.”

  “Must be something in the wind,” mused Temple, as they went along to the study.

  Forbes and Crane were talking rapidly, but they stopped as soon as the door opened. Forbes looked as if he had not slept very well of late – the lines on the rugged face were more deeply marked than ever. But he smiled as Temple and Steve entered the room.

  “Sorry to have kept you waiting, Sir Graham. Good afternoon, Inspector,” said Temple, noting that Crane looked even more surly than usual.

  Steve brought them a drink, and after a short interchange of noncommittal pleasantries, Temple lay back in his chair and asked:

  “Well, what goes on now? Any more developments, Sir Graham?”

  Sir Graham took a deep breath.

  “Oh yes,” he said, “there’s always something moving on this case. That’s one thing to be thankful for, anyway.”

  “Then what is it this time?”

  “Well, it looks as if we might be on to something at last.” Forbes paused for a moment, then said, “Temple, do you happen to have heard of a man called Hans Muller?”

  “Hans Muller,” repeated Temple thoughtfully. “Yes, I know the gentleman. Big, fair man. Dutch extraction. Has he turned up again?”

  “What do you make of him?” demanded Crane bluntly.

  “Oh, well,” shrugged Temple, “the man’s a crook, of course but a fairly intelligent one. Why do you ask?”

  “We’ve received a letter from him – or, rather, the inspector has. Show it Mr. Temple, Inspector.”

  Crane fumbled in an inside pocket and produced a thin blue envelope.

  “Here it is, sir,” he replied.

  “Then are you a pen-friend of Muller’s?” queried Temple in some surprise.

  Crane shook his head.

  “I can’t think why he picked on me, sir. I’ve never actually been in contact with Muller, and I must say this rather surprised me.”