Send for Paul Temple Again!

by Francis Durbridge

  “Do you mean the contents surprised you, or the fact that you received it?”

  “Well, in a manner of speaking, both, sir.”

  Temple extracted a single sheet of notepaper and read:

  Inspector Crane,

  I am given to understand that you are personally in charge of the Rex case. I would respectfully suggest, therefore, that you meet me tonight, shortly before midnight, at Granger’s Wharf, Rotherhithe. I can enlighten you on the identity of Rex.

  Sincerely yours,

  Hans Muller.

  Temple read it through again, then returned the note to its envelope, which he passed back to the inspector.

  “It seems genuine enough – though I get the impression that Muller seems to know you rather well,” he commented.

  Crane shook his head.

  “I’ve never set eyes on the fellow,” he insisted. “To be perfectly honest, I’d never even heard of him till this morning.”

  “Then why should he write you a friendly sort of letter like that? It isn’t as if there were any reward offered for information about Rex,” put in Steve.

  “I’ve never seen the man in my life,” Crane reasserted stubbornly.

  “We don’t even know much about Muller at the Yard,” said Forbes. “That’s why I wanted to have a word with you, Temple. We know that Muller is a Dutchman and that he came over here in 1934, but that’s about all.”

  “Very well,” smiled Temple, “now let’s see what I can do.” He went over to his desk, unlocked the bottom right-hand drawer and produced a thick, indexed ledger, with an attractive leather cover.

  “What’s that, Temple?” asked Forbes, with interest.

  “Oh, just a sort of personal ‘Who’s Who’ I’ve been keeping for years. I meet a lot of interesting people, and it seemed a good idea to keep a record of them. Useful when I’m stuck for a new character in one of my books.”

  His long fingers flicked over the pages.

  “Ah, here we are . . . Muller, Hans. Born in Amsterdam, probably about 1898 . . . suspected of receiving stolen diamonds . . . nothing proved . . . first-class linguist . . . Dutch, Flemish, Danish, French and English . . .”

  He stopped, then said quietly, “I say, this is interesting. Apparently, Muller is very well off. In 1939 he inherited quite legitimately nearly a quarter of a million . . .”

  Forbes whistled expressively.

  “Have you ever met the man?” asked Crane.

  “Why, yes.” Temple referred to the book again. “Paris in February 1938 and the Hague, January 1939 – that was before he came into the money. At that time, we suspected he might have had a hand in disposing of the Falkirk Diamond when it was smuggled out of this country.”

  “Oh yes, I remember,” said Forbes, who had indeed been closely concerned with the case.

  “Well, if you know this man, Mr. Temple,” interposed Crane, “it seems to me it might be a very good idea if you came along with us tonight.”

  “Yes, by all means,” agreed Forbes. “We’ll pick you up at eleven, if that’s all right with you.”

  “No,” replied Temple quickly. “I’m afraid I have an appointment at ten-thirty.”

  “An appointment, darling?” queried Steve.

  “Yes,” said Temple casually, “I’ll tell you about that later.” He turned to the Assistant Commissioner. “Where are you starting from?”

  “We’re taking a police-launch from Westminster.”

  “That’ll suit me,” nodded Temple. “I’ll see you there—at the Pier—about eleven-fifteen?”

  “No later.”

  Temple nodded.

  “Right,” agreed Forbes, slowly rising and putting down his empty glass. “See you at eleven-fifteen. Better wear a couple of overcoats – it’ll probably be damned cold on the river. Come on, Crane.”

  They had not reached the door before it had already opened, and there was Ricky with their hats and coats.

  “Sir Graham and Inspector Crane are leaving, Ricky,” Steve announced rather superfluously.

  “Okay, missie,” smiled the little Siamese. “This way, please, Sir Graham . . .”

  When they had gone and Ricky had carefully closed the door, Temple turned to Steve.

  “I say,” he murmured, “he’ll have to stop this ‘okay, missie’ business.”

  Steve laughed.

  “Poor Ricky! You must admit, darling, he makes the place seem more colourful, somehow.”

  “If his cooking’s up to the same standard,” grinned Temple, “we’re on velvet.”

  “What’s this appointment of yours tonight at ten-thirty?” asked Steve, becoming serious at once.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I told you it was with an extremely attractive, sophisticated woman in the early thirties,” smiled Temple.

  “I might.”

  “Oh, well, I’d better start at the beginning. I had a chat with Doctor Kohima about the car that bumped us. It was his all right.”

  “But—but—hadn’t he any explanation?”

  “He had. A very plausible one, too. You know, Steve, there’s something damned queer about that affair.”

  “In what way exactly?”

  “Well, in the first place, his car is supposed to be at a garage in Bicester Square, where it’s being repaired. The doctor said it be ready today, and asked me to check that with the garage. They said it was actually ready yesterday, and, what’s more, that Doctor Kohima’s chauffeur took the car out of the garage last night at seven-thirty and brought it back at nine forty-five.”

  “Then, there you are!” exclaimed Steve. “That was when the accident happened. The chauffeur must be mixed up somehow—”

  “That’s just the point,” interrupted Temple. “You see, Doctor Kohima doesn’t happen to have a chauffeur.”

  Steve was momentarily nonplussed, then rallied with: “But it’s quite simple. Someone pretended to be the doctor’s chauffeur.”

  Temple nodded thoughtfully.

  “In which case, how did he get the car? They’re pretty smart at that garage – they told me the system they have, and it’s fairly foolproof. There’s only one way he could have got it, by producing a ticket, and that ticket must be the same as the one originally given to Doctor Kohima.”

  “So that means the doctor was lying?”

  “Seems like it. But it doesn’t mean that he drove the car himself. In fact, I’m sure he didn’t. What’s more, his being a psychiatrist doesn’t simplify matters. You always have a feeling that he’s one jump ahead of you, and it’s rather an uncomfortable feeling.”

  Steve wrinkled her forehead thoughtfully.

  “Surely he realises that this is a very serious business?” she said. “Doesn’t he propose to do anything? I mean, after all it was his car, and if you notify the police—”

  “No, I don’t propose to do that just yet,” replied Temple. “He was quite helpful up to a point. Seemed to be telling me all he knew.”

  “But where does this beautiful woman come into the picture?” demanded Steve suddenly. “Or doesn’t she?”

  “She comes into it all right. The woman in question is Doctor Kohima’s secretary – and her name is Mrs. Trevelyan.”

  Steve dropped the bundle of knitting she had just picked up.

  “Darling, you’re joking!” she cried.

  Temple slowly shook his head.

  “So your appointment tonight is with Mrs. Trevelyan?” continued Steve.

  “I’m afraid so. D’you mind?”

  “It doesn’t look as if I shall have much say in the matter.”

  “Oh, but you have, darling. I wouldn’t dream of going without you. I told you that Mrs. Trevelyan is a very attractive woman. And my experience is that if a very attractive woman means mischief, she is far less dangerous if another very attractive woman happens to be present.”

  “So even a detective’s wife has her uses,” smiled Steve. “Well, where do we meet the lady?”

  He passed over
the slip of paper, and she read the address.

  “That’s not far from here,” she commented. “Does Doctor Kohima know about this appointment?”

  “No, and she seemed pretty anxious that he shouldn’t get to hear of it. The woman is frightened, Steve. I don’t know what she’s scared of, but she’s as frightened as hell!”

  “Many actresses are very beautiful,” said Steve softly.

  “The converse doesn’t necessarily apply.”

  “Still, acting is often instinctive to a good-looking woman. She knows how men fall for beauty in distress. Are you sure you want me to come with you?”

  Temple looked at her earnestly.

  “Of course. But I ought to warn you that there may be a certain amount of danger.”

  “In that case,” declared Steve decisively, “I’m most certainly coming.”

  “Good,” smiled Temple. “Better bring your knitting. The needles might come in useful – I read somewhere that they can be dangerous weapons. Ah well, I think I’ll change.” He yawned prodigiously and announced, “I feel like a bath.”

  The door opened softly and Ricky stood there impassively with folded hands and imperturbable smile.

  ‘’What is it, Ricky?” asked Steve.

  “So sorry to interrupt,” murmured the little Siamese, experiencing just the merest difficulty with his r’s. “Your bath is ready, Sir.”

  Temple looked at Steve, then back at Ricky.

  “Oh—er—thanks very much,” he said, slowly getting to his feet. “Just a minute, Ricky,” he called, as the little man turned to go. “How did you know I was thinking of taking a bath?”

  The smile on the yellow face grew even wider for a moment, then vanished, as Ricky seriously announced “It is the duty of the good servant to anticipate the wishes of the good master. So sorry I interrupt—so sorry.” The door closed behind him.

  “That, I take it,” said Temple, “is an old Siamese proverb.”

  “Darling,” cried Steve, “he’s going to be wonderful!”

  “I don’t believe it!” said Temple, who was obviously amused nevertheless. “It isn’t true. It’s done by mirrors! It’s a mirage! It’s Oriental necromancy!”

  Steve laughed, then folded her hands and in a recognisable imitation of Ricky’s voice, said, “It is the duty of the good servant to anticipate the wishes of the good master.”

  “In other words . . .” grinned Temple. “You look as if you need a bath!”

  Chapter IV

  REX STRIKES AGAIN

  As he lay in his bath, Temple found his thoughts drifting to Hans Muller. He remembered the big Dutchman quite well, particularly his capacity for evasiveness in the face of all sorts of questioning retaining at the same time the politest and most unruffled air and an expressionless face that would have brought him a fortune at poker. Muller had puzzled the police of five countries in his day; they had never been able to ‘pin’ anything definite on him, although they had the strongest suspicions that he had been involved in many a deal in stolen gems.

  How had Muller come up against Rex? There were a number of possibilities upon which Temple idly began to speculate. Rex could have discovered some conclusive piece of evidence against Muller and started to blackmail him. Muller was the last person who would stand for blackmail. He would set about fighting the blackmailer in his own way.

  On the other hand, Muller might be acting for someone who was suffering from the attentions of Rex. He was that sort of man. Now he had no need to engage in a life of crime himself, he might be amusing himself pitting his wits against master criminals.

  A third possibility was that Hans Muller was an agent, willing or unwilling, of Rex himself, and that the message was in the nature of some sort of decoy that would lead to trouble. Temple turned on the shower and the rush of water swept these speculations temporarily from his mind.

  Temple noted that Steve was wearing a completely new and very becoming dress as they set out for the address Mrs. Trevelyan had given them. It was in the Lancaster Gate district, and they had little difficulty in finding it.

  Forty-nine, Marshall House Terrace was a three-storey mansion standing back a short distance from the road and approached by a short flight of steps. They left the car outside and went up to the front door, noting that it sadly needed a coat of paint. Somewhere in the distance a church clock chimed the half-hour. Temple scanned the front of the house and noted that none of the windows were lighted.

  He jerked the old-fashioned knob in its circle at the side of the door, and a bell echoed far away in the lower regions of the house. There was no sign of life. A policeman walked slowly past on his beat, and looked up at them for a moment. Then Temple pulled the bell again. Once more it tinkled its mournful refrain.

  “There’s no one here, Paul,” said Steve at last.

  “Yes, the place does seem deserted,” agreed Temple, in a puzzled tone.

  “Are you sure this is the right address?”

  “Well, it’s 49, Marshall House Terrace . . . the same as on the paper.”

  “Yes,” said Steve, turning and leaning lightly against the door. She gave a sudden exclamation.

  “Paul!”

  “What is it?”

  “The door, it’s not fastened—”

  “Good Lord!” exclaimed Temple under his breath. He pushed the door gently open a few inches.

  “She’s probably expecting us to walk in,” he said. “Follow me, Steve . . .”

  “But, Paul, we can’t just walk in as if we lived here,” she began to protest, but Temple was already well inside the entrance hall, and Steve had no alternative but to follow him. He pushed the door to after them.

  “We can always walk out again if we’re not wanted,” he said lightly. A dim red light burned at the far end of the hall and there were two doors on their right with a flight of stairs on the left.

  “The house seems deserted,” said Steve in a low tone.

  Temple pushed open the nearest door and managed to find the electric-light switch.

  “Yes, but it’s not empty,” he whispered. “This room is quite well furnished.” They went inside. The long green curtains were drawn, and chintz covers to match had a fresh appearance. There were two large divans, a couple of deep armchairs and a large bowl filled with dark red roses occupied a prominent position in the centre of the room.

  An expensive ormolu clock was the only ornament on the mantelpiece.

  “Do you suppose that she lives here?” asked Steve.

  “If she does, she’s pretty well off. This room would cost a pretty penny to furnish and—”

  He paused and stood listening intently.

  “What is it?” asked Steve. There was complete silence except for the steady ticking of a clock and the rattle of a lorry at the end of the avenue.

  “Didn’t you hear something?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “That’s funny. I thought I heard somebody moving overhead. I must have been mistaken.”

  He walked across to the window and pulled the curtains a little apart.

  “What are we going to do if she doesn’t turn up?” asked Steve.

  “Oh, she’ll turn up all right. She’s bound to. Unless . . .” He hesitated.

  “Unless what?”

  He paced the room thoughtfully, then stood looking down at a suitcase that stood between the end of a divan and the wall in a corner by the fireplace.

  “Hallo, it looks as if someone has just arrived, judging by this case,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Now I wonder if—”

  Once again he stopped speaking suddenly.

  “Steve! Listen! Can’t you hear something?”

  “It’s only the clock, Paul.”

  “No, no, I don’t mean that.”

  “Darling, you’re imagining things.”

  “Steve!” he whispered tensely.

  They held their breath. Faintly from the room above came the wail of a violin.

  “Now do you hear it?�
�� he asked.

  “Yes—yes, it’s a violin,” she nodded breathlessly.

  It was rather louder now and Temple recognised the music. They listened for quite two minutes. Then Temple said, “I heard it before. I knew damn’ well I heard it.”

  “Where’s it coming from?” asked Steve.

  “One of the bedrooms, I should imagine.” His brain was working rapidly, and a minute later he said, “You stay here, Steve, and I’ll go upstairs and see if this violinist can tell us anything.”

  He moved quickly to the door, then stopped and looked over towards the fireplace.

  “What are you staring at?” asked Steve.

  “The clock!” he whispered.

  She followed his gaze. The hands of the clock indicated twenty past four. She went over to the clock and put her head near it.

  “Why—it’s stopped!” she exclaimed in surprise. Then she straightened herself and listened again.

  “That ticking . . .” she breathed. “It isn’t this clock . . .”

  “There’s no other clock in the room.”

  Temple stood in the middle of the room now, all his senses fully on the alert. Suddenly he sprang towards the suitcase. As he picked it up a growing certainty filled his mind.

  “Stand clear of the window, Steve!” he gasped, and hurled the case at the dividing line in the curtains. There was a loud crash of glass, silence for a split second, then an explosion which shook the rafters. Fortunately, the curtains protected them from flying glass. Steve had instinctively dropped to the floor behind one of the divans and Temple crouched at the back of an armchair. The explosion had blown out the lights, and it was a matter of seconds before Temple produced a pocket torch, and noted with relief that Steve was quite safe.

  “Thank goodness it landed in the flower beds!” he said hoarsely.” It won’t exactly improve the garden, but that can’t be helped.” The curtains at the paneless windows flapped in the evening breeze.

  “Darling, this is beyond me,” admitted Steve, looking round helplessly.

  “Come along, let’s get back to the car,” he suggested, taking her arm and helping her to her feet.

  “But what about that person upstairs – he’s still playing the violin,” said Steve, standing up and listening intently. The strains of the music floated down to them.