Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘Well, I really think I ought to be getting along, Paul,’ she was saying. ‘If you’re coming up to town on Monday, then—’

  ‘I’ll pick you up about three. We’ll go along to the Yard together, Steve.’

  ‘You really think I ought to tell Sir Graham all I know about—’ Steve Trent spoke quietly and very seriously. Temple hastened to reassure her.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

  Steve hesitated for the last time. Then she made up her mind. ‘Very well. Good night, Inspector,’ she added brightly.

  Paul Temple went out with her to the car which had remained parked in a corner of the drive all day. The engine started up after Steve had touched the starter once or twice. Then suddenly she turned a switch, and flooded the drive with the brilliant flood of light from her headlamps.

  Temple noticed her hand resting on the side of the car, and after a little while he took it in his own. ‘Look after yourself, Steve,’ he said softly.

  She smiled, slowly disengaged her hand, pushed the tiny stump of a gear lever into position, and with a roar of the engine was gone. As the car’s lights lit tree after tree down the long drive, Temple stood watching her; then as he saw the car turn into the lane which led into the main London-Warwick road, he walked slowly back to the house.

  ‘I say, look here, Paul,’ Inspector Merritt started, with some slight embarrassment and no little alarm, ‘I hope I haven’t butted in on a private little—’

  Temple hastened to relieve him. ‘No, of course not, Charles. Of course not. How’s the brandy?’ he asked inconsequently, both to change the conversation and to try to forget the alarm he suddenly felt for Steve Trent’s safety.

  ‘Fine!’ answered the inspector, in no way discouraged. ‘She’s a pretty girl, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, yes, she is rather. Surprised you’ve never met her before. She’s a reporter on The Evening Post.’

  ‘Did you say her name was Trent?’

  ‘Yes, Steve Trent,’ answered Temple. ‘At least, that’s the name she works under on the newspaper. Her real name is Harvey. Louise Harvey. She’s the sister of Superintendent Harvey, the fellow who was—’

  Inspector Merritt looked startled. ‘Sister!’ he exclaimed with surprise.

  ‘Yes. Why, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, only…only I never knew Harvey had a sister.’ The inspector paused to assimilate this new fact. ‘Why wasn’t she at the inquest?’

  ‘She was, but she didn’t give evidence,’ replied Temple. ‘Well, any news?’ he asked at length.

  ‘I’ve had the inn watched,’ Inspector Merritt replied. ‘Everything seems to be above-board as far as I can make out. I checked up on that “Green Finger” story. The inn did used to be known as “The Green Finger” – but that’s certainly going back some years.’

  ‘I still think there’s something funny about that inn, Charles,’ Paul Temple replied. ‘I don’t know what it is, but I intend to find out.’

  Merritt looked thoughtful. ‘Yes, I think there’s something there too,’ he said slowly.

  ‘By the way,’ continued Temple, ‘you might be interested to know that the Commissioner wants to see me.’

  ‘He does!’ exclaimed Merritt, obviously surprised. ‘Well, that’s certainly good news.’

  ‘Of course, he may only want to ask me a few questions about this business with Harvey. On the other hand—’

  Merritt suddenly interrupted him.

  ‘Oh, just a minute, Paul!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have got a little news which might interest you. One of my men went into “The Little General” yesterday morning, and on coming out, he bumped into a fellow known as Skid Tyler.’

  ‘Skid Tyler,’ repeated Temple, puckering his brows.

  ‘Yes. Know anything about him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Temple thoughtfully. ‘Skid Tyler …Skid—’ Suddenly he jumped up. ‘Yes, I’ve got him!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘He used to be a driver at Brooklands. He was warned off the track in 1930 and served a term of imprisonment in 1931 for share-pushing…or was it ’32? I’m not sure which.’

  ‘Well, that’s the fellow anyway.’

  ‘I wonder what he’s doing at “The Little General”,’ said Paul Temple thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes – that’s what I wondered. I sent a man back to trail him, but the idiot bungled the job, and Skid disappeared.’

  Paul Temple put down his pipe at which he had been puffing steadily for the last half-hour, and took his cigarette holder from the mantelpiece. Oddly enough Temple very rarely smoked cigars although he always had a selection in stock for his visitors, and he now passed a box over to Inspector Merritt. They were Brazilian cigars— ‘Havana tobacco, but grown in Brazil,’ Paul Temple explained to him; ‘I think they’re much better than plain Havana cigars. Hope you like them.’ Merritt took one, peeled off the thin wooden covering which protected it, cut the end off and lit it. Then he settled back into his comfortable armchair.

  ‘Did you check up on Miss Parchment?’ Temple asked him at last.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘She’s all right as far as I can make out. Retired schoolmistress. Lives alone in a small flat near the Tottenham Court Road. Passionately fond of reading and old English inns. Seems a hell of a life to me – but it sounds genuine enough.’

  Temple walked up and down the room, occasionally flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette.

  ‘Somehow,’ he said at last, ‘I feel sure that in some peculiar way, Miss Parchment fits into all this mystery about “The Little General”…Harvey’s murder…and the jewel robberies.’ He paused. ‘I don’t know how…but I’m sure she does.’

  ‘Well, your hunches aren’t often wrong, Paul,’ Merritt replied, ‘but I fail to see how an innocent old dame with a passion for—’

  The telephone ringing outside cut short his sentence. Temple got up and with an apology left the room. Pryce was probably some distance away downstairs in the servants’ quarters, and there seemed little need to bring him up while the call was in all probability one he would have to answer.

  After a moment or two he came back into the room with the instrument in his hands, a long extension cord trailing behind him. ‘It’s for you, Charles,’ he explained, putting the instrument down on the low table. With a word of thanks the inspector picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello! Yes, speaking! Oh, hello, Sergeant. Yes…yes—’ He looked up at Temple significantly.

  ‘Yes…Go on…When did it happen?…Good lord! Yes, yes, of course…You’d better pick me up here. Yes, goodbye.’

  Throughout the conversation, Inspector Merritt had rapidly been growing more and more restless. Now, as he replaced the receiver, he jumped out of his chair and almost rushed up to Temple who was standing with his back to the fire.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Temple quickly.

  ‘They’ve done it again.’

  ‘You mean…?’

  ‘It’s Leamington this time. Frobisher’s, of Regent Street. £14,000 worth of stuff.’

  Temple whistled. ‘By Timothy!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘There’ll be hell to pay over this,’ went on the inspector irritably.

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘About an hour ago. Practically in broad daylight. That smash sounds a dam’ funny business to me.’

  ‘What smash?’

  ‘A lorry crashed into a dress shop which was next door to the jeweller’s,’ Merritt explained. ‘There was such a devil of a row over the smash that no one took the slightest notice of what was happening next door.’

  ‘Sounds like a cover,’ said Temple thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought.’

  For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Both were too busy assimilating news of this latest development. Inspector Merritt’s first spasm of sharp excitement had gone and he sat down again in his armchair, and relit the cigar he had been too busy to continue smoking.

  Suddenly Temple turned. His face
was set in an expression of grim determination.

  ‘Charles. Tell them to hold that lorry driver.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, by Timothy,’ said Temple, ‘I’ll bet a fiver it’s Skid Tyler.’

  CHAPTER XI

  Murder at Scotland Yard

  ‘Would you mind taking a seat, sir, and I’ll see if Miss Trent is in.’

  The sentence had a slightly unpleasant ring in its familiarity. But then, reflected Paul Temple, with a smile, you can’t be too careful in a newspaper office. Reporters and the editorial staff often find it quite essential to their personal well-being to be out to certain callers. For exactly the same reason, the telephone operators had standing orders never to divulge to chance inquirers on the telephone the home address of certain members of the staff.

  Temple sat down in the hard solitary chair the waiting-room possessed and waited for Steve Trent to come down. He looked at the clock. It was exactly three. Time was an important factor in his life, and he liked to keep his appointments to the minute if it was humanly possible. He had telephoned Sir Graham Forbes at the Yard and told him he hoped to be along with ‘a surprise visitor’ at about quarter-past three. That would just give him easy time to drive from The Evening Post offices along the Embankment to the police headquarters.

  He had not long to wait in the little waiting-room. A page boy came downstairs closely followed by Steve Trent, ‘looking even more charming than ever,’ reflected Temple. She was wearing a business-like costume of black and white check tweed which looked smart, would stand up to office wear, and was far from being masculine. Steve was very fond of tweeds, and if possible even wore them in summer weather. ‘Only that appalling mess of a hat she’s wearing to spoil the effect,’ Paul Temple told himself. But then Paul Temple, like so many men, was just a little old-fashioned where female hats were concerned.

  Her flashing smile of welcome showed the pleasure she felt at meeting Paul Temple again. She had another smile for the commissionaire as she went out, a habitual gesture which endeared her to that section of the staff—‘not stuck up like some of the others,’ the commissionaire commented.

  Together they walked over to Paul Temple’s car which was waiting outside, and drove to Scotland Yard. Steve Trent had a host of questions to ask. Nevertheless, neither of them spoke during their short drive. Both seemed to give their thoughts to the coming interview.

  At the Yard, they were quickly escorted to the Commissioner’s office on the first floor. Sir Graham Forbes had a warm, if somewhat embarrassed, greeting for Paul Temple.

  ‘I told you over the telephone that Miss Trent has a story to tell that will greatly interest you, Sir Graham,’ Temple began.

  As soon as he heard that Steve was Superintendent Harvey’s sister, and that she knew a great deal about his work in South Africa, the Commissioner showed an interest he had certainly not felt on being told that a girl reporter from The Evening Post was being brought to see him. In fact, unknown to Paul Temple, Sir Graham had turned a delicate shade of puce when he had been told about her over the telephone.

  Sir Graham now made sure his guests were comfortable, and ordered tea to be sent in to them. Then he opened a drawer in his capacious desk and produced a small box.

  ‘A cigarette, Miss Trent?’ he said, placing the box before her.

  Steve noticed the cigarettes were a brown colour and she hesitated before accepting one.

  ‘They’re Russian,’ explained Sir Graham. ‘I’m sure you’ll like them.’

  After Temple had offered her a light, Steve slowly commenced her story. She was slightly nervous at first, but gradually gained confidence.

  ‘It’s an interesting story, Miss Trent,’ said Sir Graham Forbes as she came to the end. ‘Er—very interesting. You say that from the very beginning your brother was under the impression that the brains behind these robberies was this man—er—Max Lorraine – the man who calls himself “The Knave of Diamonds”?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sir Graham turned to the novelist. ‘What do you think of all this, Temple?’

  ‘Well, Sir Graham,’ he replied, ‘I don’t think there’s any doubt that we are up against a definite criminal organization whose activities are directed by a man who is, well to say the least of it, out of the ordinary run of criminals.’

  ‘Yes, I agree with you there,’ the Commissioner replied. ‘But that doesn’t necessarily mean that we are up against this man Miss Trent talks about, the Knave of Diamonds.’

  ‘No, but nevertheless I think we are, Sir Graham,’ replied the novelist. ‘Harvey was no fool. Harvey was convinced in his own mind that we were up against the Knave – and he was murdered!’

  ‘What makes you so certain that Harvey was murdered?’

  ‘It was as obvious as daylight,’ Temple replied. ‘He was holding the revolver in his left hand, and the poor devil had been shot through the back of his head. It was on the left side of his head, and Harvey was left-handed all right, but I hardly think he was a contortionist into the bargain.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ agreed the Commissioner. ‘Harvey was murdered.’ He said it not merely in agreement and acceptance of Temple’s argument, but revealing what actually was thought at the Yard. ‘We spotted it immediately,’ he went on. ‘I was surprised the doctor didn’t.’

  ‘The police doctor was down with the flu,’ Temple informed him. ‘A Dr. Milton came along with the sergeant – he’s a retired medico who happens to be an acquaintance of mine.’ He paused, then added thoughtfully: ‘Still, I must admit I thought it was rather funny he never noticed it.’

  They paused while the Commissioner poured out more tea for them. Then he turned to Steve.

  ‘Miss Trent, when was the last time you saw your brother?’

  ‘Shortly before he visited Mr. Temple,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh, I see. Did he seem cheerful and in normal health?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ answered Steve. ‘We never really saw a great deal of one another, you know, Sir Graham. My work kept me busy quite a lot, and he was always dashing out of town on some case or other.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I saw Merritt last night,’ said Temple suddenly, ‘and he told me about this business at Leamington. Did you hold the driver of the lorry?’

  ‘Yes,’ the Commissioner replied. ‘You were right about that, by the way. It was Skid Tyler.’

  ‘Have you questioned him?’

  ‘Not yet. Merritt’s bringing him here this afternoon. I’ve got a feeling that Tyler might talk.’

  ‘Yes, he might,’ replied Temple, inwardly marvelling at the amount of personal interest the Commissioner was taking in the case. He was certainly not underestimating its importance, and by undertaking work he normally had to leave entirely to the chiefs of the C.I.D., he showed the effect the robberies, as well as the Press agitation, had made on him.

  ‘I don’t expect he’ll know a great deal,’ the Commissioner continued; ‘he’s most probably one of the small fry. On the other hand, you never can tell.’

  Paul Temple thought it was time he changed the subject. So far, the visit had been more or less confined to a discussion of Steve’s story. He had not yet been told why Chief Inspector Dale had telephoned to arrange an appointment.

  ‘Sir Graham—’ he started.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why did you send for me this afternoon?’

  The Commissioner coughed. He proceeded to look embarrassed, as embarrassed as he had been when they were originally ushered into his office.

  ‘Yes, I’ve—er—I’ve been waiting for you to ask that question,’ he said.

  ‘Well, Sir Graham?’

  ‘Ever since these robberies first started, there has been a definite campaign both in the newspapers, and amongst a certain section of the public, urging us to—er—to—’

  ‘To Send for Paul Temple?’ put in Steve.

  ‘Yes, Miss Trent. To—er—send for Paul Temple,’ the Commis
sioner agreed. ‘Well, I don’t mind telling you, Temple, the whole damned campaign got me rattled. I was convinced in my own mind that there was nothing you could possibly do in this matter. Now, however, I’m not so certain.’ He hesitated a moment before continuing.

  ‘You see, Temple, and I’m sure I can speak in confidence before Miss Trent, there are certain aspects of this business which are very confusing and which, instead of getting clearer, tend towards leading us further and further into a confusing mass of what seems to be on the surface melodramatic nonsense. But is it nonsense? That’s just the point. Now take all this business about “The Green Finger”.’

  He paused and slowly lit another cigarette.

  ‘We know that “The Little General” used to be called “The Green Finger”. We know that the night watchman murmured “The Green Finger” before he died. But what does it mean? What is “The Green Finger”?

  ‘And then, secondly, there’s the matter of the district. That’s been puzzling me a lot lately. Why should this organization confine its activities entirely to the Midlands?’ Once again the Commissioner paused, as if endeavouring to underline the importance of his words.

  ‘And there’s yet another point,’ he continued, ‘and believe me, a very important one. How, in heaven’s name, are they getting the stuff out of the country – and they must be getting the stuff out of the country, because if it was still over here, you can take it from me, Temple, we’d have it back in twenty-four hours!’

  Temple nodded. He appreciated only too well the significance of Sir Graham’s words.

  ‘The Press have been very irritating over this affair,’ continued the Commissioner, ‘and their attitude has, at all cost, to undergo a change. We need every possible assistance that the Press can offer. In fact, not only the Press, but—’ He did not complete the sentence, although it was quite obvious what he meant, instead he turned towards Steve Trent.

  ‘Miss Trent,’ he said, with a smile, ‘I see you are dying to print all this in your paper, quite exclusively. I think that would make what I believe you would call a nice “scoop”. Well, I give you full permission to do so. But I think it would be safer for yourself if you made no reference to your part in this affair.