Send for Paul Temple Again!

by Francis Durbridge

“Yes,” replied Crane. “You may have read in the papers of the murder of James Barton—”

  “You mean the big airways director. Of course.”

  “You knew James Barton?”

  “Fairly well.”

  “Indeed?” said Forbes quickly. “How did you come to know him?”

  “The way I meet most people. He was a patient of mine about two years ago. He was sent on to me by a Harley Street man after he’d had a bad nervous breakdown.”

  Temple was interested at once.

  “Would you say that Barton was in any way an exceptional case?” he asked.

  Kohima frowned in an effort to remember.

  “You must understand I get so many people through my hands – and they tell me so many things.” He pursed his lips as he sat deep in thought, then said presently:

  “No... I wouldn’t say Barton was exceptional. Just the usual hallucinations from what I remember.”

  “You couldn’t recall the nature of those hallucinations, I suppose?” asked Temple.

  Kohima rubbed his chin pensively. “Now let me see . . . yes . . . I am fairly sure it was Barton who was troubled with the fear of being shot in the back by some mysterious woman. H’m I recollect now . . . we had quite a little trouble in getting rid of her.”

  “It looks to me as if you didn’t get rid of her,” said Crane bluntly.

  “But I thought he was supposed to have been killed by this fellow Rex,” said the doctor.

  “Quite so,” agreed Temple. “But we have yet to establish whether Rex is a man or a woman.”

  “Oh, I see,” murmured Doctor Kohima in an expressionless voice, as if he were not greatly interested.

  “Supposing,” began Temple, “this mysterious gunwoman who troubled Barton was not an hallucination. Suppose he actually seen her before he came to you – supposing she had threatened him. Would you still be able to erase her from his mind?”

  “That would depend entirely on the nature of the patient’s mind,” replied the doctor slowly.

  “But such things have been done?” insisted Temple. “Surely I read a book by Hellmann a little while ago—”

  “Ah yes, yes,” agreed Kohima readily. “Hellmann has quite a lot to say about it, and I am told he has achieved some remarkable results. With the mind, of course, almost anything is possible under suitable conditions. But I fail to see the connection between these theories and my silver pencil.”

  “There is, perhaps, a certain association,” said Temple. “You see, that pencil the inspector is holding was found beside the dead body of James Barton.”

  Doctor Kohima slowly nodded his head several times.

  “So!” he murmured. “Now I understand your curiosity.”

  Then he shook his head and added in a definite tone:

  “But it still isn’t my pencil.”

  Crane looked openly sceptical, and was about to make some remark, but the telephone buzzed and Forbes took the call.

  “It’s for you, Temple,” he announced, handing him the receiver.

  There was no mistaking the familiar inflections of Ricky at the other end of the line.

  “So sorry to disturb you, sir, but there is a gentleman here to see you. He insisted that I should telephone at once. He says it is very urgent.”

  “What’s his name?” asked Temple.

  “It is a Mr. Lathom, sir. Mr. Carl Lathom.”

  “Oh. Well, where is Mrs. Temple?”

  “She is out shopping, I believe, sir. She will not be back until before lunch.”

  “I see.” Temple hesitated a moment, then made up his mind.

  “All right, Ricky,” he said. “Ask Mr. Lathom to wait – I shan’t be more than ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir—very good,” came the soft Oriental voice, which dropped slightly to add: “The gentleman seems most perturbed, sir.”

  Temple grinned.

  “You will get used to receiving visitors who are a little perturbed, Ricky. We have quite a lot of them.”

  “Yes, Mr. Temple. I quite understand.”

  “That’s all right then, Ricky. Offer him a drink and some Chinese philosophy. I shan’t be long.”

  He rang off, and turned to the others.

  “Well, if you’ll excuse me, Sir Graham, I have rather an urgent appointment – and I don’t think there’s much more I can do here just at the moment.”

  “But about this pencil—” began Crane.

  “I’m afraid we can hardly dispute the doctor’s word if he insists that it is not his property,” said Temple smoothly. “After all, the initials ‘C. K.’ must apply to hundreds of people who own silver pencils.”

  Crane looked baffled and sullen, but appreciated the force of Temple’s argument.

  “I’m sure Doctor Kohima must be very busy, and it’s good of him to spare the time to come down here,” continued Temple smoothly, exchanging a look with Sir Graham. “Perhaps I can give you a lift back, Doctor?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Temple. I have my car outside,” replied Kohima urbanely.

  “Good. Then I’ll see you down. These corridors are rather confusing.” At the door, Temple turned and said:

  “I’ll telephone you, Sir Graham, the minute anything turns up.”

  “But this pencil—” stammered Crane helplessly.

  “I suggest that it will make an interesting exhibit for the Black Museum,” said Temple with a shrug, as he held open the door for Doctor Kohima.

  Temple let himself quietly into the flat, and stood at the door of the lounge as he took off his gloves. Inside, he could hear Ricky saying: “Is there anything else I can get you, sir?”

  “No, no,” came Lathom’s voice. “Nothing else, thanks.”

  “Perhaps another glass of sherry, sir?”

  Lathom said: “No, really, I’m quite all right.”

  “Mr. Temple should be here any moment now, sir. It is just ten minutes since I telephoned, and he is extremely reliable in such matters.”

  “How long have you been with him?” inquired Lathom.

  “About forty-eight hours, sir.”

  “Then surely you haven’t had much opportunity—”

  “To certain insects, forty-eight hours is double the length of a lifetime,” murmured Ricky.

  Temple smiled to himself and opened the door.

  “Well, Lathom, what seems to be the trouble?” he asked as Ricky discreetly withdrew.

  Lathom had risen to his feet, then sank back on to the settee. His face was drawn and haggard, and he seemed to be under a considerable nervous strain.

  “I’m terribly sorry to drag you away from Scotland Yard, Temple,” he began apologetically.

  “That’s all right. You didn’t drag me away. Anyhow, the Yard isn’t exactly my idea of an ideal spot for a busman’s holiday. Have a glass of sherry?” smiled Temple.

  “I’ve just had one, thanks.”

  “Well, have another. It’s quite harmless,” urged Temple. “Well . . . thanks.”

  Temple carefully poured out two glasses and handed one to Lathom.

  For a minute or two, they sipped it without speaking. Then Temple said: “You look worried. Anything wrong?”

  “I am worried, Temple. Hellishly worried.” Lathom set down his glass. Temple noticed that his hand shook slightly.

  “Suppose you start your story at the beginning,” suggested Temple quietly. “Take your time – there’s no hurry.”

  “I wish I could start at the beginning!” exclaimed Lathom somewhat dramatically. “If only I could! That’s just the point, Temple. Where is the beginning? If I knew that I might be able to see things much more clearly.”

  “All right,” nodded Temple equably. “Start wherever you please.”

  Lathom’s face worked spasmodically, and at last he burst forth.

  “Temple, when I met you in the doctor’s waiting-room yesterday morning, you said rather a strange thing. I haven’t forgotten it. You advised me to consult you if by any chance my hallucination
returned.”

  “Did I say that, Mr. Lathom?” asked Temple amiably, taking his cigarette-case.

  “Of course you did!”

  “Then,” murmured Temple, lighting a cigarette, “I must have had a very good reason.”

  “Your reason is quite obvious to me now,” replied Lathom tensely. He leaned forward and added: “You don’t think it is an hallucination, do you?”

  “Do you?” stalled Temple.

  “No!” retorted Lathom fiercely. “No, I don’t! Every day— every night—wherever I go there’s someone following me! I feel it! I feel it instinctively!”

  “But you felt it before – and Doctor Kohima convinced you that it was purely imagination,” Temple reminded him, taking another sip at his sherry.

  “I tell you I’m being followed!” cried Lathom almost hysterically.

  “All right,” said Temple quietly. “You’re being followed. So are dozens of other people. I have been myself quite a number of times. The world isn’t coming to an end yet, Mr. Lathom. Let’s try to view the matter objectively. Have you caught sight of this person who is following you?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” replied Lathom impatiently. “It’s the girl in brown – the one I told you about. Last night she followed me all the way from Hyde Park Corner to Shaftesbury Avenue. At first I thought I was seeing things. I just couldn’t believe my eyes. Then I tried to lose her – I turned into the back-streets near Shepherd Market – but I couldn’t shake her off.”

  “You’ve never actually spoken to this girl?” asked Temple, eyeing him curiously.

  “Spoken to her!” echoed Lathom. “Goodness knows I’ve tried. When I couldn’t get rid of her last night, I tried to confront her – but she disappears like lightning! I tell you I did my damnedest to corner her . . . I even turned and ran after her full tilt, but she vanished—”

  The telephone rang abruptly and Temple picked up the receiver.

  “Is that you, darling?” came Steve’s voice rather breathlessly.

  “Hello, Steve,” replied Temple, a little surprised. “Where are you?”

  “Paul—listen!” she begged urgently. “I had an appointment at the hairdresser’s for this morning, and when I left the flat I had an uncanny feeling that someone was following me.”

  “Good Lord!” murmured Temple.

  “It was that girl, darling – the girl in brown who followed me the other night. When I left the hairdresser’s about ten minutes ago, she was still waiting for me. She’s followed me here—”

  “Where are you speaking from?” said Temple quickly.

  “I’m in a call-box in Derry and Toms,” replied Steve softly.”She’s hanging about at the main entrance. What am I to do, Paul?”

  “Keep her waiting,” replied Temple promptly. “Hang on for another five minutes, Steve.”

  He slammed down the receiver.

  “Get your hat, Mr. Lathom,” he ordered. “We’ve got a date.”

  “A date?” repeated Lathom, who had listened to the conversation with growing curiosity.

  “Yes!” snapped Temple. “With an hallucination!”

  Chapter IX

  THE GIRL IN BROWN

  When they arrived at the store a few minutes later, they saw Steve standing in the entrance and anxiously scanning the passing traffic. She was tapping one foot impatiently, and appeared to be trying to make up her mind to some course of action. As soon as Temple’s car drew in to the kerb, she ran across to him.

  “Paul!” she cried breathlessly. “I’m terribly sorry, but you’re too late!”

  He looked up quickly.

  “You mean she’s gone?”

  Steve nodded. “I was in the telephone booth, and I was watching her carefully all the time I was talking to you—”

  “Then how the devil did she give you the slip?” demanded Temple in a slightly exasperated tone.

  “It was when I put down the receiver. I took my eyes off her – only for a second. But she vanished completely. I can’t think how she does it.”

  “That woman’s as clever as Maskelyne and Houdini rolled into one,” commented Lathom. “She obviously got wise to the fact that you were talking about her, Mrs. Temple. She has an uncanny instinct . . . simply uncanny.”

  Steve looked questioningly at Lathom, and Temple recollected that he had not introduced them, so proceeded to remedy the omission. Steve instantly recalled Carl Lathom’s name as he politely acknowledged the introduction. Then he said: “Could you describe this girl, Mrs. Temple? Would you say she was about twenty-eight or -nine? Attractive. Dressed completely in brown . . . brown handbag . . . silk stockings that looked as if they came from America . . .” He spoke quickly with more than a hint of nervousness.

  “Yes,” answered Steve, “that seems a fair description.”

  “Then it must be the same girl, by George!” declared Lathom emphatically slapping his thigh.

  “Oh yes,” said Steve. “My husband told me that you had seen her too.”

  “I certainly have! She’s given me no peace for days. But I can’t make head or tail of this. Why should she first of all follow me and then Mrs. Temple? Have you any theories about that, Temple?”

  Temple shook his head.

  “Better get in the car, Steve,” he advised. “We’ll go back to the flat.”

  “Why not come round to my place?” suggested Lathom. “It’s only just round the corner. I can promise you a good cup of coffee to steady your nerves, Mrs. Temple. And by jove, I could do with one myself!”

  Steve was rather surprised to hear Temple accept the invitation, and presently they drew up outside a large mansion of modern flats in a quiet side street.

  Steve shrewdly assessed the rentals as being somewhere in the region of eight hundred a year, and was duly impressed by the atmosphere of unobtrusive luxury in the thickly carpeted entrance lounge to which Lathom admitted them.

  Lathom went into the kitchen to give some instructions to his housekeeper, and returned a minute or two later to find Temple examining a set of unusual little brass images which presumably represented some Oriental idols.

  “Not worth very much, I’m afraid,” Lathom informed him. “I got ‘em in Cairo, so they were probably made in Birmingham. But I couldn’t resist the saturnine expression on their brass faces.”

  “It is rather quaint,” smiled Steve, picking up one of the images.

  “When were you in Cairo?” asked Temple.

  “Let’s see ... I left there in ‘37 – that’s right, June, ‘37,” he estimated thoughtfully. “I was only there eighteen months, but I rather liked it. In fact, I’ve often toyed with the idea of going back.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  Lathom shrugged, “I don’t know. I suppose there’s no particular reason why I shouldn’t.

  “Were you there on business?”

  “Yes, I told you I was in the advertising racket for some years, the firm had the idea of opening up fresh territory all over the world – and they allotted me Cairo. It was pretty stiff going too, I can tell you. I found they were an exclusive sort of community out there. Though once I was in I began to enjoy myself. It was quite a good life, with all expenses paid!”

  “You seem to have knocked around quite a bit,” murmured Temple.

  “I say, you must think I’m something of a mysterious character!” exclaimed Lathom with a disarming laugh. “First of all, I meet you at a psychiatrist’s, then I tell you that I am suffering from hallucinations, and now you learn I’ve actually spent eighteen months in the shadow of the Sphinx!”

  The entrance of Lathom’s housekeeper carrying a large tray interrupted the conversation. Steve poured out the coffee, which was quite up to their expectations. Presently, Temple asked:

  “When did you write that play of yours – the one Norma Rice was in?”

  “Oh, that was years ago – just after I left the ‘Varsity. They say we’ve all got one good play in us. So I got mine out of my system, and I may say that nobody
was more surprised than I was when it clicked! Of course, it was Norma’s acting, really,” he added modestly.

  “And you have never written anything since?”

  “Not a word – except advertising copy. I don’t really consider myself a professional writer, you know. I’m more a sort of—well, a dilettante. When I came back from Egypt I inherited a fair-sized fortune, so I have an adequate private income, and I’m afraid I fell into the habit of doing less and less—”

  “But you can’t just do nothing all day long,” protested Steve with a smile.

  “You’d be surprised,” he told her. “I read a bit, play a spot of golf, stroll along Piccadilly . . . lunch at the Club . . . or sometimes I go for a drive in the country. I’m rather fond of getting around. Not abroad so much as within fairly easy reach of Town ... I love exploring old places . . . historical towns . . .” He passed round the cigarettes.

  “Have you,” said Temple, casually lighting a match, “ever been to Canterbury?”

  He was watching Lathom very carefully without betraying any sign of doing so.

  “Good heavens, yes!” exclaimed the other, his face lighting up with eager interest. “It’s quite a haunt of mine. I spend hours wandering round the back streets, poking in nooks and crannies, in and out of the cathedral, nosing around those funny antique shops – yes, I always get a kick out of Canterbury. I stay at a nice old pub called the Royal Falcon. It’s not what it was ten years ago, but it still has some of the genuine old atmosphere.”

  “The Royal Falcon?” repeated Temple noncommittally, “I must remember that. Steve and I had some thought of running down to the coast one week-end and staying a night at Canterbury.”

  “Well, if you care to mention my name at the Royal Falcon, I’m sure they’ll do their best for you. Ask the manager, a man named Chester. He’s not a bad sort of fellow, goes out of his way to make you feel at home.”

  “We must remember that,” said Steve, sipping her coffee.

  “Of course, it’s not exactly to be compared with Shepheard’s, Mrs. Temple,” smiled Lathom, “but the beds are comfortable, and if you’re lucky you get a decent meal.”

  “Have you been there recently?” asked Temple.

  Lathom shook his head.