Send for Paul Temple Again!

by Francis Durbridge

  Once again there was a scuffling noise, and they held their breath and stood silently in the shadows. Then Temple began to make his way cautiously round the room, moving a foot or two at a time very slowly, in case any of the floorboards were rotten.

  “What was that?” exclaimed Steve suddenly.

  Once more they stood and listened. Beneath their feet they could hear a queer strangled noise that might have been a man’s voice, or yet again might have emanated from an animal in pain.

  “It’s coming from down below,” said Steve softly.

  Temple dropped on to his knees and was presently able to hear what sounded like a cry for help, very faint and muffled.

  “By Timothy! I believe it’s Brent!” he exclaimed. Once again they heard the cry, this time more distinctly.

  “Leo!” he shouted. “Leo! Where are you?”

  “In the cellar,” came the muffled reply. “Down below in the cellar.”

  Temple switched on his torch and a couple of seconds later he located an iron ring in the middle of the floor. He clasped it with both hands and wrenched at it desperately. Then he noticed that the trapdoor was secured by a long bolt at the side. When he had released this, he was able to lift the trap without very much difficulty.

  “Is that you, Temple?” came a weak voice from out of the darkness. Temple flashed the torch around the cellar, and located Brent lying in a distant corner. His hair was very dishevelled, his face pale under a coating of grime, and he was lying in a peculiar position as if he was suffering considerable pain.

  “All right, Leo, I’m coming down,” said Temple quickly. He started to climb down the narrow ladder which was hooked to the ceiling of the cellar.

  “Do be careful, Paul,” urged Steve in some trepidation.

  “Are you hurt, Leo?” he asked as he climbed down.

  “I’ll say!” sighed the weary voice. “I’ve caught a packet all right. Busted my right leg. Gee! Am I glad to see you!”

  Temple shone his torch on the clammy walls and cobwebbed ceiling as he made his way over to the corner. He bent down and looked at Brent’s leg.

  “I’m afraid it’s broken, old man,” he murmured presently.

  “You’re telling me!” winced Brent. Temple noticed that perspiration was dripping from his forehead, and had made grotesque streaks through the grime on his face.

  “Boy! Am I glad to see you!” he repeated in a hoarse whisper. “I was just about giving up all hope of ever seeing daylight again.” Then he struggled to prop himself on his elbow, and asked, “But say, how come you got wise to this place, anyway?”

  Temple looked down at him, somewhat surprised.

  “I got your note.”

  “Note?” queried Brent in some mystification.

  “That’s right. The one you stuck behind the mirror.”

  Brent looked even more bewildered.

  “Are you kiddin’?” he asked slowly.

  Temple took the paper from his pocket and passed it over, holding the torch so that Brent could read it.

  “This isn’t my writing,” said the injured man at once. “You should have known that, Temple.”

  “It’s years since I saw your writing—I’d forgotten—” Temple admitted. “All the same, it’s just as well—”

  He broke off as there came the sound of a woman’s scream.

  Temple rushed to the foot of the ladder.

  “Steve!” He had only climbed a couple of rungs when the trapdoor slammed down heavily and he heard the bolt shot.

  There were sounds of struggling, but Steve’s screams had obviously been stifled. Temple ran up to the top of the ladder and tried to lift the trapdoor. Time and again he strained frantically but without avail. Brent tried to struggle into an upright position.

  “If only I could get up—” he whispered.

  Temple continued to beat on the door and shout to Steve, but there was silence in the room above now. Suddenly, Temple’s cries were interrupted by the harsh whirring sound of a dynamo.

  “Temple! What’s that?” called Brent weakly.

  Temple came back slowly down the ladder, listening intently.

  From the far side of the wall came a gentle swishing sound and a loud rumble.

  “It’s—it’s the wheel!” exclaimed Temple, switching off his torch, and standing at the foot of the ladder.

  “The water-wheel!” said Brent. “Say, what in hell is the big idea? What are those devils up to?”

  Temple looked round desperately without replying. He was seeking for something to batter open the trapdoor, but the cellar was bare of any suitable instrument. Presently, Brent called softly: “Hey, Temple! The floor’s wet! There’s water coming from somewhere—”

  Temple switched on his torch and saw pools of water forming round his feet.

  He swung the beam quickly round the walls, and picked out a small grating near the ceiling. Water was pouring through it in a steady stream.

  “Temple! They’re pumping water into the cellar! They’re flooding the place!”

  There was a note of terror in Brent’s voice now.

  Temple leapt to the top of the ladder again and began to beat upon the trapdoor.

  “We’ll be drowned like rats!” cried Brent. “It’s coming in faster now! There’s a couple of inches of water already!”

  Once more Temple hammered at the trapdoor.

  “My God! They can’t leave us like this! They can’t . . .” gasped Brent in a dazed voice. Suddenly, his head dropped. Obviously, the pain he had endured and the present ordeal had been too much for him . . .

  The grinding of the water-wheel was the only sound which broke the silence.

  Chapter XV

  FORBES TO THE RESCUE

  After Paul Temple and Steve had left, Forbes lay back in his armchair and gazed thoughtfully into the fire. To Forbes there was a certain unknown element in Rex’s make-up, something which he almost feared as many men approaching old age fear some innovation which may disrupt their daily lives. Forbes had contended with all types in his day, but most of the criminals had been of the more leisurely and casual type. Rex’s high pressure methods of dealing in wholesale blackmail were outside Forbes’ experience, and he found them almost as terrifying as the advent of the gangsters to Chicago. It was Rex’s elusive qualities which baffled Forbes, who was more than capable of dealing with the average criminal mentality by his relentless routine methods. He even welcomed a dangerous situation if it was likely to provide an ultimate solution to a crime. But the manner in which Rex brought off his coups at lightning speed, leaving no clue and no obvious hint of a motive, had Forbes continually groping in the dark, clutching at the slightest clue, which as often as not turned out to have been planted by Rex himself.

  One after another, Forbes reviewed his suspects. Mr. Trevelyan, Doctor Kohima. That little Welsh fellow . . . The trouble with these blackmail cases there was so much complicated lying. Forbes knew only too well that even highly respectable people told the most insidious lies under the pressure of the blackmailer. Having achieved a position in society, they strove desperately to maintain it.

  Now there was this new complication, reflected Sir Graham. If that had been a faked telephone call from Canterbury as Temple suggested, then Temple and Steve were going down to Canterbury alone, probably to encounter Rex himself. Of course, it may have been only a ruse to draw Temple away from London, but in the light of that letter he’d received it looked as if Rex was out to remove Temple from his path.

  Forbes started when he suddenly heard a polite voice inquire if he would like another drink. He turned and saw Ricky, who had entered noiselessly, standing at his side with hands folded and a deferential smile. Forbes levered himself upright.

  “No, thanks, Ricky,” he replied, “I’ve got to be getting along.”

  At the door, he hesitated, then said:

  “If Mr. Temple should telephone and you—er—you think it’s anything urgent, you had better ring up Scotland Yard at once.
”

  Ricky inclined his head.

  “Very good, Sir Graham. I will see to it,” he replied gravely.

  Forbes eyed him dubiously for a moment, then went on his way.

  On arrival at the Yard, he went straight to the room where Mrs. Trevelyan was being kept in custody.

  It was quite comfortably furnished, and Mrs. Trevelyan was sitting in an armchair reading when Forbes entered.

  She looked up anxiously.

  “Is he all right?” she demanded eagerly.

  For a moment it did not occur to Forbes that she was referring to Doctor Kohima. His thoughts were still on Temple, and he replied mechanically:

  “Oh yes—he’s just gone to Canterbury.”

  Mrs. Trevelyan leapt to her feet.

  “No!” she cried. “Not the Royal Falcon Hotel! You mustn’t let him!”

  Without enlightening her, Forbes asked quickly: “What do you know about the Royal Falcon?”

  “Nothing except that the letters come from there. The letters from Rex. Sir Graham, why should Doctor Kohima—”

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Trevelyan,” replied Forbes curtly. “It isn’t Doctor Kohima who’s gone down to Canterbury – it’s Mr. and Mrs. Temple.”

  An obvious look of relief relaxed her tired features.

  “Oh well, I daresay Mr. Temple can take care of himself,” she said rather doubtfully.

  “Are you quite sure there’s nothing else you can tell me about the Royal Falcon?” persisted Sir Graham. She shook her head.

  “When are you going to release me?” she asked presently.

  Forbes shrugged.

  “Very soon, I hope. I hope you appreciate that I am keeping you here chiefly for your own safety.”

  “And also because you wish to prevent Rex from blackmailing me again – or trying to?” she suggested.

  “Next time, he might not be content with blackmail,” said Forbes.

  She shuddered. Then a thought struck her.

  “Do you think he might try to contact Doctor Kohima?” she asked nervously.

  “I’ve thought of that,” he answered. “Two of my best men are keeping a close watch.”

  She gripped the arms of her chair until her knuckles showed white.

  “I do hope he’ll be all right,” she whispered.

  “If you two would stop worrying about each other, it might simplify matters quite a lot,” said Forbes, going to the door.

  Still feeling vaguely disturbed about Temple and Steve, having been denied the assurance he had actually sought from Mrs. Trevelyan, he went along to Crane’s office, where he found the inspector going through some earlier reports connected with the case. After some hesitation, Forbes told Crane what had happened at the Temples’ flat that evening.

  Crane immediately began to look serious.

  “You mean Mr. and Mrs. Temple have gone to Canterbury alone?” he asked at last.

  Forbes nodded.

  “I don’t like the sound of it, sir,” said Crane. “Think I’d better get through to Mason down there and just check up—”

  “No!” replied Forbes with sudden resolution. “You and I will go down there.”

  “You mean now?” queried Crane, a little surprised.

  “No time to be lost. Ring down for a car, will you?”

  “Certainly,” agreed Crane, picking up the receiver and giving the necessary instructions.

  Sir Graham and Crane left the car at a garage near the Royal Falcon Hotel, and walked round to the front entrance. It was dark now, but they could not fail to recognise a familiar figure leaving the hotel.

  “It’s that Welsh fellow,” exclaimed Forbes, gripping the inspector’s arm. They watched Davis get into a small touring car.

  “He’s heading for the Faversham road,” said Crane.

  “Come on, Crane, we’ll follow him,” said Forbes, making a snap decision. “I’ve a feeling he’s up to something.”

  They surprised the garage attendant by demanding their car again.

  In a very short time the fast police car had the tourer in sight.

  Paul Temple slowly climbed back down the ladder and tried to review the situation, but the throbbing of the water-wheel and a gentle gurgling of incoming waters seemed to prevent him from thinking clearly. If he had been on his own it wouldn’t have seemed so bad; but the unconscious form of Brent in the distant corner was an added burden that seemed quite overwhelming. He went over to Brent and managed to prop him upright. As he did so, the American opened his eyes and seemed to recover a little.

  “Say, this is one heck of a situation,” he whispered. “What are we going to do, Temple?”

  Temple looked round in desperation, then said: “I’ll have to get you over to that ladder, Leo – the water’s rising pretty fast. Think you can manage to hold on?”

  “Think you can carry me?” replied Brent with a rueful smile. “Guess I weigh the best part of hundred and sixty pounds.”

  “We’ll have a shot, anyhow,” said Temple, stooping down. “Lock your hands round my neck, Leo, say when you’re ready for me to lift.”

  It proved to be more of an effort for Brent than for Temple. Brent’s leg was agonisingly painful, and he fainted twice and slid back into the water before they finally completed their journey.

  At the foot of the ladder, Temple said: “I’ll have to lift you up somehow, Leo, even if it is one rung at a time! I only hope to goodness it holds!”

  Temple was about to make his first effort, for the water was over a foot deep by this time, when he imagined he heard a footstep above.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked Brent.

  “No,” gasped the American, “I can only hear that damned water!”

  Temple listened again, then suddenly shouted at the top of his voice. From the room above there came an answering hail.

  “By Timothy! It’s Forbes!” cried Temple, lifting his voice once more and calling: “Sir Graham! Sir Graham!”

  He ran to the top of the ladder and beat upon the trapdoor. Almost at once, the bolt shot back, and Temple saw Forbes and Crane looking down at them.

  “Where’s Steve?” was Temple’s first question.

  “She’s all right,” Forbes told him. “She’s out in the fresh air, she fainted—”

  “I’ve got Brent down here! His leg’s broken – we’ll have to get him up somehow,” explained Temple jerkily.

  “It’s all right, Mr. Temple,” put in Crane. I’ve got a rope here – I’ll come down . . .”

  Temple descended the ladder again and Crane joined him, paying out the rope which Sir Graham held from above. Crane tied it neatly under Brent’s arms, then with the help of Temple lifted him on to his stocky shoulders. As Crane slowly ascended the ladder, Sir Graham took a good deal of the weight of his burden on the rope. The water was pouring in by this time, and when Temple followed them up the ladder, it was over four feet deep. In another twenty minutes or so they would have been drowned. While they were sitting on the floor recovering from their exertions, Steve came in, walking a trifle uncertainly. She was overcome with relief on seeing her husband, and both she and Temple started talking simultaneously, while Crane began to contrive an amateurish splint for Brent’s leg.

  “I was watching you go down the cellar, Paul,” explained Steve breathlessly, “when somebody suddenly came up behind and put their hand over my face.”

  “A man’s hand?” queried Temple.

  “Oh yes—no doubt about that. I nearly screamed myself hoarse . . .”

  “We heard you, darling,” he told her with a slight smile.

  “You didn’t see this man, Steve?” asked Forbes.

  “No, I’m afraid I didn’t. He put a handkerchief over my face – I think it had chloroform or something on it. The next I remember was Inspector Crane here shaking my shoulder – he carried me outside and I soon came round . . .”

  “How did you get here, Inspector?” asked Temple curiously.

  Crane paused a moment in his
efforts to fashion a splint and said, “Better ask Sir Graham.”

  “Well, Sir Graham?” said Temple.

  “It’s rather a long story, Temple,” replied Forbes. “But the person who actually brought us this last stage of the journey was your old friend, Wilfred Davis.”

  “Good Lord!” exclaimed Temple softly. “You mean you followed him here?”

  “Yes, and he must be still around somewhere unless he’s made a getaway. We lost trace of him just as we found Steve.”

  “Sir Graham, d’you think we ought to go and search for him?” began Crane, looking up from the splints.

  Forbes waved this aside.

  “We can pull him in any time we want him. I’ve got the number of his car, and we can circulate an accurate description.”

  “You don’t think Davis is Rex, do you, Mr. Temple?” inquired Crane curiously. “I had my suspicions of Doctor Kohima, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “Shall I help you with the bandage, Inspector?” asked Steve. “Oh—and here’s some smelling-salts, Leo.”

  “Thanks, Steve,” said Brent gratefully. He sniffed and seemed much more comfortable. In fact, he began to join in the conversation, and murmured:

  “Say, I’m beginning to get pretty interested in this case of yours, Temple. It gets better as it goes on.” He paused, then added softly, “I suppose, Temple, you wouldn’t have any idea who this fellow Rex is?”

  “Nobody knows that, Mr. Brent,” snapped Forbes.

  “Do you, Temple?” persisted Brent. There was a noticeable pause.

  “Yes,” said Temple at last. “I know.”

  It seemed to be a second or two before Sir Graham appreciated the implications of Temple’s reply.

  “Darling,” said Steve anxiously, “are you sure you’re all right? It isn’t like you to make rash statements, and I don’t see how you can possibly—”

  “Temple, are you serious!” broke in Forbes incredulously.