Send for Paul Temple Again!

by Francis Durbridge

  “I haven’t got you into it, yet,” Temple reminded him. “And I came here for another reason as well as to inquire into the death of the girl in brown.”

  Lathom stopped his pacing abruptly.

  “You mean there’s something else you haven’t told me?”

  “I think,” said Temple deliberately, “that you ought to be warned.”

  “Warned?” repeated Lathom in a puzzled tone. “Warned about what?”

  Temple stubbed out his cigarette and said quietly:

  “About Rex.”

  Lathom sank on to the arm of a chair.

  “But, good heavens, why?” he demanded in bewilderment.

  “I have a feeling that Rex may not be very impressed by the fact that you consulted me about that attempt at blackmail.”

  “Yes, but I followed his instructions – the notes were there, and Mrs. Trevelyan went to collect—”

  “Do you think Mrs. Trevelyan is Rex?”

  “No! No!” exclaimed Lathom forcibly. “I told Mrs. Temple as much earlier on this evening. But you have to admit that the circumstantial evidence against Mrs. Trevelyan is fairly strong. She did turn up at Haybourne, didn’t she? I should imagine she’ll find it difficult to convince the police that she isn’t implicated.”

  Temple stood up and leaned against the mantelpiece.

  “You can take it from me, Lathom,” he said, “that Sir Graham Forbes is pretty well convinced that Mrs. Trevelyan is not Rex.”

  “Of course,” nodded Lathom excitedly. “She’s not the type. Anyone can see that.”

  “Whom would you consider to be the type?”

  “Don’t ask me. I only know Mrs. Trevelyan isn’t.”

  He flung himself into his chair and gazed morosely into the fire. Presently, he asked:

  “What do you suppose Rex will do, Temple, if he knows that I consulted you about that letter?”

  Temple shrugged.

  “That’s what you meant when you said I ought to be warned, isn’t it?” Lathom persisted.

  “That’s what I meant,” replied Temple in a voice from which all sign of emotion was deliberately suppressed.

  Lathom caught his breath.

  “You think I’m in danger, don’t you?” There was an expression of tautness on his lean features.

  “Well,” said Temple reassuringly, “there’s no need to get alarmed, but I should certainly watch your step, Mr. Lathom.”

  Chapter XIV

  NO PICNIC AT CLAYWOOD MILL

  Paul Temple accompanied Inspector Crane to the mortuary. The latter exchanged a few words with the attendant in charge, who jerked an expressive thumb towards the distant corner. Temple lifted a corner of the sheet and looked down at the girl who had once worn brown. Her face was waxen, and was thrown into vivid relief by her chestnut red hair. The bullet wound had congealed to a small red daub, partially covered by her hair. Temple noted that she had shapely, well-manicured hands, and both finger- and toe-nails were painted a vivid red. It was obvious, too, that her lips and eyes had been quite generously made-up.

  “Queer business, Mr. Temple,” muttered Crane.

  Temple slowly replaced the sheet.

  “Did they find the bullet?” he asked.

  “Yes, it was embedded in the skull. Markham found it when he did the post-mortem. It’s just an ordinary bullet from a .33.”

  “Fired from a distance, of course; otherwise there would have been powder burns.”

  “Yes, I should imagine she heard the murderer come in, turned quickly to see who it was, and he fired right away from the door. The bullet would have entered at about that angle.”

  “Which doesn’t help us very much, does it, Inspector?” Temple hesitated, then added casually, “By the way, didn’t I hear that the Yard had a new issue of .33s the other week?”

  “That’s correct, sir,” replied the inspector. “But they’re kept strictly under lock and key in the armoury, and only issued for special jobs.”

  “But I suppose they would be available to certain senior officers in case of sudden emergency?”

  “I expect so, sir. Can’t say that I carry one very often myself, so I don’t take very much interest.”

  They came out of the mortuary and stood at the top of the steps in the pleasant morning sunshine.

  “What about the girl’s personal belongings?” queried Temple.

  “There’s only her handbag of much interest, sir,” replied the inspector. Her clothes are American as far as we can trace – her bag, too. No strange fingerprints on it or on any of the contents. You’d better come up to my office and look ‘em over.”

  They walked across to Crane’s office, and Temple apologised for his prolonged absence on the previous evening. Crane explained that he had merely wished to sound Temple a little further concerning the possibility of Mrs. Trevelyan’s contacts with Rex, and whether it might not be an idea to release her from custody, keeping her under close observation.

  Temple shook his head dubiously.

  “I rather doubt it, Inspector,” he replied thoughtfully. “You see, Rex knows that contact with Mrs. Trevelyan would be rather dangerous just now.”

  “Yes, I agree,” said Crane, “but don’t you think he might try to—”

  “To add her to the list of victims?” concluded Temple. “Yes, I think that’s more than probable. But knowing Rex’s cunning, I don’t think we’d be justified in making a stool-pigeon out of her. No matter how you guard her, Rex holds the master card – that of surprise. He can wait for days for the precise second in which to pounce. No, Crane, I don’t think we should risk it.”

  “I’m rather inclined to agree with you, Mr. Temple. It just occurred to me that it might provide a sort of short cut.”

  They had reached Crane’s office by this time, and Temple saw the brown handbag lying on the desk.

  “Yes, this is American all right,” pronounced Temple, opening the bag, which contained the usual miscellaneous collection of feminine accessories. Mirror, lipsticks, comb, powder compact, cigarette-case and lighter. But there was nothing to afford the slightest clue to the owner’s identity. Temple emptied them out on the desk and casually turned them over with his forefinger.

  “Nothing much here, Inspector. Just a minute though . . .” He was busily feeling inside the bag. “There seems to be a card of some sort sewn in the lining,” he told the inspector, who at once produced a penknife. Temple slit the lining and presently extracted a neat little visiting-card on which was printed:

  Walter Ayrton, 77a Soho Square, W.l.

  Temple passed it over to Crane, who whistled softly.

  “Ayrton, eh?”

  “D’you know him?”

  “I certainly do.”

  “What’s his line?”

  “Walter Ayrton,” said Crane emphatically, “is one of the smartest private investigators I’ve ever come across in his own particular line.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “He specialises almost exclusively in blackmail.”

  “Then he manages to keep it pretty dark,” said Temple. “Can’t say I’ve ever come across him.”

  “That’s just it, sir. He likes to play a lone hand. Conducts every investigation with great secrecy, and only takes on a very limited number of cases. Keeps out of the way of the police if he can, and there are times when his methods are a bit—well-unorthodox. But Ayrton gets results, Mr. Temple, and his clients pay him well. I happened to come across him in that big Salisbury case a year ago. It isn’t often that Ayrton’s cases come into court, but this one did, and I was assigned to it.”

  “And have you any idea what possible connection he can have with this dead girl?”

  Crane shook his head rather ponderously.

  “No idea, sir. But I can ring him up and find out.”

  “Ask him if we can go round and see him.”

  The inspector pulled the telephone towards him and his conversation was short and somewhat cryptic, but he replaced the re
ceiver with a satisfied smile.

  “He’ll be in his office all morning,” Crane announced.

  “Good, then I think we may as well go round right away. My car’s outside – nothing like striking while the iron’s hot.”

  Temple was a little surprised to find that Walter Ayrton was a youngish-looking man, with alert grey eyes, a long, thin nose and a small toothbrush moustache. His office was furnished almost luxuriously, for he appeared to realise that his clients must be placed at their ease and given an impression of the solidarity of the investigator. Temple was very impressed by this genial young man, for he looked the type who would not hesitate to make a quick decision and act upon it. Moreover, there was an air of extreme reliability behind his apparently casual manner.

  “This is certainly an honour, Mr. Temple,” he said after Crane had performed the introduction. “It seems to be an occasion for producing a box of my very best cigars.” And he dived into a drawer in search of the box in question, which he offered to his visitors.

  “Well, I’ve heard enough about you, Mr. Temple, to know that you haven’t just dropped in to pass the time of day,” smiled Ayrton when the cigars were drawing satisfactorily.

  Temple grinned back.

  “From what I’ve heard about you from the inspector, Mr. Ayrton, I shouldn’t presume to trespass upon your valuable time unless the matter was fairly important.”

  Ayrton leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers.

  “Well,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

  Crane passed over the card and told him where they had found it. Ayrton’s face at once took on a serious expression. Then the inspector went on to give a short description of the dead girl, but Ayrton stopped him.

  “Poor kid,” he murmured quietly. “It’s all right, Inspector, I can tell you who she is.”

  “Perhaps you’ll tell us first how your card comes to be sewn inside her handbag,” suggested Temple.

  “That’s soon explained. In New York, Mr. Temple, I have an agent named Myers—Jeff Myers.”

  “You mean the F.B.I. man,” said Temple. “I heard of Myers when I was out there.”

  “We have a sort of working agreement, Jeff and I,” proceeded Ayrton. “I help him out if he wants it on this side, and he gets me any information I need from over there. Sometimes we pass on clients to each other. Nothing cut and dried between us – we just give a hand where necessary, and up to now it’s worked out pretty well. A few months back, this young lady we’re talking about came to see me with a letter of introduction from Jeff. Seems she was one of his best assistants, and a client had specially asked for her to come over on a tricky job.”

  “She gave you her name, of course,” said Crane.

  “Yes—it was Carol Reagan. She’s fairly well-known over there for handling cases of blackmail by women. Myers used to give her a fairly free hand in that line.”

  “You’ve no idea who the client was who asked her to come over here?” queried Temple.

  “Yes, indeed. It was Norma Rice, the actress. The one who was murdered. I remember Miss Reagan telling me just afterwards. She was pretty furious that the blackmailer had called her bluff when she advised Norma Rice not to pay up, and she swore she’d find out who it was.”

  “Why didn’t you give us the tip before?” put in Crane with a slightly injured air. “We’ve been chasing this girl in brown high and low – at least Mr. Temple has – under the impression that she was playing in with Rex.”

  Ayrton smiled whimsically.

  “I’ve got worries of my own, you know,” he said. “What’s more, I was supposed to keep out of the business except in case of emergency. She said she wouldn’t trouble me unless she was completely up against it, and didn’t feel she could handle things herself.”

  “Then why did she go to Temple?” asked Crane.

  “Maybe she thought I knew more about the case, or yet again she may have discovered something that gave her the idea that I was in danger,” suggested Temple.

  Ayrton shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’ve told you all I know,” he said. “You have my sympathy, both of you. This man Rex seems to be a dangerous merchant. It isn’t often blackmailers go in for murder; they usually haven’t got the guts.”

  He knocked the ash off his cigar.

  “Of course, if there’s anything else I can tell you,” he offered, “I’ll be only too glad. I’m afraid I haven’t been able to help you very much.”

  “On the contrary,” Temple assured him, “you’ve been a great help, Mr. Ayrton. You’ve helped me to clear up one side of the case at any rate, and I can’t tell you what a relief that is.”

  Ayrton accompanied them to the door.

  “I should be glad to know if you get any more news about this job,” he said. “I’ll have to telephone Jeff Myers, and I expect he’ll want the lowdown. Of course, it’s just possible that Myers may know something about the case, but I very much doubt it. The Reagan girl gave me the impression that she was playing a lone hand.”

  “I’ll let you know, Ayrton, if anything breaks,” promised Crane. “See you at the inquest.”

  “He seems a competent fellow,” commented Temple as they sat in the car on their way back to the Yard.

  “That’s the sort of job I fancy when I retire,” Crane confided. “I’ve always found blackmail more interesting than any other form of crime.”

  “There are occasions, like the present, when it’s inclined to be just a little worrying, too!” Temple grimly reminded him.

  “Anyhow, it’s well paid – the investigation I mean,” declared Crane. “When a man’s being blackmailed for thousands, he’s only too relieved to pay up a few hundred to get out of the mess. I sometimes think it must be a bit of a temptation to fellows like Ayrton not to go in for a bit of quiet blackmail themselves.”

  “Ayrton certainly knows the ropes,” agreed Temple.

  At the Yard they bumped into Sir Graham Forbes, and Temple took the opportunity to invite him to dinner the following evening.

  That afternoon, Temple gave evidence at the inquest on Carol Reagan, the verdict after the very brief proceedings being: “Murder by a person or persons unknown.” The only other witnesses were Inspector Crane and Walter Ayrton, who identified the dead woman.

  Temple was working on his novel that evening when Steve came to tell him that Doctor Kohima wanted to speak to him on the telephone.

  “What can I do for you, Doctor?” asked Temple politely, as he picked up the receiver.

  “It’s about my secretary – she is still being detained,” came the doctor’s voice in which there was a note of anxiety, despite his guarded manner.

  “I can assure you that it’s for the best, Doctor,” said Temple. “At the most, it shouldn’t be for more than a few days now.”

  “But it’s so miserable for her,” protested Kohima. “She is a freedom-loving sort of person, and she’s cooped up there—”

  “She has quite a nice room, and a certain number of luxuries,” Temple informed him. “This should be a good opportunity for her to rest and relax. She’s been under quite a big strain—”

  “I know, I know,” broke in Kohima impatiently, “but Scotland Yard is hardly the environment for relaxation. I’m sure she’d be quite safe here at my house—”

  “I’m not so sure,” replied Temple grimly.

  “There is such a thing as Habeas Corpus, you know, Mr. Temple.”

  “So there is, Doctor. And you’ll find it still operates, but by the time you get the warrant I’m pretty certain Mrs. Trevelyan will be free once more.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Doctor Kohima rather abruptly, and rang off.

  Steve, who had heard half the conversation and guessed the remainder, asked, “Paul, is Mrs. Trevelyan still—”

  “Still under lock and key,” he nodded. “She seemed quite indifferent about it when I saw her this morning. And it serves more purposes than one. Of course, it’s natural for Koh
ima to be a bit agitated.”

  “D’you think he’s upset because he’s in love with her—or because he is Rex?” demanded Steve suddenly. “All this business about lending her that money and being in love with her might be part of a cleverly worked out piece of bluff.”

  Temple grinned.

  “Darling, don’t tell me you’ve lost all faith in human nature, too!”

  “I wouldn’t say that, Paul. But it becomes increasingly obvious that Rex is a person with a degree of low cunning that’s simply Machiavellian, and it isn’t easy to—”

  Temple patted her shoulder.

  “All right, darling, you get on with your knitting. I’ve a feeling that Rex is going to make the traditional fatal mistake any day now. We’re all set ready to take advantage of it.”

  “I’ve an awful feeling that he’ll do something very desperate before he throws in his hand,” said Steve in some trepidation. “I very much doubt if he’ll let you take him alive.”

  “That’s his lookout, surely,” said Temple blandly.

  “Don’t be so confident, darling. Remember what a narrow escape we had when The Marquis set fire to the October Hotel[3].”

  Temple smiled pleasantly.

  “Kindly concentrate on your knitting, Steve – it looks even more shapeless than ever!”

  And he went back to his study.

  The following morning, Temple collected his mail from the usual table in the hall. Running rapidly through them, he stopped and looked again at an envelope that bore the Hampstead postmark and a typewritten address. He paused to examine the typed characters, then quickly thrust the letter into his coat pocket, carrying the others with him to read at the breakfast table. It was not until he was alone in his study after breakfast that he read the typewritten letter. Then he refolded it very carefully and replaced it in his pocket. Whatever its contents, they did not seem to interfere with his day’s work, for he typed industriously until tea-time, with only a short break for lunch.