Send for Paul Temple Again!

by Francis Durbridge

  “Yes,” she replied quickly. “I posted it. To the Royal Falcon Hotel at Canterbury.”

  “Just simply to the hotel?”

  She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then said:m”No, I addressed it to Miss Judy Smith.”

  “Miss Judy Smith? Do you know her?”

  She shook her head.

  “And what about the three thousand pounds? Did you send that to the same place?”

  “I was told to make the money up into a small parcel and take it down to the hotel.”

  “Addressed to Miss Smith?”

  “Yes.

  “Did you see anyone when you called?”

  “Only the receptionist. I simply left the parcel at the desk.”

  “Then you don’t even know if Miss Judy Smith was staying at the hotel?” asked Steve.

  Mrs. Trevelyan shrugged. “I don’t even know if there is such a person.”

  It was a common enough name, certainly, reflected Temple, and sounded as if it had been chosen on the spur of the moment as a matter of convenience.

  So far, Mrs. Trevelyan had answered his questions with apparent frankness and with practically no hesitation. He decided to try a different line.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Trevelyan,” he began slowly, “how long have you been working for Doctor Kohima?”

  He noticed the muscles of her face contract slightly.

  “About six years,” she replied in a low voice.

  “That’s quite a time,” he mused. “You must have got to know each other pretty well.”

  She leaned forward and exclaimed impulsively, “Please don’t think that Doctor Kohima has anything to do with this awful business. If I suspected he knew I had anything to do with it, I couldn’t face him . . . I couldn’t—” Her voice choked with emotion. She recovered a little and said, “You see, he’s such a decent person . . . above all this sordidness—”

  “But surely a psychiatrist comes into contact with a certain amount of unpleasantness in his patients’ egos,” said Temple with a smile. “I was always under the impression that it was part o his work to eliminate such negative qualities—”

  “Yes, that’s true,” she agreed, “but don’t you see it’s just his job – it isn’t the man himself – any more than you could be judged by the characters of the villains in your novels.”

  “Heaven forbid!” laughed Steve.

  “I’ll give you that point,” conceded Temple. “However, I suppose you use a typewriter at the office, Mrs. Trevelyan.”

  She nodded.

  “Do you know anything about typewriters?”

  “Well, I’ve used a few in my time,” she said, a little surprised. Then she noticed that he was again examining the notes he was holding. “I can tell you this, Mr. Temple. All the notes I’ve had from Rex have been typed on the same machine.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Well, if you look very carefully you can see that—”

  “That the ‘a’ isn’t very clearly formed, and there is a definite blur across the letter ‘d’. I had already noticed that. And the earlier letters were the same?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I suppose,” he murmured diffidently, “these notes couldn’t have been typed on the machine you use at the office?”

  “Good gracious, no!” she exclaimed. “These notes have been typed on a portable.”

  “I think,” said Temple slowly, “that I recall seeing a small portable standing at the side of Doctor Kohima’s desk. Am I right?”

  She bit her lip. For a moment she frowned as if in deep thought. Finally, she said, “Yes, that is a portable . . . but I don’t ever remember seeing him use it.”

  “One rarely pays twenty pounds for a portable if one has no intention of using it,” he commented drily. “And I want you to use it, Mrs. Trevelyan.”

  “But the doctor keeps it locked, I think—”

  “Then I suggest that your own machine should develop some little fault which would mean that you would have to borrow the portable. I want a specimen of all the lettering by ten-thirty in the morning. I’ll call for it myself.”

  “But if the doctor sees you he’ll wonder what—”

  “If the doctor sees me,” interposed Temple, “you can tell him that I’m still making inquiries about his car.”

  Mrs. Trevelyan appeared more worried than ever. She looked much older now than when he had first set eyes on her, for her tears had certainly not improved her make-up. But she was still a striking looking woman, who would have been outstanding in any company.

  “Surely you don’t suspect Doctor Kohima, Mr. Temple,” she said at length. “Why I’ve known him for ten years – he’s the soul of integrity – you couldn’t possibly—”

  “In a case of this kind, Mrs. Trevelyan,” he interrupted, “I make a point of suspecting everyone. It’s as much a question of procedure as anything. One has to work to a routine like a scientist making tests and eliminating one formula after another until he hits upon the right one. Experience has taught me that a person isn’t necessarily innocent just because you happen to have known them for ten years, or just because they happen to be living or working under the same roof. Literally thousands of people have a private life which is a complete secret even to their nearest relatives and friends.”

  He was about to enlarge upon this but there was a gentle knock at the door and Ricky appeared. Mrs. Trevelyan could not conceal a start of surprise, but she regained her composure at once as Steve said, “What is it, Ricky?”

  “So sorry I startled you!”

  “I thought you were in bed,” said Steve.

  “Oh no – I was reading master’s excellent book – The Lady in Danger. I heard voices, so I thought perhaps you would like some coffee. It is all ready.”

  “That’s a very good idea, Ricky,” applauded Temple. “I dare say you got it from an old Chinese proverb, but it’s still a good idea.”

  “Thank you, sir,” smiled Ricky, looking even more pleased with himself than usual. Just as he was closing the door, Temple called after him, “Oh, while I think of it, Ricky. Mrs. Temple and I are probably going away for a day or so. You might sort out one or two things for me.”

  Ricky appeared to be about to ask a question, then seemed to think better of it.

  “Yes, sir,” he said softly. “And you would like coffee for three?”

  “For three, please.”

  When Ricky had gone, Mrs. Trevelyan seemed to relax, and Temple did his utmost to set her at ease.

  “You’ll appreciate, Mrs. Trevelyan, that I’m in no way responsible for the actions of New Scotland Yard,” he began, lighting a cigarette for her. “Sir Graham Forbes is a man who believes in swift action. Like most of us, he makes mistakes. He might even make a mistake in your case.”

  She blew out a cloud of smoke.

  “You mean he might arrest me,” she said. “Well, in some ways that would be a relief. At least, I would be fairly safe in a prison cell . . . I wouldn’t jump every time a door opens, every time I pass a dark alley, every time a car backfires. It’s sheer torture!”

  Steve nodded sympathetically.

  “I don’t altogether agree with Sir Graham’s point of view,” continued Temple. “My own idea is that you would be much better going your own way – under observation perhaps – but free to move around. However, if Sir Graham does decide to—act, I hope you won’t get alarmed.”

  She smiled as Ricky came in with the coffee.

  “It’s all right, Mr. Temple,” she said. “Being arrested is a very minor ordeal compared with some I’ve been through lately.”

  “Have you been arrested before?”

  She shook her head.

  “No . . . I can’t say I have. But I can imagine it – with the help of newspapers and crime novels!”

  She drank her coffee and rose to go.

  “If there is anything more I can tell you, Mr. Temple, I’ll be only too pleased,” she said, holding out her hand. “But you�
��ll remember what I said about the doctor? He really is a wonderful man, and I hate to see his work disturbed, or to have him upset in any way.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind, Mrs. Trevelyan,” Temple gravely assured her. Ricky appeared as from nowhere to usher out the visitor, but Temple insisted on accompanying her back to her car. They hardly spoke during the short walk, partly because both were a little on edge, for the deserted street with its patches of shadow had a slightly sinister aspect in the small hours of the morning.

  But the excursion passed without incident, the car purred into life at a touch of the starter, and vanished round the corner of Half Moon Street towards Piccadilly.

  When Temple returned he found that Steve had gone to bed and was already half asleep.

  “Well, what d’you think of Mrs. Trevelyan?” he asked as he unfastened his tie.

  “I’m so glad, darling,” she murmured drowsily. “So glad about what?”

  “That she isn’t the girl in brown,” said Steve, and immediately fell asleep.

  Chapter VI

  CANTERBURY TALE

  Promptly at ten-thirty the next morning, Temple rang Doctor Kohima’s doorbell, and was admitted by a maid. He told her that Mrs. Trevelyan was expecting him, and was shown into the waiting-room. At first, he thought the room was empty, until a cultured voice from behind the door wished him a cheerful good morning.

  “This is a pleasant surprise, Mr. Temple,” declared Carl Lathom, who, as usual, looked particularly well-groomed.

  Temple was just a little startled to see this young man so soon, but he did not show it, and merely returned the greeting with a pleasant smile.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here, sir,” said Lathom. “At least, not at this time of the morning.”

  Temple laughed.

  “The surprise is mutual,” he remarked. “I suppose it is a little early in the day to have one’s ego probed.”

  Lathom shook his head seriously.

  “On the contrary, my dear Mr. Temple, the doctor assures me that in my case this is quite the most suitable time for treatment. One’s vitality is at its peak, and I am particularly amenable to certain psycho-therapeutical experiments. Of course, as I told you, mine is rather an unusual case.”

  “I quite appreciate that, Mr. Lathom,” replied Temple seriously. “Though naturally every case is individual in its way.”

  “I quite agree. And I trust that you were suitably impressed yourself when you consulted the doctor yesterday.”

  Temple had a feeling that Lathom was more than a trifle inquisitive to find out why he was there. Of course, it was probably natural for patients of this type to be curious about each others’ illness and symptoms. So he merely replied non-committally: “Oh yes – very much impressed I assure you.”

  “Ah, I knew you would be,” nodded Lathom. “A really remarkable man, Doctor Kohima. Absolutely first class.”

  “I should imagine so.”

  “I don’t know whether I told you or not, but he cured me of a most extraordinary hallucination. Everywhere I went I was under the impression that—”

  “That you were being followed,” put in Temple. “Yes, you told me.”

  “Looking back now,” continued Lathom almost nonchalantly, “it seems quite fantastic, but at the time it really got me down. One has to be fairly desperate before one ventures into a place of this sort, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” replied Temple. “I suppose one does.” The feeling that Lathom was quietly probing into the reason for his presence there returned with growing force, but Temple showed no sign, and continued to chat politely with him on the subject of hallucinations.

  “Of course, 1 was lucky in one way. Mine was quite the nicest type,” Lathom was saying for the second time, when Temple quietly intervened.

  “If by any chance your hallucination returns, Mr. Lathom – though I don’t suppose for a moment it will—”

  “Yes?” said Lathom curiously. “Are you offering me any special advice?”

  “I should advise you,” said Temple with a slow smile, “to consult me instead of Doctor Kohima.”

  For a moment there was a startled expression in Lathom’s eyes, and he appeared to be about to ask a question, but the door opened to admit Doctor Kohima.

  “Right you are, Mr. Lathom,” he said briskly. “I’m ready for you now.” Then he caught sight of Temple.

  “Why, good morning, Mr. Temple. I—er—I don’t recall making an appointment.”

  “No,” replied Temple casually. “I called to see Mrs. Trevelyan.”

  The doctor pursed his mouth thoughtfully, then gave Temple a shrewd glance.

  “Now I come to think of it, there is a little matter I’d like to talk to you about. Will you excuse us a moment, Mr. Lathom?”

  “Of course,” said Lathom politely. Kohima held the door for Temple, and they went into his consulting room. Temple noted that the portable typewriter was no longer standing on the floor beside the desk.

  They were no sooner in the room with the door closed than Kohima turned swiftly, and demanded: “What exactly did you want to see Mrs. Trevelyan about?”

  Temple showed no sign of being perturbed by the question, but replied quite pleasantly: “Oh, it was just about your car, Doctor.”

  Kohima frowned.

  “But I’ve told you all there is to tell about my car. You ‘phoned the garage yourself, I was perfectly frank with you—”

  “Yes, of course,” replied Temple suavely. “But with your permission I should like to have a chat with Mrs. Trevelyan.”

  “Very well,” said Kohima at last, unable to conceal a faint note of annoyance in his voice. He pressed a button at the side of his desk. Almost at once, a second door opened, and Mrs. Trevelyan came in.

  “Ah, Mrs. Trevelyan,” said the doctor, “this is Mr. Temple.”

  “We met yesterday,” Mrs. Trevelyan reminded him.

  “Yes—of course. Well, Mr. Temple would apparently like a word with you.”

  “Very good, Doctor,” replied Mrs. Trevelyan in an expressionless voice.

  “I imagine Mr. Temple wants to ask you one or two routine questions, Mrs. Trevelyan. Satisfy his curiosity if you can.” The doctor’s voice sounded faintly bored now. “Take him into your office, and tell Mr. Lathom I’ll see him. No, don’t bother, I’ll tell him.”

  As Temple and Mrs. Trevelyan were leaving, the doctor called: “Oh, and before I forget, Mrs. Trevelyan. I appear to have mislaid my silver pencil – the one with my initials on it. You haven’t seen it by any chance?”

  “It was on your desk last night, Doctor,” she told him.

  “Yes, I’m aware of that,” he replied, faintly irritated. “I saw it myself last night. But it’s gone this morning.”

  “I’ll try and find it for you, sir,” she smiled, and Temple followed her out of the room and carefully closed the door.

  Her little office was small and very plainly furnished with a flat top desk and a large filing cabinet, with a couple of chairs. On the desk stood a portable typewriter, from which she snatched a sheet of paper.

  “Here you are, Mr. Temple,” she said.

  He examined it closely. After a moment, he said: “The typing isn’t the same.”

  “Of course not,” she replied, repressing the triumphant note in her voice. “I knew it wouldn’t be.”

  “All the same, I’ll keep this – just in case.

  He folded the paper and thrust it into his coat pocket, noting as he did so the tired look in her eyes and strained expression of her mouth.

  “You took a risk in coming to my flat last night,” he said quietly. “You know that, don’t you?”

  ‘’I’ve got to take a risk sometime. I can’t go on like this,” she replied in some agitation.

  “I quite appreciate that,” he nodded. “But there is a chance that someone saw you come . . . and there may be . . . well, reprisals!”

  She caught her breath.

  “And if you want t
o get in touch with me again, I shouldn’t advise you to come round without letting me know first. You can always telephone me—”

  “It’s a relief to know that, Mr. Temple. Would you give me the number?”

  He scribbled on a visiting-card . . . “This is a private number,” he informed her. “You won’t find it in the book.”

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Trevelyan gratefully, taking the card.

  “And watch your step,” advised Temple. “I shall be out of town tonight, but I’ll be back first thing in the morning. If anything should crop up during that time – I don’t suppose there will – but if there did, I should advise you to telephone the Yard and ask for Sir Graham Forbes or Inspector Crane.”

  “I’ll remember,” she nodded. “Are you going far?”

  “Only to Canterbury.”

  “Canterbury?” she repeated in a surprised voice.

  “Yes,” he murmured deliberately. “To the Royal Falcon Hotel.”

  On the drive down to Canterbury, Steve did her utmost to discover what her husband expected to find there, but he was in a thoughtful mood, and answered mainly in monosyllables, concentrating his attention on the road ahead. Temple did not admit as much to Steve, but he was still not quite sure about Mrs. Trevelyan. There was just a remote chance that she had still been acting under instructions from Rex when she paid them that visit in the small hours of the morning. The possibility that Mrs. Trevelyan herself was Rex hardly appeared as likely now in view of recent events, but this case had abounded in strange and diabolical surprises.

  And then there was the question of Doctor Kohima, who might quite easily be working in association with Mrs. Trevelyan, and who had been unable to supply any satisfactory explanation as to how his car had left the garage on the evening when it had collided with Temple’s. It was difficult to arrive at a detached estimate of Doctor Kohima; there was something faintly mysterious about him, which may have been traceable to his dark skin or to the peculiar profession which he practised. Accustomed as he was to meeting all sorts of people, even Temple had to admit that he was not altogether comfortable when facing the mesmeric glare of Doctor Kohima.