Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘Yes—er—yes, just so,’ replied the sergeant, not too intelligently. He felt perplexed and, for some strange reason, Miss Parchment embarrassed him.

  ‘Could I have your full name and permanent address?’ he asked gruffly, trying to make his voice as formal and official as possible, but with little success.

  ‘Amelia Victoria Parchment,’ said Miss Parchment, as the sergeant commenced to write, ‘47B, Brook Street, London, W.1.’ With a word of thanks, that was more a sigh of gratitude that this part was all over, he turned back to Horace Daley. There was still the point to be cleared up of how the murderer, if any, could have made good his escape.

  Temple had been sitting in his car immediately outside the inn during the actual tragedy, and he was certain that nobody had left or entered from the front of the inn. And the back was apparently impossible. Was it, after all then, a question of suicide?

  ‘Now, Mr. Daley,’ the sergeant said, this time with slightly more respect in his voice, ‘could anyone have come in here whilst you were in the back parlour?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘They could ’ave come from either upstairs or from the street.’

  ‘What about from the back,’ the sergeant persisted; ‘there’s an open courtyard, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s no way o’ gettin’ into the inn except through the back parlour, an’ I was in there all the time.’

  Sergeant Morrison grunted heavily. The mystery was too much for him.

  At that moment the door behind the bar counter opened, and Police Constable Hodges reappeared. He pushed open the flap, waddled through rather than walked, and finally came to rest in front of his superior officer.

  ‘There’s nothing in the courtyard, sir,’ he reported, ‘except a lot of blessed pigeons.’

  Horace Daley suppressed a smile.

  The sergeant again started an examination of the room. He peered out of the window and went into Daley’s sitting-room next door. He stayed about five minutes, not knowing what he expected to find, but nevertheless diligently searching every corner. Close on his heels followed Horace Daley, while the rest of the party stayed in the parlour, talking quietly of the tragedy that had suddenly enveloped them.

  It seemed clear that the murderer, whoever he was, could not have entered by the sitting-room. Next, the sergeant opened the door to the hall and slowly mounted the stairs. There was little the sergeant did not examine. He inspected every room, opened every window, looked into every cupboard, almost as if the murderer might still be hidden on the premises somewhere.

  At length he returned downstairs, feeling that it was all far more than he could tackle by himself and that the inspector ought to be consulted before anything further was done. He was, at any rate, sure that the murderer – if murder it was – was no longer on the premises, and for the moment there seemed little else to be done. Fingerprints might be taken as a matter of routine, but the bar parlour was used by many different people every day, including chance motorists who felt attracted by the inn’s inviting old exterior, and stopped for some refreshment. They could therefore expect to find only a confused medley of fingerprints which it was unlikely would help them very far. The fingerprints on the revolver itself he felt certain would prove to be exclusively Harvey’s.

  ‘I wonder if you’d mind running me back to the station, Mr. Temple?’ he asked. ‘I feel that I ought to have a word with Inspector Merritt about this.’

  The novelist agreed. He walked over to the bench in the corner of the room where he had flung down his overcoat, and prepared to face the outer coldness of the night. Then, taking his leave of the others, he left the room to start up the car and warm the engine for the run down to the police station. Meanwhile, the sergeant was apologizing to Dr. Milton.

  ‘The police “doc.” is down with the “flu”,’ he explained, ‘and Mr. Temple suggested that you might—’

  The doctor cut short his apologies. ‘Only too glad to be of service, Sergeant. Think nothing of it.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ the sergeant replied courteously. Then he turned to where Miss Parchment was still sitting with quiet self-effacement.

  ‘You can go to your room, Miss Parchment. I doubt whether the inspector will want to see you tonight.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ she replied. ‘Good night, Sergeant. Good night,’ she added, turning to the others. She wrapped her lace shawl around her neck, and with a parting smile for everyone, she opened the door and was gone.

  Throughout the whole trying period, she had remained completely calm and collected. The sight of the body, and the blood now congealing on the back of the head, had not in the least upset her. Not so Horace Daley. Even now, when he might be expected to have grown accustomed to the sight of the body, he was still feeling singularly repelled.

  ‘I say,’ he burst out at last, addressing the sergeant, ‘what the ’ell’s goin’ to happen to this fellow? We just can’t leave ’im ’ere all night!’

  ‘I’ll attend to that, Daley,’ said the sergeant, turning his back on the innkeeper and addressing the constable. ‘Hodges, I think you’d better wait at the front – and don’t let anyone enter.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ The constable buttoned up his greatcoat, and went outside to take up his station.

  The sergeant took one last look round the room to make certain there was nothing he had omitted. He felt he had done all he could, and turned to Dr. Milton.

  ‘We’ll be as quick as we can, Doctor,’ he said.

  ‘That’s all right, Sergeant.’

  He let himself out and hurried to the car where Temple sat waiting, the engine of the car purring, ready to leap away. He nodded to Hodges in passing, and even as he shut the door of the car, Temple was lifting his foot from the clutch pedal and pressing down the accelerator. The brilliant headlamps threw into light the wide sweep of road ahead, and the great car disappeared into the night.

  Inside the bar parlour, Dr. Milton and Horace Daley were left alone. For perhaps five minutes neither of them spoke. Both sat on the hard benches of the bar parlour, now gazing at the body, now turning away to stare idly into space.

  It was Horace Daley who broke the silence.

  ‘They’ve gone!’ he said in a low voice, far too low for Constable Hodges to hear.

  The doctor nodded.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Horace suddenly, with a note of alarm in his voice. ‘I don’t like it.’

  There was an expression of contempt on Milton’s face. ‘Don’t be a damned fool,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘Everything’s turned out perfectly.’

  They relapsed into the same tense silence. Daley got up and walked across to the window. After a pause he turned.

  ‘Have you had any more information about the Leamington job?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the doctor. ‘It came through this morning.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘We meet on—Thursday.’

  Horace Daley whistled his surprise. ‘Thursday,’ he said. ‘Here – or at your place?’

  Dr. Milton smiled.

  ‘We meet here,’ he said at length, ‘in Room 7!’

  CHAPTER VI

  The Knave of Diamonds

  Paul Temple picked up his last fragment of toast and proceeded to double its size with butter. Then he carefully scraped up the marmalade left on his plate and lowered it gradually on to the precarious foundation. As the butter began to ooze on to his thumb and forefinger, he inserted it in his mouth and began to chew contentedly. Then he swilled it down with strong black coffee.

  Paul Temple had finished his breakfast.

  It was a little after nine on the Thursday morning after the death of Superintendent Harvey. Much had taken place during those two days, but little towards helping the police in elucidating the mystery. Nevertheless, his death and the subsequent police investigations were making admirable breakfast-time reading for some millions of honest, hardworking Britons. The case helped to stimulate their minds gently back to the reali
ties they would have to face during the coming day.

  Pryce, Paul Temple’s manservant, was regaling his master by reading out to him the accounts in the morning papers. Papers of various political hue and of various degrees of sensation were propped up on the table, against the marmalade jar, against the coffee pot, in fact, against every convenient object against which they could be propped. Nevertheless, Temple found it easier, conducive to good digestion, and infinitely preferable to have the accounts read aloud to him.

  He had a vast desire for the better things of life, and preferred to give his concentration to his bacon, toast and marmalade, and to gaze out of the French windows of his breakfast-room at Bramley Lodge on to the great trees and lovely undulating country outside. While Pryce was reading, he did not therefore have to yield him his full, undivided attention, but could take in the main essentials more or less subconsciously.

  Pryce picked up one of the more sober of the morning papers, circulating only in the Midlands, and started reading.

  ‘In a locked room at the police station here tonight, Chief Inspector Dale discussed with Mr. Paul Temple, the celebrated novelist, the incidents leading up to the tragic suicide of Superintendent Harvey of Scotland Yard. It is believed that, shortly before his death, Superintendent Harvey discussed with Mr. Temple the mysterious—’

  But Temple had had enough. ‘Righto, Pryce!’

  ‘Shall I read you what the Daily Page says, sir?’ asked Pryce.

  ‘No. I think we’ll leave that to the imagination.’ Temple poured himself out a little more coffee.

  ‘Did anyone call yesterday while I was at the station with Inspector Dale?’ he asked.

  ‘Several reporters, sir. Oh, and a rather elderly lady by the name of Miss Parchment.’

  Temple looked up in surprise. ‘Miss Parchment!’ he echoed, almost to himself. ‘Now what the devil does she want?’

  ‘The lady didn’t leave a message, sir.’

  Paul Temple extracted a cigarette from a nearby box, finished off his coffee, and strolled towards the open window. Below him, worn stone steps descended to a carefully planned garden where early flowers were already adding colour to a picturesque setting. The velvet lawn, its grass thick and smooth with the careful cutting, rolling and general tending of centuries, attracted him. Temple looked at a world far removed from the world of robbery and sudden death. But he was not allowed to digress for long. Pryce’s voice was recalling him back to reality.

  ‘I’m afraid several of the reporters will be returning this morning, sir. They seemed quite determined to have a word with you.’

  ‘I don’t want to see any of them,’ said Temple impatiently. The Press men had one by one been giving up their quest. They had found it far too unprofitable lying in wait for Paul Temple. Nor could they even obtain any pointers from his movements. Nevertheless, the bigger, sensational papers and the agencies had kept their men on in the hope that they might suddenly get a lead towards really big news. Most of the men were fairly certain that Harvey’s death was no suicide, and that it was closely bound up with the ‘Midland Mysteries’.

  Suddenly, a memory of something that seemed to belong to a bygone age came to Temple and he changed the topic.

  ‘By Timothy, I must get down to that serial, Pryce. I promised to let “Malpur’s” have the first instalment by the end of May.’

  But Pryce was not so easily led astray from the reports he had to make to his master. He had a very high idea, and ideal, of his duties as a manservant. Temple, he felt, needed a little guidance from time to time, especially with that section of his affairs over which Pryce held charge. The serial could wait. There were still weeks to go, not merely days. A long session with a dictaphone would very quickly see the end of the first instalment.

  ‘There was one reporter who seemed very insistent, sir,’ said Pryce. ‘She simply wouldn’t take “No!” for an answer.’

  Temple smiled. ‘Wouldn’t she, Pryce?’

  ‘A very pretty girl, too, sir,’ added Pryce. ‘If—er—I may say so?’

  ‘By all means say so, Pryce. A very pretty girl who wouldn’t take “No” for an answer. Sounds interesting.’

  Pryce was endeavouring to remember the young lady’s name. He had made a particular note of it at the time because he thought it had sounded a rather peculiar name for a member of the opposite sex.

  ‘Ah, I remember, sir,’ he said suddenly, ‘it was Trent. Miss Steve Trent.’

  Temple was not greatly interested but he forced himself to reply.

  ‘Well, if Miss Steve Trent calls round again you can tell her—’

  He did not complete the sentence. An electric bell started ringing. It was the bell to the front door.

  ‘It’ll be Inspector Dale,’ said Temple, as Pryce moved towards the hall.

  Temple stretched forth his arms in a mighty, luxurious yawn, tossed the cigarette he was smoking into the hearth, and proceeded to fill his pipe. One or other of his big briars was his constant companion. He went through an ounce and a half of tobacco every day although a doctor had warned him long before that two ounces a week should be his limit if he wished to keep his heart sound. The warning, like most other warnings he had received during his life, had not frightened him.

  His cultured manners and his breeding formed the best disguise and mask he could desire. There was nothing blunt about Paul Temple. To the casual acquaintance, he even seemed soft-hearted. But behind that smooth exterior was a forceful character and a courage that few even suspected the existence of. It showed only in his strange calmness which nothing could upset.

  He sat down on the slope which led down to the garden and savoured the fresh warm air of the new day. His dreams were cut short by the sound of excited voices in the hall. He listened and distinguished Pryce’s voice raised in loud expostulations while a woman’s voice alternated in more subdued tones.

  ‘I’m very sorry, madam,’ he heard Pryce saying, evidently trying to preserve his normal dignified bearing while at the same time forcibly trying to carry out his master’s bidding. ‘Mr. Temple is out.’

  Once again came the lower undertones of a woman’s voice, but Temple could not catch what she said. His curiosity was aroused, however, and he strode to the door and opened it to find Pryce barring the way to a pretty girl who did not look as if she were much more than twenty. Pryce was clearly not above using force. In fact, as Temple appeared, he was actually trying to push her out of the hall.

  But she had the advantage of youth and agility against Pryce’s age and bulk, and she had managed to make considerable progress through the hall when Temple came to see what was happening.

  ‘What the devil is all this?’ he exclaimed.

  Pryce was very illuminating.

  ‘It’s the young lady, sir,’ he managed to exclaim.

  ‘Which young lady?’

  ‘The—er—the reporter, sir.’

  Temple remembered Pryce’s description of the girl ‘who wouldn’t take “no!” for an answer,’ and smiled.

  ‘Oh. Oh, I see,’ he said quietly.

  The girl was smiling too.

  ‘May I come in?’ she asked pleasantly.

  Temple hesitated. ‘Yes, I think perhaps you’d better,’ he said at last.

  He led the way into the comfortable lounge where he had entertained Dr. Milton and Diana Thornley two days before. Unconsciously, he bowed his strange visitor into a comfortable armchair and produced Turkish and Virginia cigarettes for her to smoke. Miss Trent took one of the latter, lit it and smiled happily at him.

  ‘He’s very determined, isn’t he,’ she said, referring to Pryce.

  Temple, normally the most self-possessed of men, was taken aback.

  ‘Yes—er—yes, very.’ Then suddenly he remembered that even though his charming visitor was certainly more good-looking than Pryce had led him to expect, she had literally broken into his house.

  ‘I say, look here,’ he expostulated, ‘you can’t come bursting into people�
��s houses like this!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she started without seeming to display any great depths of misery, ‘but—’ And her voice tailed away as if she had other and far weightier topics to think about and discuss.

  ‘You are Paul Temple, aren’t you?’ she asked, almost abruptly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Temple quietly.

  Miss Trent had a knack of putting herself so completely in the right that Temple began to feel almost as if he were the offender.

  ‘I tried to see you yesterday, but your man said you were out.’

  ‘Well—er—what is it you wanted to see me about?’

  Steve Trent looked up at the man she had forced to be her host, and her face gradually became very serious.

  ‘Do you think Superintendent Harvey committed suicide?’ she asked.

  Temple looked at this pretty girl sitting before him with sudden interest. She was certainly a very earnest reporter.

  ‘My dear Miss Trent, I don’t see that it makes a great deal of difference what I think,’ he said non-committally.

  But Miss Trent was not so easily evaded.

  ‘Please! Please, answer my question. Do you think Superintendent Harvey committed suicide?’

  The words came with a rush. There was deep emotion in her voice.

  Temple stared at her with surprise in his eyes. ‘By Timothy, you are a remarkable young woman! First of all you insult my…’

  Miss Trent interrupted him.

  ‘You haven’t answered my question!’ she said firmly.

  Temple had encountered many reporters in the course of his career, but this girl was something new in his experience. That she was extremely pretty, Temple had seen as soon as he set foot in the hall during Pryce’s severe efforts to restrain her. But then many girl reporters are pretty. And like the beautiful, glamorous women spies of popular fiction, they can often use that beauty with great advantage, both while extracting information from unwilling victims and coping with recalcitrant editors!