Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘But Paul—’

  He refused to let her say what she wanted. ‘I shall make a point of seeing Sir Graham first thing tomorrow morning,’ he said, ‘the inn must be raided on Thursday, at all cost!’ Suddenly, he changed the subject. ‘Steve, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.’

  ‘Well?’ There was something in the tone of his voice that had aroused her curiosity.

  ‘You remember, you told me, that when your brother was investigating the Cape Town–Simonstown robberies he worked with another officer, a man who was later murdered by Max Lorraine?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Tell me – what did they call that man?’

  Steve tried to recall the name of the man to mind. ‘Bellman!’ she exclaimed at length, ‘Sydney Bellman.’ Then after a pause she said: ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I was just wondering,’ said Paul Temple quietly, ‘I was just wondering.’

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The Commissioner’s Orders

  It was with some sense of satisfaction that Paul Temple mounted the steps which would take him into the hall at Scotland Yard. On the occasion of his visit there with Steve Trent a few days ago, the first he had paid since his newspaper days, he had felt remarkably like a guilty schoolboy being hauled before his headmaster for cheating.

  But now he had something definite to report to the Commissioner. Indeed, Temple had hoped that his story would make Sir Graham feel glad that he had invited the novelist to co-operate. Even the stolid policeman at the entrance seemed more friendly and greeted him with a cheery, ‘Good morning, Mr. Temple!’ as he pushed his way through the glass doors.

  It was clear that Paul Temple was expected. He had driven down from Bramley Lodge early that morning, and as he had started long before the roads had become cluttered with their more normal traffic, he had made excellent progress.

  After a light breakfast, he had stepped into the car just before eight o’clock. There were no large towns to pass through and the needle of the speedometer frequently wavered between sixty and seventy. The car’s brakes were good and Temple was a competent driver. At a quarter to nine he was skirting Oxford, along the by-pass, and by ten o’clock he had reached the Western Avenue and was passing Ealing. Here he stopped to telephone Scotland Yard and make an appointment with the Commissioner.

  He was due to meet Sir Graham at twelve and this gave him time to visit his club and glance through the morning papers before driving over to Whitehall.

  The policeman on duty had escorted him to the table where Paul Temple had duly filled up the inquiry slip, without which not even the most exalted visitor seems permitted to leave the portals of Scotland Yard. He had then telephoned the Commissioner to make sure he was disengaged, after which he led the way up the broad flight of stairs to the Commissioner’s office on the first floor.

  Sir Graham had a warm welcome for him. The urgent telephone call of a few hours before had certainly surprised him, and he was now more than anxious to hear what had brought Paul Temple to town so early.

  Temple commenced his story. He gave a full account of his adventure in the passage at Ashdown House on the previous evening, and of Alec Rice’s visit.

  Sir Graham Forbes did not conceal his interest as he listened to the story of the lift, and the thrilling exploits which Steve Trent and Paul Temple had shared.

  ‘By gosh,’ he said at last, ‘it was a lucky chance that Miss Trent touched the statue!’ He paused. ‘You say this passage runs from the doctor’s house into the actual inn itself?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Graham!’

  The Commissioner grunted. ‘Do you think this passage is a recent innovation or—’

  ‘No. It’s been there for donkey’s years: it must have been. I daresay it was used by smugglers originally as a sort of storing house. Why, some of these old English inns have—’ Paul Temple broke off.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the Commissioner.

  ‘I wonder if Miss Parchment knew that there was a definite connection between the doctor’s house and “The Little General”?’ said the novelist quietly.

  ‘Miss Parchment?’ Sir Graham Forbes looked puzzled. Then suddenly he remembered. ‘Oh, the retired schoolmistress! Good heavens, why should she know anything about it?’ he asked with a laugh.

  ‘I, er, just wondered, that’s all.’ Temple occasionally liked to surround himself with an air of mystery. Certainly, he never went out of his way to enlighten people as to his thoughts.

  ‘You know,’ continued the Commissioner, dismissing Miss Parchment from his mind, ‘the thing that beats me, Temple, is how this fellow, the, er, Knave of Diamonds, discovered that the “Trenchman” affair was a trap!’

  ‘Well,’ Temple replied quietly, ‘the answer to that is quite simple, Sir Graham.’

  The Commissioner looked up in surprise. ‘Quite simple?’ he repeated.

  ‘The Knave is here,’ said Temple slowly. ‘He knows all our plans, and everything about us.’

  Sir Graham Forbes jumped up from his chair and stood looking down at his visitor.

  ‘Good God, Temple!’ he exclaimed with amazement, ‘are you suggesting—’

  Paul Temple interrupted him. ‘I’m suggesting nothing, Sir Graham, that the facts themselves do not indicate!’ he said firmly. ‘Skid Tyler was murdered, remember, here, in this very office, because he was on the point of divulging the identity of the Knave of Diamonds.’

  Sir Graham Forbes was silent. He walked up and down the room for a few moments, then stopped near his desk and lit another of his cigarettes.

  ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘Yes, you’re right, Temple.’ He paused again. ‘Then who is the Knave?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ was the answer. ‘But I may have a pretty good idea within twenty-four hours!’ There was a quiet certainty in Temple’s voice.

  ‘Within twenty-four hours?’ echoed the Commissioner, puzzled by Temple’s words.

  ‘There’s a meeting to be held at “The Little General” tomorrow night at nine. And the Knave will be there!’

  ‘Then—’

  ‘I want about half a dozen of your men to surround the place,’ said Temple quickly. ‘If anyone attempts to leave, have them picked up. But no one must be stopped from entering the inn, you understand?’

  The Commissioner nodded in agreement. ‘And the doctor’s house?’ he asked.

  ‘Exactly the same precautions must be taken. At about 9.15, the men watching the house will close in on it – force an entrance – and come down the underground passage to the inn. Is that clear?’

  Sir Graham Forbes did not take offence at Temple’s authoritative instructions. Both were obviously carried away by the excitement of the moment.

  ‘Meanwhile,’ the novelist continued, ‘at 9.15, the men watching the inn follow exactly the same procedure: close in on “The Little General” and force an entrance.’

  At that moment a knock sounded on the door and Chief Inspector Dale appeared.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir!’ He stopped. ‘I thought—’

  ‘That’s all right, Dale!’ the Commissioner hastened to reassure him. ‘Tell Davis of the Flying Squad I want a word with him!’

  ‘Very good, sir!’

  ‘I should have your men planted at about eight, Sir Graham,’ Paul Temple continued as the door closed, ‘and then—’

  ‘Don’t worry, Temple. I’ll see to that all right!’

  The Commissioner walked over to the fireplace and flicked the ash off his cigarette. ‘It might be a good idea if I came down myself!’ he suggested. ‘The two of us could join the men at “The Little General”, and then—’

  The novelist nodded. ‘Excellent idea, Sir Graham!’

  ‘By gosh!’ exclaimed the Commissioner, finding difficulty in restraining himself. ‘We’ve got him! We’ve got him this time!’

  Paul Temple smiled. ‘I wonder, Sir Graham,’ he said. ‘I wonder…?’

  CHAPTER XIX


  Steve Vanishes!

  It was shortly after eight o’clock the following evening. Sir Graham Forbes, Chief Inspector Dale, and Paul Temple were standing in the drawing-room at Bramley Lodge. All three were smoking, the novelist his customary pipe, the two police chiefs cigarettes. Both kept flicking their ash nervously into the grate and into the ashtrays that lay scattered over the room.

  There was an air of expectancy, the feeling that something decisive and unexpected was going to happen. The last remaining details of their plan were under discussion.

  ‘Are the men armed, Sir Graham?’ Paul Temple asked.

  ‘Some of them are, I believe, aren’t they, Dale?’ he asked, turning to the inspector who had arranged the practical details of the plan.

  ‘The men watching the house have service revolvers, sir,’ Dale explained. ‘I thought under the circumstances that—’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘You understand about the statue, don’t you, Inspector?’ Paul Temple suddenly asked him.

  ‘Yes, I think so, sir!’ he replied. ‘It’s on the left you say, as soon as you enter the lounge?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. The head of the statue is on a sort of base: as soon as you turn it, you’ll see the panel in the wall. I told you about the light, didn’t I?’

  Dale nodded.

  ‘Good,’ said Temple. ‘As far as I could gather, the lift works automatically. Immediately you close the panel you’ll hear the machinery.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I think someone ought to be left behind in the house,’ Sir Graham interrupted. ‘I should leave Smith, Hodgson, and Mowbray, Dale. We’ll pick them up later.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  For a few minutes, no one spoke. Each seemed occupied in turning over in his own mind the events that were shortly to occur at the inn.

  ‘By the way,’ remarked the Commissioner suddenly, ‘you have the search warrant?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir!’

  ‘Good!’ Sir Graham turned to his host. ‘Well, I think that’s about all, isn’t it, Temple?’

  The novelist nodded.

  ‘We shall be waiting for you at “The Little General”, Dale,’ he said. ‘Good luck!’

  ‘Thank you, sir!’

  ‘And be careful in that passage,’ the Commissioner added. ‘I expect the devils know the place backwards.’

  As the Inspector walked out of the drawing-room both men watched him, and speculated as to what would happen before they met again.

  ‘Dale seems a nice fellow,’ Temple remarked at last.

  ‘Yes,’ Sir Graham replied. ‘A bit reserved, but very efficient. He’s only been at the Yard about twelve months.’

  The Commissioner walked over to one of the inviting armchairs and sat down. Temple remained perched on the arm of one of the smaller chairs.

  ‘What time is it, exactly?’ asked the Commissioner, at last.

  ‘I make it 8.40.’

  ‘How long should it take us to get down to the inn?’

  ‘Oh, about fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Well, there’s no hurry.’

  ‘Dale said he had six men at the house,’ commented Temple, after a slight pause. ‘How many are watching the inn?’

  The Commissioner frowned. ‘Now, let me see,’ he said. ‘There’s Foster, Robinson.…Oh, about eight or nine, I should say.’

  ‘Good. Is Merritt there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I think the best plan would be for you and I to enter the inn first,’ said Temple thoughtfully, ‘then if possible we can also…’

  He stopped to look round at the door, which had suddenly opened.

  ‘What is it, Pryce?’

  ‘There’s a lady called to see you, sir. A Mrs. Neddy. I told her you were engaged, but—’

  ‘Mrs. Neddy?’ Temple was obviously puzzled. ‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed suddenly, as memory came back to him, ‘that’s Steve’s landlady; surely she—’

  At that moment, the very large, very flamboyant figure of Mrs. Neddy appeared in the doorway. She was puffing and blowing with sheer exhaustion, and her eyes were shining with an excitement that partly communicated itself to the two men. She was trying to find breath with which to speak, but the sentences she attempted were all equally unintelligible. At last, after standing still for a moment, Mrs. Neddy was able to speak.

  ‘You’ll have to be excusing me bursting in on you like this, Mr. Temple,’ she started, her Irish brogue stronger than ever in her agitation, ‘but—’ Mrs. Neddy did not contain enough breath to complete the sentence. ‘Oh, dear! Oh, dear!’ she spluttered. ‘I’m that exhausted!’

  Paul Temple knew better than anyone that he had to use all the patience in the world with the good Irish woman. Anxious as he was to know what had brought her to Bramley Lodge at such an extraordinary hour, he nevertheless remained, outwardly at any rate, perfectly calm.

  ‘Sit down, Mrs. Neddy,’ he said gently, as he drew a chair up for her, and even helped her into it. ‘That’s all right, Pryce,’ he added to his manservant, who had been looking at the strange scene with a crestfallen air, ready to apologize as best he could for what he imagined was so unwelcome an intrusion.

  ‘I’m sorry to be—’ Mrs. Neddy started, as the door closed, and her bosom heaved again as she struggled for enough breath to complete the sentence. ‘I’m sorry to be troubling you, sir. But…but—’

  Again she came to a full stop. Her recent exertion was clearly more than her constitution was able to stand. Her face was still so flushed that Paul Temple felt very serious alarms for the safety of her heart.

  ‘Now, that’s all right, Mrs. Neddy,’ said Paul Temple, sitting on a chair beside her, and trying his best both to smooth over his own impatience, and relieve Mrs. Neddy. ‘Just take your time,’ he added.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mrs. Neddy. Then she breathed out a mighty sigh. ‘Ah! What a relief!’ she murmured.

  For a few moments she sat still, growing gradually calmer, her high colour slowly disappearing.

  ‘Now,’ Paul Temple started, when he at last felt it was time for Mrs. Neddy to deliver her message, ‘do you feel any better?’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Mrs. Neddy. ‘Yes, much better, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Good!’ he replied. ‘Well,’ he asked, in a gentle, persuasive voice, ‘what is it you want to see me about?’

  ‘It’s—it’s about Miss Trent, sir,’ Mrs. Neddy stuttered, some of her excitement returning as she remembered the purpose of her visit.

  ‘Miss Trent?’ Paul Temple paused. ‘What about Miss Trent?’

  ‘She’s…she’s disappeared, sir!’

  ‘Disappeared!’ repeated Sir Graham, startled in spite of himself.

  ‘What makes you say that, Mrs. Neddy?’ asked Paul Temple, still very gently, still concealing from her the increasing perturbation he felt within.

  ‘Well, it’s like this, sir,’ she began to explain. ‘This morning at about half-past nine, the telephone rang in Miss Trent’s flat. I was in the kitchen downstairs at the time, and I could ’ear it as clear as a bell, as you might say, sir.

  ‘After a little while, Miss Trent came downstairs. She seemed in rather a hurry, and slightly excited. I asked her if she was going out, and whether she’d be back for lunch or not. Miss Trent said that her editor had sent for her, and that she would probably be back in about an hour and a half.’

  Mrs. Neddy was very obviously enjoying herself. Now that she had recovered her speech, and it could again be uttered without undue effort, she could watch Paul Temple and Sir Graham Forbes hanging on every word. It was not every day that Mrs. Neddy could secure such an audience, and she was determined to make the most of it.

  Paul Temple almost shouted at her in his sheer, tearing impatience. ‘Go on, Mrs. Neddy!’

  ‘Well, sir, there’s nothing much to tell, really, except that—she never came back. And then, about a quarter to twelve, the telephone went again. I could hear it all over the blessed
house.… So after a while I went upstairs and answered it, and…and—’

  ‘Yes, Mrs. Neddy!’ urged Paul Temple, now more anxious than ever.

  ‘It was the newspaper office, sir. They said they wanted to speak to Miss Trent. I told them she had left the house immediately after they first called her. But…but…but—’ Once again Mrs. Neddy began to be carried away by her emotions. She was now very nearly weeping at the thought of what might have happened to her beloved Steve Trent. ‘Well, the man at the other end said he was the editor, and that…and that…they never had called her!’

  ‘My God!’ exclaimed Temple under his breath.

  ‘I—I didn’t know what to do, sir,’ Mrs. Neddy went on. ‘I was in a quandary, as you might say. Then suddenly I remembered all those articles Miss Trent used to write about – “Send for Paul Temple”, and I thought that if I could—’

  ‘You acted very wisely, Mrs. Neddy,’ said Temple quietly, and Mrs. Neddy beamed with joy at this flattery.

  ‘Temple,’ exclaimed Sir Graham suddenly, ‘you don’t think that the Knave…?’

  Paul Temple’s face was grave. ‘Yes,’ he replied desperately, ‘and, by Timothy, we’ve no time to lose, Sir Graham. No time to lose!’

  CHAPTER XX

  At the Inn

  Paul Temple rang the bell for Pryce and rushed out into the hall to collect their overcoats.

  As they came out of the house the uniformed Flying Squad officer sitting in the driver’s seat pressed the starter, and the two men had barely taken their seats before the tyres of the car were sending a shower of gravel backwards towards the porch.

  ‘The inn, as fast as you can get there!’ barked the Commissioner, leaning forward to the driver.

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  In the back the two men began to talk in low tones. It was a strange and highly irregular conversation.

  But then, as Sir Graham Forbes explained to the novelist, ‘This whole business is so devilish unprecedented.

  ‘You know,’ he pointed out to Paul Temple, ‘we have to appoint somebody as Harvey’s successor. Dale hasn’t been with us long enough for the job, and there is nobody else who is properly au fait with these, er, extraordinary jewel robberies.’