Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘It might be a good idea to have the place watched.’

  ‘Merritt’s watching it,’ Temple informed her. ‘He’ll let me know if anything funny happens.’

  Steve puckered her brow. ‘Merritt? Who’s Merritt?’

  Paul Temple looked puzzled in turn. Then he burst out laughing. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Inspector Charles Mortimer Merritt! Dear, oh dear, he would be flattered!’

  Steve appeared to think for a moment or two, then her forehead became its normal attractive self again.

  ‘Oh, I remember. He was helping Gerald and Chief Inspector Dale over the jewel robberies. Is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘By Timothy, yes!’ exclaimed Paul Temple. ‘Merritt and I get along like a house on fire.’ He grinned widely. ‘He’s a funny little devil, always got some wild sort of theory at the back of his head, but he’s really as cute as a box of monkeys. I’m sure you’d like him.’

  ‘Have you known him long?’

  ‘About five or six years,’ replied Temple, as he took his briar out of his mouth and carefully scraped the burnt ash out of it. ‘He hasn’t been in this country all that long. He was out in New Zealand for a little while, I think, or somewhere like that. If he wasn’t so damned rude to his superiors,’ he added with a smile, ‘they’d have had him at the Yard ages ago.’

  ‘Paul!’ exclaimed Steve Trent suddenly, and the new note of friendly familiarity made Paul Temple look over to her with an unexpected pleasure, ‘do you really think I ought to tell Scotland Yard what Gerald thought about the Knave being responsible for—’

  ‘Yes, I do, Steve. Believe me, I’ll do all I possibly can to help you, my dear. I promised you that, but until Scotland Yard finally decide to—’

  The telephone bell ringing outside interrupted him in midsentence.

  Presently, the ringing stopped and they heard Pryce’s voice. ‘Yes, sir, this is Bramley Lodge! Yes, sir…I’ll see if he’s in!’ After a little while Pryce came into the drawing-room.

  ‘Chief Inspector Dale on the telephone, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Dale!’ said Paul Temple with some measure of surprise. He left the room and picked up the receiver off the small table in the hall.

  ‘Hello? Yes, Paul Temple speaking. Hello, Dale, how are you? I’m pretty fit, thanks. Pardon? Yes.… Yes…When does he want to see me? Mm…All right. Tell Sir Graham I’ll be there. Thanks for ringing. Goodbye!’ He replaced the receiver and came back into the drawing-room looking rather amused. ‘That was Dale of Scotland Yard!’ he informed Steve. ‘He was speaking for the Commissioner.’

  ‘Speaking for the Commissioner,’ repeated Steve with obvious surprise in her voice.

  Temple nodded.

  ‘They want to see me!’ he said quietly.

  ‘To see you. That can only mean…’

  ‘It can only mean one of two things,’ said Paul Temple slowly, ‘they either want to know the reason why your brother visited me the night he was murdered, or they’ve decided—’

  Steve completed the sentence for him.

  ‘To send for Paul Temple!’

  Temple looked at her with a smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘To send for Paul Temple.’

  CHAPTER IX

  Smash-and-Grab!

  Royal Leamington Spa, or just simply Leamington, if you find its full title a little too pretentious, is a comparatively innocuous watering-place a couple of miles from Warwick and a hundred miles or so from London. It is very proud of its traditions. So, for that matter, are Blackpool and Brighton, but they are traditions of a somewhat different order. Leamington has never really quite grown up. It still thinks of the day when Queen Victoria paid it a visit and it suddenly became ‘Royal’.

  When the worthy inhabitants of Leamington opened their newspapers on the morning after Paul Temple had had lunch with Steve Trent they were justifiably startled. Royal Leamington Spa quite definitely did not extend a warm welcome to smash-and-grab raiders!

  On the particular Saturday evening to which the reports referred, dusk was already beginning to fall. A beneficent Providence, aided perhaps by the borough council and kindred bodies, had decreed that Leamington’s shops must be closed on Thursday afternoons. Consequently, the greater part of Leamington’s more permanent residents were now completing their weekend shopping, while a few early holiday makers helped to crowd the streets. Here and there, a far too modern cinema blazoned its attractive lights and strove to attract the younger element of the population to some soul-stirring drama emanating from Hollywood.

  By the clock on the tower of the town hall, the time was exactly twenty-five minutes to eight.

  At that moment a large maroon-coloured saloon car of American make drew up by the kerbside. At the wheel sat a lovely girl who looked in the early twenties. It was her dark complexion, together with her almost black hair against which scarlet lips seemed to form a danger signal, that attracted the attention of Police Constable Roberts. Oddly enough he was also attracted by a rather unusual wristlet watch the girl was wearing.

  Police Constable Roberts had done nothing all the afternoon except keep a paternal eye on the crowds of shoppers. Now and again, he had been forced to instruct some unwilling driver that he must not park his car by the pavement.

  Proper parking places had been provided and they had to be used. The normal traffic of the town would never get a chance of passing through Regent Street if every motorist suddenly decided to park his car when, and where, he thought fit.

  This beautiful young motorist, however, was rather a different problem. For one thing, reflected the policeman, she was quite obviously a stranger to the Spa and did not seem to appreciate the difficulties where parking was concerned. Her flashing smile, however, was having a far greater effect on him than he cared to admit. Nevertheless, he had his duty to perform.

  ‘I’m sorry, miss,’ Police Constable Roberts cleared his throat, ‘but you can’t park ’ere.’

  ‘Oh, really, officer,’ smiled the girl, ‘I’m most awfully sorry – I promised to meet a friend here and—’

  ‘Sorry, miss!’ replied the still obdurate policeman, ‘you’ll have to take it round to the Square.’

  The motorist began to make the most of her feminine charms (‘vamped me proper’ the constable told his friends afterwards when discussing the episode). Gradually, very gradually, she could see the policeman beginning to relent.

  ‘But couldn’t I stay here for just a little while? I know it’s most irregular, but—’

  Police Constable Roberts succumbed at last. ‘Well, er—’ He smiled back at her. ‘It won’t have to be for long, miss!’

  ‘No, of course not. It’s really most awfully kind of you!’ she returned, with the most melting gratitude in her voice.

  She had vanquished him completely. The police constable even felt it incumbent on him to apologize for his abruptness.

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, miss. Sorry to be such a nuisance, but you know what it is – we fellows have to keep on the job.’

  ‘Why, yes, of course!’ she agreed, with yet another of her flashing smiles. It encouraged Police Constable Roberts to linger awhile. He really did seem to be getting along rather well with this charming young person, he told himself.

  ‘I was only saying to the sergeant last Monday,’ he commented by way of making conversation, ‘the whole parking problem could be settled as easy as pie if only the local authorities would have the common-sense to…to—’

  He broke off in mid-sentence. No longer were his eyes fixed inside the car. He took his foot from off the running board, his arm from the convenient resting-place of the open window. He was staring behind the car, up towards the crest of the hill.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked the girl suddenly.

  ‘Look at that lorry coming down the hill!’ replied the constable with obvious alarm in his voice. ‘He’s going all over the place. Why…something must be…must be…Good God, he’s going for the pavement—’ Police Constable Roberts
staggered back from the car with bewildered astonishment.

  The lorry – a great lumbering old vehicle – had crested the hill at a speed that was far from good for it, and was continuing its reckless journey.

  Down the hill it came, in a mad, headlong rush. A front and back tyre were already flat. To and fro it slithered, hitting the pavement on either side of the road. It was quite obviously out of control. The driver could be seen tugging at the wheel but without any signal success.

  As the lorry passed by on its appalling career, people jumped into the road to watch what would happen to it.

  Thirty yards away from the stationary car the lorry gave another violent lurch. A split second later it was on the pavement.

  With a deafening crash, the lorry crashed into the front window of a dress shop. The great sheet of plate-glass was smashed to bits. Splinters flew out in all directions. Then came the grinding crash of wood as the lorry came to a solid obstruction. It stopped dead. As it stopped, its electric horn began to sound. It went on and on, its terrific din adding to the utter confusion.

  Torn dresses and silk underwear hung over the bonnet of the lorry forming a queer, grotesque garb. The entire upper storey of the house was kept from collapsing only by the roof of the lorry which supported it.

  The shop had already closed but the owner, a middle-aged woman, was still busy with an assistant clearing up accounts and writing orders. Both had narrow escapes from being crushed alive as the lorry ploughed its way through the showroom and forced back the counter on which they were working.

  The overpowering noise of the horn drowned nearly every other sound. But through it could nevertheless be heard the loud clanging of a bell, as though an ambulance were already trying to secure a passage through the vast crowd that had immediately collected. Actually, an ambulance had been sent for and was now on its way. Not only had four people, three of them women, been seriously hurt by the lorry as it hurtled over the pavement. A number of others had been cut by flying glass from the showroom window. Not ten minutes after the crash the ambulance was on the spot and its attendants busy on their work of mercy.

  From all sides people were pushing their way to be present at this extraordinary scene. Through the mob came Police Constable Roberts, elbowing his way with grim determination. ‘Make way there!’ he shouted. ‘Make way there! If you don’t mind, sir! Step on one side, madam! Get off the pavement, please! Step on one side, please!’

  He had to muster all his energy together to force his way through a crowd of people who were much too intent on snatching a glimpse of the lurid scene. At last he managed to reach the centre of the crowd.

  The driver of the lorry was clambering down from his seat, unhurt, as he reached the centre of the throng. ‘It was the steering, Constable,’ the driver explained. ‘As soon as I came round the corner, something seemed—’

  ‘We must stop that horn,’ interrupted the policeman. ‘Where the devil is—’ He paused, as he became aware of the bell still ringing insistently. ‘Hello, what’s that bell? Sounds to me like—’

  ‘It’s the burglar alarm,’ said Skid quickly. ‘The wires must ’ave been across the window, and—’

  The crowd suddenly began to push their way forward again and Police Constable Roberts was literally forced away from the lorry. ‘Step on one side, please,’ he shouted with obvious indignation. At last he got back to the driver.

  ‘Can’t you stop this—’

  Both men had to shout their loudest. The ringing of a bell, the continual blast of the lorry’s hooter like a factory siren, added to the cries of the mob, all combined to make a bedlam which was beyond the solitary power of the policeman to control.

  ‘Just—Just a minute, Constable,’ interrupted the driver nervously. ‘I—I feel like a bag of nerves.’

  ‘It’s a miracle to me no one was killed,’ Police Constable Roberts went on. ‘Why—’ Again the noisy ringing of the burglar alarm together with the monotonous but strident blast from the lorry’s electric hooter stopped him from speaking. ‘We must stop that noise,’ he shouted above the din. ‘Step on one side, please.’ He drove his way forward making for the driver’s cab of the lorry. Suddenly the constable pulled a loose wire he noticed under the bonnet and the noise miraculously stopped. About the same time, ambulance men had arrived and were pushing their way through the crowd to attend to the prostrate forms on the pavement.

  As the town hall clock was striking 7.45, Dixie appeared by the side of the maroon-coloured car. The car was still parked where, a few minutes ago, the constable had vainly endeavoured to persuade its driver to move on, and had been conquered by Diana’s sex appeal. Dixie carried a small brown attaché case.

  ‘Have you got the stuff?’ asked Diana quickly.

  ‘Have I! My God, what a smash! It sounded just as if it was on top of me. Is Skid all right?’

  ‘I don’t know. Drop the bag in the back. Be quick!’

  ‘I think I ought to come with you and—’

  ‘No!’ was the sharp reply. ‘Get back to the dress shop and mix with the crowd. Be quick, Dixie. Be quick.’

  ‘O.K.,’ replied Dixie. ‘And take care of that bag.’

  He placed the attaché case on the floor in the rear compartment. Then closed the door. A gear lever was snicked into position and Dixie was nearly sent flying as the car shot forward. A second later Diana was out of sight. Dixie turned and plunged into the crowd which was still struggling violently outside the dress shop.

  CHAPTER X

  Comparing Notes

  The Midland jewel robberies served at least one good purpose. Steve Trent and Paul Temple now shared one common aim. Their tastes, their aims, so dissimilar in many ways, now fitted together perfectly. The liveliness and the external flippancy which were part of Steve Trent’s make-up were set off by the more sedate nature of Paul Temple. Indeed, a queer form of platonic friendship had arisen between the two. Although it is doubtful whether either of them would have chosen such a hackneyed word as platonic to describe their friendship.

  Paul Temple had told Steve to regard Bramley Lodge as her home, to come and stay whenever she wished, indeed to feel that she had an actual share in the place.

  On this particular afternoon, after the two had finished lunch together, Temple announced that he would have to spend the next two or three hours dictating his serial, and that he also intended to do a few chapters on a new book if he had any time over.

  He had a large room with a balcony overlooking the garden which he regarded as his office and library. This was upstairs on the first floor. Bookcases lined the walls up to the ceiling. On the whole, it was a mixed collection, and although they included many of the books which had helped him on to his degree, they also included many whose names were more or less unknown, save by the solvers of the more erudite of acrostics and crossword puzzles.

  All the cases were glass fronted, save one section which comprised his most used reference books. Fiction spread itself over the house. In the lounge were several bookcases filled with thrillers. Paul Temple, indeed, had formed one of the best collections of thrillers and detective stories in the country. His bookseller had a standing order to supply him with thrillers as a matter of course.

  Other novels sprawled about in the dining-room, the drawing-room, and elsewhere in the house. Odd cases even found their way into the hall and into the spare bedrooms. But while Paul Temple read as widely as he did furiously, he was in no sense of the word a bookworm. He had taken up literature as a trade rather than an art, and he instinctively kept well abreast of the latest moves and developments.

  After Temple adjourned to the library Steve decided to wander about the grounds for half an hour, then to come back and map out two or three new features for The Evening Post. She had already accepted Temple’s invitation to stay for supper but had made up her mind to leave for town immediately after the meal. She had to be back in Fleet Street early the next day. But first Steve had a ‘story’ to telephone to her editor.


  The ‘story’ of the climax to their ‘Send for Paul Temple’ campaign. As Temple left her to start his work upstairs, she began scribbling a few lines on a pad to read out to the telephonist at the office. Already she could see the posters that would throng the streets forty-eight hours later—‘Paul Temple Sent For!’ The news would still have to be ambiguous, however, as Temple was not yet sure exactly why Sir Graham Forbes wanted to see him.

  That evening, a few minutes after they had finished supper, there was a ring at the bell, followed by Pryce’s now habitual inspection through his little grill. He opened the door and came in to announce Inspector Merritt.

  Paul Temple jumped up and went out to welcome him. ‘Hello, Charles. This is a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘Just thought I’d drop in for a chat,’ replied the inspector. ‘Happened to be passing.’

  ‘Why, yes, of course,’ exclaimed Temple, at the same time introducing the inspector to Steve.

  ‘I hope I haven’t interrupted a private—’ Temple cut him short.

  ‘No, of course not, Charles,’ he replied with a smile of amusement. ‘Have you had dinner?’

  ‘Yes, but if there’s any of that really excellent brandy of yours, then—’

  ‘Help yourself, old man. It’s on the cocktail cabinet.’

  Merritt looked round and saw the bottle of fine old brandy where its owner had indicated. He poured a little into the bottom of a big glass which stood in readiness, and warmed it in his hands before savouring it. Inspector Merritt appreciated his host’s fine taste for the better things of life. And not least of them, in the inspector’s opinion, was the wonderful old matured brandy Temple always managed to acquire.

  Meanwhile, Steve had risen from the luxurious depths of the armchair into which she had sunk after dinner, and declared her intention of returning to town. She felt the two men might be more at their ease if she made her departure. In any case, it was already half-past eight, and she was still faced with the long drive back to London.