Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  But there was something about Steve Trent that distinguished her from other women reporters in Fleet Street. Her eyes shone clear and bright, with no hard sophistication to mar them. Yet they spoke of experience, of difficulties, even dangers encountered. They were dark-blue eyes, one curiously lighter than the other, and they sparkled with the vivacity of her nature.

  She was now wearing an elegant costume of dark-green tweed under which the lustrous silk stockings that emphasized the contours of two admirable legs looked slightly incongruous. A rather shapeless deerstalker type of hat crowned her luxuriant blonde hair. In every respect, as Temple and everyone else who met her thought, she was an eminently attractive young woman, in dress, appearance and character. The sort of woman for whom Elizabethan poets would have torn their hair out searching for epithets sufficiently far-fetched.

  Temple took it all in, as he sat on the settee opposite her, wondering exactly what to make of this lovely young criminologist. At length he answered her question.

  ‘No!’ he said quietly. ‘I think Superintendent Harvey was murdered.’

  ‘I knew it! I knew it!’ exclaimed Steve Trent, her voice raising to a high pitch in sudden, unwonted excitement. ‘I knew they’d get him!’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Paul Temple with surprise.

  ‘Gerald Harvey was…a…friend of mine,’ said Steve Trent slowly.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he apologized. ‘My man told me that you were a reporter and…’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ she interrupted. ‘I’m on the staff of The Evening Post, but that’s not why I wanted to see you.’

  Again Temple looked at her queerly.

  ‘Why did you want to see me?’ he asked at length.

  Steve Trent appeared to think for a moment.

  ‘Because I need your help,’ she answered suddenly, ‘because I need your help more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life before.’

  Temple was obviously impressed by the urgency in her voice.

  ‘Was Harvey a great friend of yours?’ he asked.

  Steve nodded. ‘He was my brother,’ she said softly.

  ‘Your brother!’ exclaimed Temple, then: ‘When I suggested that your brother might have been murdered, you said: “I knew it! I knew it! I knew they’d get him!” What did you mean by “I knew they’d get him?”’

  Steve Trent, alias Louise Harvey, paused a moment, then asked him a question in return.

  ‘Why do you think my brother came to see you, Mr. Temple, the night he was murdered?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘I’m not at all certain that he had any particular reason.’

  ‘He had,’ she answered, ‘a very good reason.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘My brother was investigating the mysterious robberies which have been occurring. He had a theory about these robberies which I believe he wanted to discuss with you.’

  ‘A theory?’ queried Paul Temple.

  Slowly at first, then gradually gaining confidence, Steve Trent proceeded to tell him her story. It was the life history of herself and of Superintendent Gerald Harvey, the police chief. She had come to see Paul Temple, the novelist and criminologist, not as a reporter after a ‘story’, but to ask his help.

  ‘About eight years ago,’ she explained, ‘my brother was attached to what was then called the Service B.Y. It was a special branch of the Cape Town Constabulary. At this particular time, a very daring and successful gang of criminals were carrying out a series of raids on various jewellers within a certain area known as the Cape Town–Simonstown area. My brother and another officer, whose name I forget at the moment, were in charge of the case. After months of investigation, they discovered that the leader of the organization was a man who called himself the Knave of Diamonds, but whose real name was Max Lorraine.

  ‘Lorraine apparently was a well-educated man who at one time had occupied an important position at Columbia University. Eventually the organization was smashed – but the Knave had laid his plans carefully and he escaped. Two months later, the officer who had assisted my brother in the investigation was murdered. It was not a pleasant murder. This was followed almost immediately by two attempts on my brother’s life.’

  She paused. Paul Temple could see the look of horror in her eyes as the recollection of those terrible days came back to her.

  ‘Please go on,’ he said to her at last.

  Steve Trent looked up at him gratefully, then resumed her story. The circumstances of the murder of her brother’s fellow officer could never be explained.

  ‘A farmer came upon his lifeless body in a ditch by the roadside,’ she went on. ‘He had suddenly noticed a car by the roadside, apparently abandoned, but with its engine still running.

  ‘There were two bullet wounds in the head. One in the back which had evidently felled him, and one in his forehead, which might have been fired as he lay on the ground.

  ‘The attempts on Gerald’s life might quite well have been accidents. But somehow I don’t think they were. The first time, a large black saloon car, driven at a high speed, swerved and nearly knocked him down. That was just outside Cape Town.

  ‘In the other case, a large wooden crate containing a piano was being lowered from the upper floor of a house. Gerald happened to be passing: the house was only two or three doors from where he was living at the time. Suddenly, a rope slipped and the crate crashed down immediately in front of him.’

  Paul Temple muttered his interest. He waited for Steve to go on with what she had to say.

  ‘From the very first moment when Gerald was put in charge of this Midland case,’ she continued, ‘he had an uneasy feeling at the back of his mind that he was up against Max Lorraine. I saw him a few days before he came up to see you, and he told me then that he was almost certain that Max Lorraine, alias the Knave of Diamonds, was the real influence behind the robberies which he and Inspector Dale were investigating.’

  Steve paused. Then added, softly: ‘I think he was a little worried – and rather frightened.’

  For a long time Temple said nothing. He realized, only too well, the value of the story Steve Trent had poured out to him.

  ‘Had your brother discussed with Sir Graham, or any of his colleagues, his theory regarding this man Lorraine?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Miss Trent replied. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he knew only too well that they would never believe him.’

  ‘Never believe him?’ repeated Temple, puzzled.

  ‘The Knave is hardly the sort of person one can talk about – and sound convincing,’ she answered. ‘He’s like a character snatched from the most sensational thriller and inspired with a strange, satanic intellect.’ Steve Trent spoke in a slow monotone, as if reciting a well-learned lesson. She paused and looked up at Temple curiously.

  ‘You think that sounds silly, don’t you?’ she asked with a half-smile.

  ‘Well, er—’ Temple felt a little embarrassed to have his feelings so accurately analyzed, ‘it sounds a little unusual!’

  At all cost Steve Trent wanted Paul Temple to believe in her. To have complete faith in her story.

  ‘Mr. Temple!’ she spoke with the deepest emotion in her voice. ‘Do you believe me? Do you believe my story about this man – Lorraine?’

  Temple had been wavering. Now he made up his mind.

  ‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘Yes, I believe you. But tell me, did your brother ever see him; did they ever meet?’

  ‘No!’ she replied. ‘No, not once. But he knew his methods – he knew everything about him – and he was afraid.’

  Paul Temple at last put his pipe down; it had grown cold some time before. Now he plunged his hands into the pockets of his well-worn tweed jacket and finally brought out with some triumph a cherry-wood pipe. This he proceeded to fill with great deliberation. Filling a pipe was a very serious business with Paul Temple. If careful filling were going to provide him with a
better smoke, then carefully filled it should be. He applied the Principle of the Conservation of Energy to himself very literally, and had no intentions of wasting energy that could be better devoted to other purposes. After a few seconds had elapsed he pressed the bell-push by the side of the mantelpiece.

  Pryce’s face showed the surprise he felt when he came in. Fully convinced of some strange romance suddenly blossoming forth, his respect for the mental powers of the man he almost worshipped, decreased very violently. Although Miss Trent was very nearly thirty, Pryce numbered her with the bright young things, of whom he heartily disapproved.

  As soon as Pryce had received his instructions, Temple came back to the subject.

  ‘That night your brother came to my house, he told me that he was firmly convinced that a well-directed criminal organization existed. But he didn’t mention anything about this man – Max Lorraine. Why not, I wonder?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Steve Trent. ‘He intended to, I’m sure of that. He wanted your help over this case. He had a very great admiration for you.’ Then she produced another surprise.

  ‘It was Gerald who persuaded me to start the “Send for Paul Temple” campaign in The Evening Post!’

  The victim began to laugh. ‘By Timothy, you certainly started something.’ Then he again became very serious. ‘A little while ago, you said you chose the name of “Steve Trent” not only for professional reasons, but partly for another reason too. What did you mean by that?’

  ‘Gerald was terrified that Lorraine might find out that he had a sister,’ she replied quietly. ‘Even in Cape Town, Gerald made me live with relatives under an assumed name.’

  ‘Was he naturally cautious over everything?’

  ‘No,’ she answered. ‘But he knew that Max Lorraine would stop at nothing.’

  At that moment Pryce came in with a large pot of coffee on a tray together with milk and a plate of biscuits. He put the tray down on a low table between them, and quietly withdrew. Both were glad of the moment’s respite.

  Temple slowly poured out the coffee.

  Steve Trent settled happily in her chair. Already, the slight lines that worry might have brought below her eyes were beginning to disappear. It would be idle to say that she felt at ease. Steve was one of those people who felt at ease anywhere and everywhere. But she did at last feel that she had won Temple’s sympathy and support, and the thought was very comforting. She lit a cigarette and with great satisfaction exhaled a cloud of blue-grey smoke.

  ‘Your brother must have known a great deal about this man,’ Temple resumed at last.

  ‘Yes, a great deal,’ she replied. ‘And the day before he died, he passed that information on to me.’

  ‘To you!’ exclaimed Temple with surprise. ‘That may mean danger. Great danger.’ He spoke impressively. ‘You realize that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Temple paused to let the full significance of his remark sink in. Then he asked her another question.

  ‘What is it you know about Max Lorraine?’

  ‘I know that he has a small scar above the right elbow, that he smokes Russian cigarettes, and is devoted to a girl who answers to the name of Ludmilla,’ said Steve slowly.

  Temple rose to his feet and started pacing up and down the room as though digesting this information. It was not until after some minutes had elapsed that he again spoke.

  ‘Miss Trent, you said you wanted my help. You said you wanted my help more than you’ve ever wanted anything in your life before. What did you mean by that?’

  ‘I meant that from now on I want it to be Paul Temple versus Max Lorraine!’

  For a full two minutes Temple again remained silent. Still, he did not seem sure that he wanted to follow his inclinations and take a hand in this struggle. Then he began to laugh, rather quietly at first.

  Steve Trent looked up at him as if wondering what new phase of himself he was going to show. ‘Why are you laughing?’ she asked.

  ‘I was just thinking of something Pryce said before you arrived here.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He said, you simply wouldn’t take “no” for an answer!’

  CHAPTER VII

  The Shaping of a Mystery

  That same afternoon, ‘The Little General’, only two or three miles from Paul Temple’s house, was the scene of a strange gathering. There were many men at Scotland Yard who would have given a year’s salary merely to have heard the conversation that took place in that mysterious Room 7.

  Now that the body of Superintendent Harvey had been removed the inn had become famous, quite literally, overnight. Motorists, cyclists, and hikers arrived in a never-ceasing stream to see the place where the well-known police chief had met his unexpected fate. Detectives kept a close watch on all visitors, not that they entertained the hope of making an arrest, but they applied the old adage that a murderer always revisits the scene of his crime, and they did not intend to fail merely because they had neglected such elementary principles.

  Chief Inspector Dale had made several visits to the inn. While in no way striving after the spectacular, he was spending as much time as he could on the ‘Midland Mysteries’, and he had delegated as much of his ordinary routine work at Scotland Yard as possible on to his subordinates. He had called on Paul Temple and had had long conversations with all who might know anything that had any bearing on Harvey’s death.

  So far, however, the police had found no clue that might lead them towards a solution of the robberies and the death of Superintendent Harvey.

  A few hours after Steve Trent and Paul Temple had been discussing the mysterious and elusive Max Lorraine, Dr. Milton was sitting, together with two other men, in Room 7 at ‘The Little General’. Horace Daley, the innkeeper, hovered vaguely in the background. But the innkeeper was not his normal ebullient self. He now very definitely yielded precedence to Dr. Milton, who was in full charge of the proceedings.

  ‘Is that quite clear, Dixie?’ the doctor was saying.

  ‘Yes, it seems quite clear,’ answered the man known as “Dixie”. ‘Diana will be parked at the corner of Regent Street. I’ve got to get from the jeweller’s to the car – pass the stuff over – and then mingle with the crowd in front of the dress shop.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Milton agreed. ‘And stay there,’ he ordered; ‘don’t make any attempt to sneak away until the crowd moves!’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t!’ said Dixie.

  ‘Have you looked the place over?’ inquired the doctor.

  ‘Yes. I had a look round this morning.’ Dixie paused. ‘Not very difficult. I should be out in a little under seven minutes.’

  ‘Good.’ Dr. Milton turned to the man known as “Skid”. Both Skid and Dixie were young men, not more than twenty-five, or twenty-six. Both were wearing cheap, ready-made lounge suits. Skid was a sharp-featured man who spoke quickly and never wasted his words. Dixie, on the other hand, to whom Dr. Milton had already been talking, was almost moonfaced. He appeared of a pleasanter disposition than Skid, and even showed traces of a real sense of humour. He was tall enough to be a guardsman, and was a good head taller than Skid.

  Dr. Milton now took a map out of his pocket and opened it on one of the little tables. ‘Now, Skid, I want you to have a look at this map,’ he said. ‘You see Regent Street? That’s where Diana will park the car. Now take a look at the Parade. You can see the jeweller’s and the dress shop the moment you come round the bend. The Chief wants you to come round that corner at seven-forty precisely. You should reach the dress shop about seven-forty-one. Then let it rip! Got that?’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Skid, implying that all this sort of thing was to Skid as easy as sleeping; ‘I got it all right.’

  ‘And we want a good job made of this,’ continued Dr. Milton. ‘No half-measures. Straight through the dress-shop window, you understand, Skid?’

  Skid nodded. ‘Sure!’

  ‘We want noise, and plenty of it!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ an
swered Skid, somewhat impatiently. ‘I’ll wake up the whole blasted town.’

  ‘Good,’ said the doctor, finally satisfied that his instructions had made the necessary impression.

  Horace Daley moved towards the group and took out the home-made cigarette which hung down from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Well, thank Gawd it’s you on the lorry, an’ not me!’ he said.

  ‘You’ll be all right, Skid, provided you keep your head,’ said the doctor again. ‘All you’ve got to do is make it look genuine.’

  ‘It’ll look genuine all right!’ Skid assured him.

  ‘Well, I hope so!’

  Dixie had been regarding the scene with clear impatience over his face. In their own sphere they were competent workmen and he felt that Dr. Milton ought to be more certain of them. But he still had a question to ask.

  ‘Do I wait for the smash before I—’

  Dr. Milton interrupted him. ‘No, at 7.40 get to work. You won’t have much time, but it shouldn’t take any longer than the Gloucester job.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Doc,’ said Dixie. ‘I’ll be out of there in no time. Have you got a list of the stuff?’

  ‘I’m expecting Diana with it.’ Dr. Milton paused significantly. ‘She went to see the Chief this morning.’

  For a few moments no one spoke.

  ‘I say, Doc!’ It was Skid who broke the silence. ‘Who is this fellow who calls himself the Knave? He’s been running us around now for three months, and we haven’t even so much as had a glimpse of him. Don’t you think…?’

  Dixie did not let him finish his sentence. ‘Well, it doesn’t worry me who the fellow is!’ he exclaimed. ‘He can be Sir Graham Forbes himself, as far as I’m concerned. All I know is, he can certainly organize. A cool forty thousand in three months. Boy, that’s what I call money!’

  ‘I’m not grumbling!’ replied Skid. ‘I’m just sort of curious, that’s all.’

  ‘Same ’ere!’ ejaculated Horace. ‘Who the ’ell is the Knave, Doc?’

  Dr. Milton began to laugh. ‘You’ll find out my friends. All in good time! All in good time!’