“I can’t see myself finishing this book to schedule,” he mused as he stirred the second cup.
“Never mind, darling,” said Steve cheerfully, “you know you always worry them out in the end. Why don’t you try dictating it – that might be a lot quicker.”
He shook his head.
“My brain doesn’t work out loud that way,” he replied rather regretfully.
“I’m sure it’s only a matter of practice,” she told him.
“All right,” he smiled, “you get back to your knitting and leave me to work this out my own way.”
He picked up his silver pencil again and tried to concentrate once more. But it only brought to mind the silver pencil discovered beside the body of Rex’s recent victim. His thoughts wandered to Doctor Kohima and psychiatrists in general. Temple estimated that the rent of Kohima’s house would be in the region of £700 a year. Why should a man who achieved comparative eminence in his own sphere be mixed up in a case of this type? Such men were invariably far too immersed in their job to allow themselves a second string of such an alarming nature.
Temple dismissed the doctor from his mind and started to plan the next chapter, which was to be set in and around an old fishing hut in one of the many lovely bays in North Wales. And this brought to mind the strange personality of Mr. Wilfred Davis, whose timely appearances at critical moments had proved an unusual feature of the Rex case. Was he really just a commercial traveller? And if he had not seen Chester pour the cyanide into the flask, why should he say that he had? More intriguing still, why should he write himself a note to the effect that Rex was the girl in brown? It just didn’t add up.
Once again, Temple made an effort, and began to plod away at the fresh chapter, but he was not sorry when the door opened and Ricky appeared with a silver tray on which was tea and a plate of his favourite muffins. Steve came in and joined him, but did not seem very much inclined for conversation. Secretly, he was glad of this, for it gave a chance to turn over in his mind the events of the chapter on which he was working. Steve’s mind, had he but known it, was busy with the problem of the girl in brown.
“Paul,” she said suddenly. “I’ve just thought of something.”
“Yes?” he murmured, with his mouth full of muffin.
“There’s been nothing about the girl in brown in the papers, has there?”
He shook his head. “And you haven’t discussed her with anyone but Carl Lathom?”
“Why, no—”
“Then if you suspect that Wilfred Davis wrote that note himself, how does it come about that he had heard of the girl in brown?”
Paul Temple added a generous spoonful of sugar to his tea and stirred it thoughtfully.
“Yes, that’s quite a point,” he admitted. “Quite a nice point.”
“Of course, I can’t imagine a funny little man like that being Rex,” reflected Steve, passing the muffins to him.
“Is there anyone involved in this case whom you can imagine as Rex?” demanded her husband with a wry smile.
“Oh yes,” she replied promptly. “Inspector Crane. I never did like the man.”
Temple burst out laughing. When he had recovered a little, he said:
“I suppose that’s what’s meant by feminine intuition. All I can say is thank the Lord I don’t write colourful romances for a living. Female psychology is a mystery to me.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” smiled Steve, “you seem to handle Mrs. Trevelyan pretty well. And there was Iris Archer and of course Maisie—”
“All right,” he said hastily, “maybe I’ve got a certain amount of intuition, too. But don’t go classing me as a ladies’ man, Steve.”
She laughed.
“Well, you certainly know most of the answers, Mr. Temple. Have another muffin.”
After tea, Temple tried vainly to get back to work, but found it almost impossible to concentrate, and finally went for a walk in the park. He was beginning to feel the loss of sleep the previous night and other nights during the past week or two, but he found it difficult to make up for this in the daytime.
When he had walked for over two miles, he decided that he had better move in the direction of New Scotland Yard, so he made his way towards the Mall.
At the Yard, the sergeant at the door said that Inspector Crane ‘phoned down to say that Temple was to go straight to his room as soon as he arrived. Somewhat mystified, Temple obeyed.
In Sir Graham Forbes’ room, the Commissioner was pacing to and fro in a considerable state of agitation, while Doctor Kohima and Mrs. Trevelyan were now comparatively composed.
“This is preposterous!” Forbes exclaimed, but Mrs. Trevelyan sat in an upright chair with her hands folded in her lap and murmured quietly:
“Surely I’ve made myself perfectly clear, Sir Graham. I am simply refusing to make or sign any statement.”
“But dammit, earlier today you screamed at me that you were Rex and that you’d sign anything to that effect,” replied the bewildered Assistant Commissioner.
Doctor Kohima placed a protective arm across her shoulder.
“Earlier today, Mrs. Trevelyan was in an extremely overwrought, one might almost say unbalanced frame of mind,” he declared in a level tone. “I told you so at the time, Sir Graham.”
“You told us several things at the time,” snapped Forbes. “I’m fully aware of that. But Mrs. Trevelyan insisted that she was Rex, a statement which incidentally agrees with a number of facts we have marshalled in evidence—”
“You know perfectly well, Sir Graham, that Mrs. Trevelyan ‘s not Rex,” said Kohima slowly and with some emphasis. “If you really thought for a moment that she was, you wouldn’t be wasting your time like this.”
“You will permit me to employ my own methods of procedure,” retorted Forbes frigidly as he turned to Mrs. Trevelyan.
“Why did you go to Haybourne last night, Mrs. Trevelyan?” he demanded forcefully. She made no reply.
“How did you know about Carl Lathom and the two thousand pounds?” insisted Forbes.
“Don’t answer him, Barbara,” said the doctor quietly.
Forbes was on the verge of losing his temper.
“Why did you go to Haybourne?” he repeated, raising his voice.
After a pause, Doctor Kohima said softly: “Perhaps you will allow me to answer that. Mrs. Trevelyan went to Haybourne because she was sent there.”
There was a stifled exclamation from Mrs. Trevelyan.
“Charles, please!”
“I’m afraid I cannot accept your answer, Doctor Kohima,” said Forbes. “Everything points to the fact that Mrs. Trevelyan ordered Carl Lathom to deliver the two thousand pounds, and arranged to pick up the money herself. In a word, that Mrs. Trevelyan—”
“Sir Graham,” interrupted Kohima with forceful sincerity, “I give you my word that Mrs. Trevelyan is not Rex!”
Sir Graham shrugged.
“I don’t see that gets us very much further.”
At that the door opened, and Inspector Crane appeared, to inform the Assistant Commissioner that Temple had arrived. Forbes excused himself, telling Mrs. Trevelyan that he would be back in a few moments.
Forbes and Crane went into the inspector’s office just along the corridor and found Temple gazing thoughtfully out of the window. He turned and smiled at Forbes.
“Well, Sir Graham, what goes on now?”
“I think you’ve got a pretty good idea, Temple,” replied Forbes shrewdly.
“You’ve been cross-questioning Mrs. Trevelyan?”
“I’ve certainly been asking her some questions,” admitted Sir Graham with a slightly rueful expression.
“And she won’t talk,” nodded Temple. “Woman’s privilege of changing her mind, eh, Sir Graham?”
“H’mph!” grunted Forbes. “Seems like it.”
“Is the doctor still with her?”
Forbes nodded.
“Well, whether she talks or not,” continued Temple, “the fact remains that
she turned up at Haybourne to collect that money.”
Sir Graham looked very worried.
“Yes, I’ve been thinking about that, Temple. But there are other factors to be taken into consideration.”
“You mean there’s a doubt in your mind?”
“Quite frankly, yes. Up till last night, I was pretty certain that Mrs. Trevelyan was Rex. But somehow, ever since she turned up at Haybourne—well, I haven’t been so sure.”
“You thought that set-up was a shade too obvious?” queried Temple.
“Don’t you?”
“I’d sooner hear your theory,” said Temple.
“Well it seems to me that in Rex we’re dealing with a man, or woman of course, who works on quite an unprecedented scale. We know, for instance, that attempts were made to blackmail Norma Rice, Richard East, Carl Lathom, and poor old Cranbury. And blackmail’s a tricky thing, Temple. For every case that comes to light, there are several hundred where the victim pays up – and goes on paying till he hasn’t a penny left. But I can’t say I’ve ever come across blackmail on such a large scale as this before.”
“And you’re beginning to think that Mrs. Trevelyan was coerced into turning up at Haybourne and confessing that she was Rex?” asked Temple.
“It looks like it to me,” admitted Forbes.
“And you don’t think Mrs. Trevelyan is Rex?”
“I’m damned if I do!”
“Well,” smiled Temple, taking out his cigarette-case, “now we’re starting to get somewhere!” He glanced across at Crane, who had been following the conversation closely. “And what’s your opinion, Inspector?”
Crane shook his head slowly.
“I wouldn’t like to be as downright as all that, Mr. Temple,” he said cautiously. “Though I must say I agree with Sir Graham about Mrs. Trevelyan. I’ve been watching her pretty carefully, and I’d lay fifty to one she isn’t Rex. But if you want my frank opinion—of course it’s only a theory—”
“Yes, Inspector?” said Temple curiously.
“Well, I think Doctor Kohima is the man we’re looking for. He’s the mastermind all right. Look how he keeps giving her orders and laying the law down. She seems to do exactly as he tells her. First of all, he sends her down to Haybourne to play the Part of Rex, then he comes here and finds she isn’t putting up a very good show, so he cancels the idea and tells her she’s not to talk. And another thing—”
“Yes?” said Temple.
“There was the car accident,” Crane reminded him. “It was the doctor’s car that crashed into you the night Sir Ernest was murdered, and don’t forget he’s never been able to give us a satisfactory explanation of how it came to be out of the garage.”
“That’s true enough,” agreed Temple.
“And of course,” Crane continued, “we have to keep in mind that we found Doctor Kohima’s silver pencil beside the dead body of James Barton.”
“But he insists that it wasn’t his pencil,” Temple pointed out.
“Now I ask you! Do you think that pencil belongs to the doctor, or don’t you?”
“I think it does, Inspector,” smiled Temple.
“And yet,” interrupted Forbes, “you don’t think that Kohima is Rex?”
“I didn’t say so, Sir Graham,” replied Temple in an enigmatical tone.
“But you have decided that Kohima was lying about the pencil?”
“That doesn’t necessarily imply he was Rex. Blackmail brings a whole crop of lies in its train – look at Mrs. Trevelyan, for instance. We can never be quite certain when she is telling the truth; but we have agreed that she can’t be Rex.”
“All the same, I’m seriously thinking of detaining Kohima on the Barton murder,” said Forbes thoughtfully. “By the way, Temple, I’ve been meaning to ask you what you were doing in Canterbury the night Barton was murdered.”
“I told you what happened at Canterbury – about Frank Chester and the little Welshman,” replied Temple evasively.
“Yes, Mr. Temple, you told us that,” put in Crane, “but what you haven’t told is why you went to Canterbury.”
“I—er—went to see an old friend of mine,” stalled Temple.
“’M . . .” grunted Crane dubiously. “I see.” But it was obvious to Temple that the inspector was far from satisfied, and he began to feel that Crane’s grip on this case was beginning to penetrate into many places where it was least expected.
Sir Graham began pacing up and down once more.
“I don’t know what to do about Mrs. Trevelyan, Temple,” he confessed in a worried tone.
“The main thing,” Temple assured him, “is to keep an eye on her.”
“Then you think she’s in danger?” queried Crane curiously.
“Yes, Inspector,” replied Temple, “outside Scotland Yard I think she is in considerable danger.”
“But you can’t suggest any way to make her talk – it would be for her own good,” said Forbes.
Temple shook his head.
“I can think of no way to convince her that it would be for her own good,” he admitted. “You must appreciate that Rex has a considerable hold over Mrs. Trevelyan, and he’s continually putting the screw on. In fact, he has so played on her nerves that the prospect of being hanged seems like a picnic to her compared with what he threatens.”
Forbes rubbed his chin.
“This business seems to get more and more involved,” he growled. “You don’t want to see Mrs. Trevelyan then, Temple?”
“Not just now; I don’t think it would help very much. Besides, I must dash off. I should be at Luigi’s by now.”
“Luigi’s in the Haymarket?” asked Crane, slightly surprised.
“Yes—know it?”
“I know Luigi very well. Used to see a lot of him when I was a dress clothes detective. As a matter of fact, I’m meeting a friend there later this evening.”
“Good!” smiled Temple. “If we’re still there I’ll buy you a drink.”
“That’s a bet,” agreed Crane.
“Cheer up, Sir Graham,” said Temple as he moved over to the door, “things will begin to sort themselves out soon.”
“I’m sure I hope so,” muttered Forbes doubtfully.
Feeling slightly guilty at leaving Forbes without offering any further support, Temple made his way downstairs and was lucky enough to get a taxi outside.
He found Luigi’s crowded as usual, and Luigi himself as effusive as ever. He made his way to a table in a far corner where he could see Steve talking vivaciously to Leo Brent.
Chapter XII
ENTER LEO BRENT
Steve had enjoyed renewing her acquaintance with Leo Brent, and he, too, had appeared quite overjoyed to see her again. He was as young and irresponsible as ever and wore a well-fitting dress suit which enhanced his Nordic good looks. His fund of stories, personal and otherwise, seemed inexhaustible, and Steve was enjoying the evening so much that she did not realise her husband was nearly half an hour late. It was only when she saw Brent take a sly glance at his wrist-watch that she discovered the time.
“Gee, is it as late as that?” he murmured. “I ought to be making a move.”
“I’m sure Paul will be here almost any minute now,” she hastily assured him.
“That guy was always the same in the old days,” murmured Brent. “You haven’t broken him of his bad habits, Mrs. Temple. He was always rushing in anything up to an hour late on account of meeting some crazy adventure.”
“But he really did have some important business, and he most particularly wanted to see you.”
“That’s too bad,” said Brent. “I think I’d better go downstairs and ‘phone. I got a date round at the Green Curtain Club, and it’s kinda awkward.” Then an idea struck him.
“Say, why don’t you come, too? We could leave a message with Luigi and Paul could follow us.”
“I think we ought to give him another ten minutes,” answered Steve. “Why don’t you go down and ‘phone anyway? He’ll
probably be here when you get back.”
“All right, I’ll do that,” he decided. “I won’t be more than five minutes.” She watched his lithe figure threading its way among the tables, and in a few seconds he had disappeared. She was silently castigating her husband for his unpunctuality when a familiar voice at her elbow said, “Can I get you a drink, Mrs. Temple?”
She turned to see Carl Lathom sitting at the next table. There was a large brandy in front of him, and he had apparently only just arrived, but she had been so absorbed in her conversation with Brent that she had not noticed him before.
“Well, perhaps a small martini,” she replied in answer to his invitation.
“Won’t you join me, that is if you’re alone now?” he asked after he had given the order.
“As a matter of fact, I’m waiting for my husband,” she informed him. He chuckled.
“I say, that’s a new slant on things! Man bites dog—wife waits for husband—sounds like a headline in the Daily Reflector.”
“Why don’t you come and join in the vigil?” smiled Steve, “that is if you’re on your own.”
“That’s very nice of you.”
He came and sat in Brent’s empty chair.
When the drinks had arrived and the waiter had left them, Lathom leaned forward and said: “I suppose you know all about what happened last night?”
“Mrs. Trevelyan?”
“Yes.”
Steve sipped her drink.
“It must have been quite an ordeal for you,” she said presently.
“Oh, it wasn’t as bad as all that,” he said deprecatingly. “They got me safely out of the way before the fun began.”
“All the same, I wouldn’t have liked to be in your place,” said Steve with a slight shudder.
“It was an extraordinary business altogether,” he went on in a puzzled voice. “I really can’t believe it even now. D’you know, when I woke up this morning and realised what had happened last night—”
“It seemed like a bad dream?” queried Steve.
Send for Paul Temple Again! Page 17
