Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘It’s Steve Trent here. Will you find me Mr. Watts as quickly as you can? It’s urgent!’

  A second’s wait, and she was through to the imperturbable news editor.

  ‘I’ve got a terrific “story”!’ she started. ‘Skid Tyler’s been murdered in Forbes’s room at the Yard. Forbes gave him a glass of brandy. It killed him. Poison. He was just going to spill the beans. What? Yes. Died in five minutes…Yes…in a phone box in Westminster Bridge Station…No…Yes…Temple, Dale and Merritt, nobody else, except Forbes himself.… Yes, I’m coming over now. Taking the first cab I can find. Goodbye.’

  A split second later, and Steve Trent was back on the pavement waving her arm wildly at an approaching taxi.

  ‘The Evening Post office, as fast as you can make it. For God’s sake, get a move on!’ she added, as she flung herself into the back seat.

  The offices of The Evening Post were nearly always in a state of wild excitement but Steve’s telephone call had acted like an earthquake. The number of calls passing through the telephone switchboard was suddenly trebled. Small boys sprinted up and down the corridors carrying pages of proofs. Machines were being stopped. Pages were being reset. Subeditors were swilling down quantities of hot tea.

  In desperation the news editor ordered the edition which had just been printed to have the all-important news stamped on the ‘Stop Press’ column. Two minutes later he countermanded his order so that his competitors would not learn of the extraordinary happenings before his next edition had the full story.

  Later, when it was all over, Steve wondered how the newspaper was ever produced, in this state of utter turmoil.

  A typist was already sitting at a typewriter, ready to start typing at her dictation. By now Steve had the whole story mapped out in her mind. Throwing off her hat on to the table, she started.

  After three sentences, a frenzied news editor rushed in, shouted ‘Marvellous, Steve!’ pulled the sheet of paper out of the typewriter, and rushed out again. Barely had they got four more lines on to the next sheet when he was back again. With hand on the top of the sheet, he watched for the full stop. Then out came the page, and Mr. Watts had vanished.

  In the meantime, the art department had secured a photograph of Skid Tyler and another of Sir Graham Forbes, and blocks were being made with feverish haste in the race against time. Another reporter had already finished writing a brief resumé of the ‘Midland Mysteries’.

  Meanwhile, completely unaware of this terrifying haste at the offices of The Evening Post, Sir Graham Forbes was discussing with Paul Temple the astonishing events of the last half-hour.

  ‘I wonder whether the poison was meant for Tyler,’ he speculated, ‘or…or for me?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Paul Temple in subdued tones. ‘Yes, I wonder.’

  ‘It seemed strange that Tyler should be poisoned,’ went on the Commissioner, ‘just when he was on the point of talking.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it seems strange, doesn’t it?’

  For a few moments, neither of the two men spoke. Both seemed to be speculating on this new viewpoint. Was Skid Tyler’s death, after all, an accident, and was the poison destined for the Commissioner himself? Or had he been killed because he was just about to reveal all he knew of what was going on behind the scenes of the ‘Midland Mysteries’?

  ‘Oh, by the way, Temple,’ the Commissioner suddenly resumed. ‘A constable at Leamington remembers talking to a girl in a saloon car shortly before the robbery occurred. For some reason or other, he’s got it into his head that she had something to do with it.’

  ‘Did he take the number of the car?’ inquired Temple.

  ‘No, I’m afraid he didn’t,’ replied Sir Graham.

  ‘He’s written out a pretty good description of the girl, though.’

  He walked over to his desk, opened a drawer and took out some folders. From one of them he extracted a sheet of paper from which he started to read.

  ‘Height about five feet four. Dark. Rather good-looking. Dressed in a smart grey costume with a fox fur. She had a set of golf clubs in the back of the car. Oh, and apparently she wore a small black wristlet watch.’

  ‘A small black wristlet watch?’ repeated Temple.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Does that convey anything?’ He had noticed Paul Temple’s sudden look of surprise as he came to the words ‘black wristlet watch’. He was curious to know the reason.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Temple quietly. ‘It might.’

  ‘We’ve tried to trace the girl,’ the Commissioner informed him, ‘but so far we’ve failed.’

  Paul Temple nodded. He got up from his chair, and paced up and down the room. Then he took out his inevitable pipe and carefully filled it. Not until it was smoking to his satisfaction did he speak again.

  ‘Sir Graham,’ he started. ‘I’ve got an idea in my mind and—’ He hesitated, as if for words.

  ‘Yes?’ prompted the Commissioner.

  ‘There’s a jeweller’s in Nottingham by the name of “Trenchman”,’ said Paul Temple suddenly, his mind now apparently made up. ‘They go in for a considerable number of antiques, and all that sort of thing. I was at Oxford with the junior partner – a fellow called Rice. Alec Rice.

  ‘Now if it became known that Trenchman’s had a very valuable stone on their hands, say a blue-white diamond, for argument’s sake, it would be a pretty safe bet that our friends would, in the course of time, pay Trenchman’s a friendly little visit.’

  He paused while Sir Graham Forbes gave thought to his scheme. ‘Yes,’ agreed the Commissioner, though somewhat dubiously. ‘Yes, I dare say they would.’

  ‘Well, I’m of the opinion that the robbery at Leamington, and all the other robberies for that matter, have been very carefully planned and premeditated.’

  Sir Graham was still not over-enthusiastic. ‘I still don’t quite—’ he started.

  ‘I’m also of the definite opinion, Sir Graham,’ Paul Temple continued, without giving the Commissioner an opportunity to express his doubts, ‘that if it became known that Trenchman’s had a very valuable stone, the people we are up against would take the trouble to verify its existence before actually planning the robbery.’

  Again he paused as if to allow his words to sink in.

  Sir Graham Forbes had gradually been growing interested, in spite of himself. Now he looked up with some signs of enthusiasm over the drawn lines of his face.

  ‘Verify its existence?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Temple. ‘Now Alec Rice would, I feel sure, help us over this matter. He would supply us with a list of all the inquiries they might receive about this particular stone. Naturally, most of them would be quite legitimate, but there’s the possibility, a strong possibility in my opinion, that amongst that list there would be an agent of—’

  ‘Of…the Knave of Diamonds!’ exclaimed Sir Graham.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘By Jove!’

  All Sir Graham’s doubts had obviously vanished. ‘By Jove!’ he said again. ‘That’s an idea, Temple!’

  He started walking backwards and forwards along the well- worn patch of carpet in front of his fireplace. He tossed the stump of his cigarette into the fire, now dying away through lack of attention, and lit another of his favourite cigarettes. He was turning the plan over and over in his mind and his eyes glinted. Sir Graham Forbes was essentially a man of action. It was the lack of any method, any campaign, any scheme by which some information about the Lorraine gang might be acquired, that had brought about his continual bad temper of the last few days.

  ‘Now the whole idea would have to be handled very, very carefully,’ Paul Temple continued, embroidering on his plan. Now that he had got the main outline into form, he was thinking over the various details to which attention would have to be paid.

  ‘We’re not dealing with fools, remember,’ he went on. ‘One or two brief references to the stone might appear in the daily Press, an article or two in the trade journals, and t
hat’s about all. There must be nothing clumsy or blatant about the way the existence of the stone is brought to light, or they’d tumble to the idea immediately.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ assented the Commissioner. It was obvious by his attitude that the barriers between the two men had at last been removed.

  ‘I’ll get into touch with Rice immediately,’ said Paul Temple.

  ‘And now I suppose I’d better see this woman, Miss—er— Parchment,’ said the Commissioner with a mighty sigh.

  Paul Temple’s plan was now fixed. Sir Graham was leaving the details of its execution to the novelist while he himself kept the guiding reins. Miss Parchment had been waiting his pleasure for some time, and he felt it was time he interviewed her, though the immediate prospect did not fill him with any great satisfaction. Nevertheless, he pressed the bell on his desk.

  ‘Miss Parchment,’ said Paul Temple thoughtfully. ‘Did she ask to see you, or—’

  ‘No, I sent for her,’ put in the Commissioner. ‘She was at the inn the night Harvey was murdered.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Temple with a smile. ‘I questioned her.’

  ‘She’s a retired schoolmistress, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. A retired schoolmistress, with a passion for old English inns.’

  At that moment the door opened again, and Sergeant Leopold appeared. Immediately behind him the two men saw the somewhat stately form of Miss Parchment. Her bright eyes seemed to sparkle even brighter as Sergeant Leopold announced her presence.

  Sir Graham Forbes rose to greet her. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Parchment,’ he said, ‘but I’m rather afraid that—’

  But Miss Parchment was not listening quite as intently as she might have been.

  She had caught sight of Paul Temple standing a few yards behind the Commissioner, and her face broke into a happy smile of recognition as she started towards him.

  ‘Ah, Mr. Temple!’ she exclaimed. ‘How nice to see you again. We meet under pleasanter circumstances this time, I hope.’ Suddenly she turned her head as if in alarm. ‘Or do we?’ she added, almost as an afterthought.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Paul Temple reassured her with a smile. ‘And how are you, Miss Parchment? Quite well, I hope?’

  ‘Oh, quite well, thank you,’ said Miss Parchment happily. Even the Commissioner himself was warming to this strange little woman who reminded him of a fragile piece of old porcelain suddenly placed in a room, the furniture and decorations of which were of the most modern varieties. She appeared perfectly at her ease. With her air of old-world calm and quiet, she was not put off by the go-ahead methods of the younger generation. Perhaps her life as a schoolmistress had kept her young. It had certainly not made her the biased and pompous old woman that so many teachers are apt to become. She was bright, even flippant at times, and seemed to have an air of pouring gentle ridicule on all the most earnest efforts of the younger set. She herself was almost timeless, yet intensely human.

  ‘Very well indeed,’ Miss Parchment went on. ‘A little sciatica now and again, you know. But nothing to complain of.’

  Sir Graham Forbes turned to her. ‘Miss Parchment,’ he said, ‘won’t you be seated?’

  ‘Oh, thank you.’ Miss Parchment rewarded him with one of her most dazzling smiles, as she took the chair Sir Graham indicated.

  Suddenly she seemed to recollect her immediate surroundings. ‘Do you know this is the first time I’ve ever been in Scotland Yard!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s quite thrilling, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, er, quite thrilling,’ said the Commissioner drily. He took down a box of his favourite cigarettes from the mantelpiece, preparatory to helping himself, and presented them to Miss Parchment.

  ‘Will you have a cigarette?’ he asked.

  ‘No, thank you, I—’ Miss Parchment broke off on seeing the peculiar colour of the cigarettes. ‘Ah!’ she exclaimed. ‘Russian cigarettes!’

  ‘Yes, I—er—I prefer them.’ The Commissioner cleared his throat somewhat heavily. ‘Now, Miss Parchment, I—’

  Once again Miss Parchment did not seem to heed his words very intently.

  ‘So frightfully clever, the Russians,’ she said provokingly, ‘don’t you think so, Mr. Temple?’ she asked, turning towards where the novelist was sitting.

  ‘Yes, I—er—suppose they are,’ agreed the latter.

  ‘Tchehov! Ibsen!’ went on Miss Parchment. She seemed to have suddenly embarked on a pet theme of hers. Then just as suddenly she stopped. ‘Was Ibsen a Russian?’ she asked, with rather a strange note of surprise in her voice.

  ‘Miss Parchment!’ Sir Graham Forbes was endeavouring to preserve that calm of manner on which he so prided himself. ‘Miss Parchment, I should like to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘And why not, Sir Graham?’ Miss Parchment spoke with a strange, sudden gaiety. ‘And why not?’

  CHAPTER XIII

  A Present from the Knave!

  A few minutes after six o’clock Paul Temple collected a happy and excited young reporter from the offices of The Evening Post.

  Intense excitement reigned outside the office as they drove away. The vans were beginning to load up. Drivers were cursing. Men and boys were running backwards and forwards. As the fast vans tore away at breakneck speed, other vans took their places. Soon the news would have spread to all parts of London and the Home Counties, as the skilful drivers threaded their way at an amazing speed through the rush-hour traffic.

  The editors of the rival papers were already beginning to foam gently at the mouth and mutter harsh words at the failure of their own intelligence service. The morning papers were beginning to get busy on the ‘story’, wondering at the same time, in some cases, how they could make the most of the sensation without publicizing too much the news-gathering capabilities of a paper belonging to a rival group.

  As Paul Temple started up the car, Steve Trent again opened the copy of the paper she had taken with her. There was her ‘story’, with a streamer headline stretching right across the top of the front page. While the car jolted along, she struggled to read once again the story she had written. ‘It’s the biggest thrill I’ve ever had!’ she confessed to her companion.

  Finally they drew up in a quiet Chelsea cul-de-sac, and Paul Temple was gaily escorted up to Steve’s rooms. They were bright, very feminine rooms, yet in the comfort they provided, they were almost masculine. Her sitting-room (‘cum dining-room cum lounge cum office cum women’s gossip club’, as she described it) boasted two very large and very luxurious armchairs, which Paul Temple eyed appreciatively.

  A bright plain rust-coloured carpet covered the floor and did most of all to provide an atmosphere which the Germans aptly describe as ‘gemuetlich’. Brown tweed curtains, coloured with a dash of blue, hung over the windows. The furniture in the room was of a sturdy limed pine, ‘not too difficult to look at, and jolly cheap,’ said Steve in praise.

  In contrast with the rich warm colours of her large sitting- room, her bedroom was bright and cool. Nearly everything in it was either cream or blue. Even the carpet was blue, while the walls were distempered in a light stone tint. It was a happy little home that Steve Trent possessed, and Paul Temple’s admiration for her and his appreciation of her excellent tastes suddenly jumped up.

  But his first remark was one of quiet good humour.

  ‘So this is where you write all those soul-stirring articles for The Evening Post!’ he said.

  Steve Trent, who had been watching him very closely, bubbled over with her infectious laughter. ‘Well, I’m glad somebody thinks they’re soul-stirring!’ she said. Suddenly she became aware that Paul Temple’s arms were still burdened with a host of small parcels, the raw material for the tête-à-tête evening meal Steve had promised him. There were also some cigarettes, a couple of books, and other little purchases Paul Temple had made.

  ‘Put those parcels on the table, dear!’ she told him.

  Paul Temple did as he was told, and then subsided into one
of the armchairs he had so much admired when he came into the room.

  ‘How long have you been on The Evening Post, Steve?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, about eighteen months,’ came the reply. ‘I started as “Auntie Molly”,’ she continued with a smile.

  ‘Auntie Molly?’ queried Paul Temple, looking slightly puzzled.

  ‘Yes, the—er—the answers to correspondence,’ explained Steve. ‘You know, the—er—the—’ she broke off a little awkwardly.

  ‘Oh, you mean writing articles about—about love, and things like that?’

  ‘Mostly about—things like that!’ rippled Steve, and they both began to laugh.

  ‘I say,’ said Temple, ‘this is a grand little place, isn’t it?’

  Steve looked pleased. ‘I’m glad you like it,’ she said.

  ‘By Timothy, yes!’ said Temple. Slowly he rose out of the depths of his chair and looked round the room again. His eyes finally rested on her radiogram, an extremely large instrument which occupied a corner of the room. It was clearly no ordinary mass production instrument. Its case was of the limed pine of which the rest of her furniture was made.

  ‘Rather unusual radiogram you’ve got, Steve!’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Gerald bought it for me in Paris the year he—’

  A knock at the door interrupted what Steve was saying.

  The door opened, and a homely, cheery-looking woman who made up in bulk what she lacked in height, appeared, carrying a tray.

  ‘Ah, tea!’ exclaimed Steve. ‘I’ll help you, Mrs. Neddy.’

  Mrs. Neddy was the benevolent Irish woman of uncertain age, though Steve gathered it was at least fifty, who ‘did’ for her. She would come early in the morning to get Steve’s breakfast ready and spend the greater part of the day there instead of the three hours for which she was paid. She had transformed the little flat into a real home for the girl who had no time to perform for herself all the many services she required.

  ‘That’s all right, dearie!’ Mrs. Neddy said. ‘I can manage.’