Send for Paul Temple Again!

by Francis Durbridge

  “Yes, it did—quite honestly!” he declared fervently.

  “Even worse than the affair at Cairo?” she suggested.

  “Oh, that!” He made a grimace. “I thought that was forgotten. I wish to God I knew how Rex—” He broke off and seemed anxious to dismiss the subject.

  “You knew Mrs. Trevelyan fairly well, didn’t you?” asked Steve.

  “I suppose you might say that,” he nodded thoughtfully. “We generally used to chat when I called to see Doctor Kohima. Nothing very personal, of course.”

  “But you must have told the doctor himself quite a lot about your—er—past?”

  Lathom looked somewhat startled.

  “Mrs. Temple—you—don’t suggest that Doctor Kohima . . .” His voice trailed away.

  “I don’t know Doctor Kohima,” said Steve, “but I have heard quite a lot about him, and after all it’s a psychiatrist’s job to sort of—well—worm out one’s past.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose it is essential for the practitioner to know as much as possible if he’s to get at the root of the trouble. Incidentally, my hallucinations had no connection with Cairo, but you never can tell, of course.”

  Steve sipped her drink but made no comment.

  “This last week had made me very confused,” he went on. “First of all, there was the girl in brown coming to life – you seeing her and proving she wasn’t an hallucination. Then, before I could get over that, there came the note from Rex. I say—”

  His expression changed. “I say, Mrs. Temple, you don’t think there could be any connection between the two—”

  “Could be,” said Steve pensively.

  He thumped his fist on the table.

  “It’s an idea!” he said. “But that would mean that Doctor Kohima is somehow in league with the girl in brown.”

  “Could be,” said Steve again.

  “But—but this is staggering. He couldn’t have deliberately set about dispelling that hallucination knowing the girl in brown was real, could he? I mean it all seems so fantastic!”

  Steve accepted one of his cigarettes which he lighted for her.

  “There are so many things in this case that appear quite unconnected with the main problem,” she murmured, “until one suddenly hits upon the link.”

  “But Mrs. Trevelyan seemed such a nice sort of person,” he murmured in some perplexity.

  “So many people appear outwardly pleasant and normal, but we know nothing of their private lives,” answered Steve, unconsciously quoting her husband.

  “It’s all very difficult,” he mused. “Somehow, I don’t think I’d have been much good as a detective.”

  “Cheer up, you two!” said a voice behind them, and they turned to see Temple standing there.

  “Paul—at last!” said Steve. “Where on earth have you been?”

  “I have always been told that that is a question a woman should never ask,” smiled Lathom.

  “Steve breaks all the rules,” said Temple. Then he went on to ask: “Where’s Leo? Don’t tell me you let him go.”

  “He’s downstairs ‘phoning,” answered Steve.

  “Oh, good. I was afraid he’d cleared off.”

  He found another chair and sat down.

  “Well, how are you this evening after yesterday’s ordeal, Lathom?”

  “Rather better than I felt this morning,” replied Carl. “I was just telling Mrs. Temple that it all seemed like a bad dream.”

  “As unpleasant as that?”

  “I still can’t believe it.”

  “You can’t believe what, Mr. Lathom?”

  “That Mrs. Trevelyan is Rex. I know that, according to the papers, she has already confessed, but I can’t believe that. We aren’t living in the pages of a detective story, Mr. Temple. It isn’t feasible that a doctor’s secretary should be such a master-criminal.”

  “Stranger things have happened in the underworld,” Temple told him.

  “Yes, I dare say. Even so, I can’t believe it. I mean—Mrs. Trevelyan—of all people—have you seen her, Temple, since—”

  “I’ve seen her,” nodded Temple.

  “Then is it true about her having confessed?”

  “Yes and no,” was the enigmatic reply, and before Lathom could ask any further questions, the voice of Leo Brent boomed in on their conversation. Temple apologised for being late and introduced Brent and Lathom. Carl Lathom refused their invitation to take another drink, saying that he was meeting a friend for supper at a nearby night club.

  “Can’t think where I’ve seen that bird before,” mused Brent, watching Lathom’s retreating figure. “I’ve got an idea that it was somewhere I wouldn’t take my best girl. Now let me think—”

  But his memory failed him. They went over to a corner which had just been vacated, and Temple talked to Brent in a low voice for about ten minutes. First of all, the American seemed amused, then intrigued. Finally, his expression became rather more serious.

  “Well, there you are, Leo. That’s the proposition,” said Temple at last. The American locked his hands round his left knee and gazed thoughtfully across the room.

  “How long would you want me to stay in Canterbury?” he asked.

  “That depends,” replied Temple. “Three or four days at least, I should think.”

  Brent considered this for a moment, then said: “I take it that you don’t think this guy Chester—or Mulberry, is really Rex.”

  “I’m certain he isn’t,” replied Temple quickly. “But I’m equally positive that Chester is in frequent contact with Rex. That’s why I want you to go down there, Leo. You’re not known there – you can pass off easily enough as an American tourist doing the sights – you don’t look particularly—”

  “Intelligent?” suggested Brent with a grin.

  “I was going to say ‘suspicious’,” smiled Temple, “but have it your own way.”

  “Yes,” mused Brent, “it sounds a pretty good set-up. I get the angle now. You want me to be rubberneck number one, complete with camera, Baedeker and the almighty dollar.”

  “Not to mention acute dyspepsia?” smiled Steve. “But don’t go overdoing it.”

  “You leave that to me, Mrs. Temple. Though there is just one thing,” he added seriously.

  “Yes?” said Temple.

  “Well, supposing Chester should catch on, and starts to make things unpleasant?”

  Temple laughed. “I think you can handle that sort of situation pretty well, Leo. I seem to remember watching you battle your way through the semi-finals of a welter-weight contest.”

  “Oh, sure! I’m not worried about the rough stuff, I can take care of that. But let’s just suppose I happen to hit upon something pretty big. I’m strange around here as far as crime’s concerned, you know.”

  “All right,” nodded Temple. “What you have to do is telephone me every morning between seven and ten, and every night between nine and midnight. That’s very important, Leo,” he said earnestly, “because if I don’t get a call from you I shall be down there in less than two hours.”

  “I get you,” said Brent.

  “Anything else you want to know?”

  “I don’t think so.” He leaned back in his corner and relaxed, and the conversation became general, until Brent finally looked at his watch. “Guess I’d better be moving along,” he announced. “I’ve always found redheads get kinda impatient if they’re kept waiting.”

  He finished his drink and rose to shake hands with Steve. Suddenly, he leaned over and whispered in Temple’s ear.

  “Just one thing. If, by any chance, you don’t hear from me, and I’m not kicking around when you get down to Canterbury, don’t forget – it’s all done by mirrors!”

  “I shan’t forget,” laughed Temple.

  “Good night, Mrs. Temple,” said Brent, adding gallantly: “Next time we meet, I hope it’ll be ‘Steve’.”

  “Good-bye, Leo,” she smiled.

  They watched him threading his way blithely thr
ough the crowded restaurant.

  “He’s an awfully nice fellow,” declared Steve after a moment. “What was all that business about mirrors?”

  “Oh, nothing much. It goes back to the days when we used to share a room in Chicago. We had rather an inquisitive landlady, so that if either of us had a private message for the other, he wrote it on a scrap of paper and stuck it behind the mirror on the dressing-table – usually with chewing-gum. We did it occasionally in other places too, outside the house. It got to be a sort of gag between us.”

  “I can just imagine you two painting the town red,” smiled Steve.

  “Not exactly red, darling,” he assured her. “But we had to have a little relaxation sometimes.”

  His expression changed as he caught sight of Lathom standing behind them.

  “Hello, Lathom. I thought you’d gone on somewhere to supper.”

  “I found I’d left my umbrella, so I came back for it right away – you know how scarce they are nowadays. And I saw your man, Ricky, downstairs. He seems to be in rather a ‘flap’ about something.”

  “Ricky?” repeated Steve in some mystification.

  “You’ll find him in the vestibule. Apparently he tried to telephone you, but found the line out of order.”

  “Did he say if there was something wrong?” asked Temple.

  “Well, to be quite frank,” replied Lathom, “I couldn’t make out what he was talking about – he did seem a bit excited and over-voluble. As far as I can gather, it appears that a girl called at your flat and said she particularly wanted to see you. Ricky seems to think it’s pretty vital.”

  “A girl?” queried Steve. “Did he say what sort of girl?”

  “No,” laughed Lathom. “I’m not even sure that he knows. He appears quite delightfully vague about the whole business – unless he was being very guarded for my special benefit!”

  Lathom seemed to think the matter quite amusing. Then his tone suddenly changed as he said: “I say, Temple, it couldn’t be—it couldn’t be the girl in brown?” he whispered.

  “You’re quite a thought-reader, Lathom,” replied Temple briskly. “Come along, Steve, we’d better look into this.”

  Slightly bewildered still, Lathom watched them go.

  “Did you bring the car, Steve?” asked Temple, as they came into the foyer.

  “Yes, it’s just round the corner in Panton Street Mews,” she replied a little breathlessly, as they discovered Ricky and heard his story.

  Two minutes later they had just backed towards the end of the Mews when Temple felt a jar at the steering wheel, and realised that a front tyre had gone flat.

  “That would have to happen now!” exclaimed Temple, snatching at the brake to bring the car to a standstill. Ricky leapt out of his seat and presently called out:

  “There’s a lot of glass in the road, Mr. Temple.”

  Temple joined him and discovered the broken bottle which had obviously done the damage.

  “That’s rather odd, isn’t it?” asked Steve, putting her head out of the window.

  “A little unusual to say the least,” said Temple, who had never before seen so much glass lying about in this particular district.

  “It almost makes one think that it had been dropped there deliberately,” Steve commented.

  “Yes,” nodded Temple. “So that we’d waste time changing the wheel. Which is precisely what we’re not going to do. Jump out, Steve – we can walk home in five minutes and I’ll ‘phone the garage to pick up the car.”

  At that moment, however, a taxi pulled up behind them with a screech of brakes, and thinking it was perhaps disengaged Temple went up to the driver. He was startled when the window was lowered and the face of Doctor Kohima appeared.

  “Are you in trouble, Mr. Temple?” he asked, quite calmly.

  “We certainly are!” cried Temple. “Is this your taxi?”

  “Why, yes—I was just going home—”

  “Steve! Ricky!” called Temple, interrupting him. “Get in this taxi quickly. Kick that glass in the gutter first, Ricky.”

  The little man hastened to obey, and a minute later the taxi door slammed.

  “’Ere, what’s the game? This ain’t a blinkin’ general bus,’ said the driver somewhat truculently through the partition.

  “That’s all right,” said Kohima quickly, noting the urgency in Temple’s manner. “Where do you wish to go, Mr. Temple?”

  “Half Moon Street—and step on it!”

  “Okay—okay . . .” murmured the driver in a resigned tone as he let in his clutch.

  Temple hurriedly introduced Steve to Doctor Kohima, who gravely bowed.

  “I had wanted a word with you, Mr. Temple, and the inspector said I would find you at Luigi’s, so I was following you—”

  At that moment, the taxi drew up outside the Temples’ flat and Paul Temple leapt out quickly. He gave the driver a ten- shilling note, and turned to the doctor.

  “If you don’t mind waiting in the taxi for a few minutes, I’ll be right back,” he promised.

  “Of course,” agreed Kohima, unable to conceal the slight note of surprise in his voice.

  They ran into the entrance hall and into the lift. As it was ascending, Temple felt in his usual pocket for his latchkey, then recalled that he had left it in another suit.

  “It’s all right, darling,” said Steve as the lift stopped, “I’ve got mine somewhere.” She fumbled in her handbag and found it, but Temple had already pushed open the front door of the flat.

  “I swear I locked it,” exclaimed Steve. “Ricky, you were last to leave—”

  “Yes, Mrs. Temple. I locked the door, too—I closed it after me and tried it to make sure.”

  They stood in the hallway, looking uncertainly at each other and speaking in whispers.

  “Did you leave the light on, Ricky?” said Temple, and the little man nodded. Temple moved over to the lounge door and opened it. The room was in darkness. He switched on the light, and Steve, who had come up behind him, said: “Why, she must have gone.”

  Then she caught her breath and gave a cry of horror as she saw a woman’s hand on the floor behind the settee.

  Temple strode quickly across the room and looked down at the woman’s body, from which a trickle of blood was leaving an ugly stain on the green carpet.

  “Paul, she’s been shot,” cried Steve, noticing the wound in the woman’s left temple. Her husband called for Ricky to help him to lift the body.

  “It’s the girl in brown,” whispered Steve tensely. “Is she—is she dead?”

  “Shall I fetch doctor from outside?” volunteered Ricky, hut Temple stopped him.

  “Wait, Ricky. In any case, he couldn’t do anything, I’m afraid. It’s too late for that.”

  He looked quickly round the room for some sign of a weapon, but there was none. Nor did there appear to have been any sort of struggle. As he moved silently round, Temple suddenly stopped and listened intently.

  “What is it, Paul?” asked Steve.

  “Listen!” he whispered.

  The door was slightly open and from the other side of the hall they could hear running water.

  “There’s somebody in the bathroom – that’s the tap over the wash-hand basin,” announced Steve.

  Temple stood at the lounge door for a few seconds and listened. Then he crossed over to a bureau in the corner of the room and took a neat automatic from the bottom right-hand drawer.

  “Darling, do be careful!” whispered Steve anxiously.

  “All right,” he nodded. “Steve, you stay in here – you, too, Ricky.”

  He went across the hall and rapped smartly on the door of the bathroom.

  “D’you mind coming out of there—at once!” he called.

  There was no reply, but the occupant of the bathroom immediately turned off the tap. After waiting for about five seconds, Temple repeated his demand in a louder voice, taking the precaution of standing against the wall at the side of the door in case it opene
d suddenly.

  “Do you mind coming out of there?”

  There was the sound of a drawn bolt and a familiar voice said:

  “Not at all, Mr. Temple.”

  The door opened. Inspector Crane stood in the doorway carefully wiping his hands on a small towel on which there was an ominous red stain.

  Chapter XIII

  MR. LATHOM RECEIVES A VISITOR

  Crane very deliberately finished wiping his hands, then carefully replaced the towel on the rail.

  “So you’ve finally arrived, Mr. Temple,” he said in a noncommittal tone.

  Temple looked round the bathroom, then back at Crane.

  “I see you’ve cut your hand, Inspector,” he commented.

  “Yes, I’m glad you’ve come, Temple. I’ve been making free of your bathroom—hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not.”

  “And I was wondering if you have such a thing as a first-aid outfit. A scrap of plaster might stop this bleeding – it’s a confounded nuisance.”

  ‘’Certainly – here you are.” Temple went to the bathroom cupboard and passed him a small bottle of iodine and some plaster.

  “On second thoughts, better let me,” he suggested. “It’s a bit awkward to fix one-handed.”

  The inspector agreed and Temple neatly secured a bit of plaster over the gash. Then he suddenly remembered Steve, and put his head round the door and called: “It’s all right, darling, it’s only Inspector Crane. You might get us a drink – we’ll be out in a minute.”

  He turned to Crane once more.

  “Now, Inspector—quickly. What happened?”

  Crane nursed his injured hand.

  “You may well ask that, Mr. Temple,” he murmured ruefully. “I’m pretty much in the dark myself.”

  “But how did you get here?”

  “Well, I told you I’d see you at Luigi’s, so I went round there. Luigi said you’d left in a hurry, and I got the idea there was something wrong. So I came on here at once.”

  “By car?”

  “Taxi.”

  “Go on, Inspector.”

  “Well, as I was coming up in the lift I heard a revolver shot. 1 couldn’t be sure it was this flat, of course, but I found the door open, and – well, this girl was there on the floor.”