Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  Steve smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose he will,’ she said. She grew serious again. ‘Why didn’t you tell Sir Graham you were going with Miss Parchment to “The First Penguin”?’

  ‘I don’t think that would have been too wise, Steve,’ he replied, after a moment’s hesitation.

  Steve directed a puzzled glance at him. ‘Why do you say that?’ she asked, laying a tiny hand on his arm.

  ‘When Skid Tyler was murdered,’ he explained, ‘it was in Sir Graham’s office at Scotland Yard. When Sir Graham and I devised a little plan about an imaginary “Trenchman” diamond, the Knave got to know about it. When we decided to raid “The Little General” tonight, the inn was deserted.’

  ‘Paul!’ exclaimed Steve suddenly. ‘You don’t think Sir Graham is…the Knave?’

  ‘I don’t know who the Knave is, Steve, but I know that he has been to Bramley Lodge tonight, and when—’ Temple broke off. ‘I say, that car’s coming up rather quick, isn’t it?’ he asked abruptly, glancing into the driving mirror.

  A car, which a few minutes ago had been a mere speck in the distance, was now rapidly overtaking them. Steve turned. The car was obviously being driven all out. From time to time, it seemed to slither wildly across the road. Suddenly Steve recognized it.

  ‘Paul!’ she exclaimed in alarm. ‘It’s one of the cars from the inn!’

  ‘But…it can’t be—’ There was amazement in Paul Temple’s voice.

  ‘It is!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s the red one that—’ She broke off. Nearer and nearer it came. Steve stared hard at the driver, suspecting who it must be, yet still unable to believe her senses. She leaned hard over the seat, in an effort to see the car more clearly. Suddenly she jumped back and turned to Paul Temple.

  ‘Paul!’ she shouted over the noise of the two cars. ‘It’s…Horace Daley!’

  ‘Daley!’ repeated Temple.

  ‘He’s recognized us!’ Steve was still watching him closely. Suddenly she saw him take his right hand off the steering wheel and move sideways to feel in his pocket. A second or two later she saw the reason.

  ‘Paul! He’s got a gun!’ shrieked Steve. ‘He’s—Look out, Paul! Look out!’

  There was a crack, and a tiny hole appeared in the windscreen between them. The bullet had entered the back window and passed straight through the car. Horace Daley’s car was still some twenty yards behind them, and it was not easy for him to aim straight. Nevertheless, Steve again saw his hand reach out of the window. Before she had time to do anything, Horace had fired again. This time the bullet hit the back of the car.

  Then he pulled back his arm and set out to overtake them. In a few seconds, only five or six yards separated them, and the red saloon had swung out in an attempt to pass.

  But their own car had still ample power in reserve. Temple pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator, and with tremendous acceleration the car leapt forward. Soon they were a safe distance away.

  ‘Steve, listen,’ he said suddenly. ‘There’s a bridge round the next bend. As soon as we reach it, I’ll slow down and let him overtake us. Then we’ll force him over the top. It’s our only chance!’

  ‘Yes!’ answered Steve eagerly. ‘Yes, all right!’

  ‘Wrap the rug round your head and keep down!’

  Steve obeyed, but she still managed to peer over the top of the seat, to see what the innkeeper was doing.

  ‘Look out!’ she shouted suddenly.

  Paul Temple ducked. The front seat was high-backed and not divided into two separate seats. They were both well protected. As he bent down, another shot rang out.

  ‘It’s only the windscreen!’ he shouted above the din made by the cars. ‘Keep down!’ he added imperatively.

  ‘Paul!’ ejaculated Steve in alarm. She had seen the stripe of blood on his face. ‘You’re hurt!’

  ‘No…no, I’m all right!’

  They were just reaching the bend. The needle of the speedometer fell as Temple released the accelerator, then crept up again as they shot round the corner, followed by Horace Daley.

  Two hundred yards ahead was the bridge. Temple began to slow down and the big red car caught up with them. A second later, they were abreast. Steve could see the grim expression on Horace’s face. The automatic was still in his hand, but they were both travelling too fast for the revolver to be of any use.

  Paul Temple kept a lead of a yard or two. Then gradually, on the bridge itself, he turned his wheel slightly to the right. The innkeeper turned too. An instant later it looked as if he would forge ahead.

  It was exactly what Paul Temple wanted. He gave him another yard, then turned his car straight into the red saloon.

  ‘Hold on, Steve!’ he shouted. An instant later there was a rending crash as the two cars met. Horace turned his wheel to escape, but it was too late. The impetus from Paul Temple’s had succeeded. Over towards the parapet the two cars slithered, locked together.

  Suddenly there was a second crash. The red car had hit the parapet. The stonework crumbled to pieces as the car ploughed through it. The red car tore itself free from the bumper and the off front mudguard of Paul Temple’s car, and plunged into the river below.

  As it fell, they saw Horace Daley pitched through the open sunshine roof.

  Paul Temple had been braking hard. Nevertheless, his car followed Daley’s through the parapet, and came to rest with the front wheels hanging over the river. The sudden jolt threw them both out of their seats.

  ‘Steve!’ Temple was the first to speak. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes!’ she replied breathlessly. ‘Yes…Yes…I’m all right!’ Then she grew alarmed again. ‘Paul! You’re hurt!’

  ‘No! No!’ he repeated. ‘It’s nothing.’ He drew his hand over his face and looked at the blood on it. ‘It’s only a scratch. I say,’ he added suddenly, ‘we’d better get out of here. The car’s half over the bridge!’

  On his side it was not possible to open the door. But Steve managed to raise the handle and push the door outwards. Then she clambered out, helped by Paul Temple, who had slid along the seat behind her.

  Temple took her by the arm and together they walked round the car to the parapet, and peered over to the river below. They could see the roof of the car just above the surface of the water. It had fallen towards the side. Near the water’s edge, lying on the ground, they caught sight of the prostrate form of Horace Daley.

  They hurried across the bridge and began to clamber down the steep bushy slope to the level of the river. It was not easy going. The ground was wet, and thick bracken impeded their progress. Steve, especially, found it difficult. At last, Paul Temple turned to her, and without a word, picked her up in his arms and proceeded to carry her down. She succeeded in extracting a handkerchief from Temple’s breast pocket and wiped the blood that had gathered on his face.

  At last they got down to the river’s edge. A small path ran alongside the water, and on this Temple set down his precious burden. Telling Steve to wait a few moments, he hurried off towards the spot where Horace Daley was lying. He knelt down beside the groaning body. Suddenly Horace opened his eyes and recognized the face of the man bending over him.

  The innkeeper could do no more than groan a few words that were almost unintelligible. Paul Temple struggled to hear what he was saying, at the same time loosening his collar and tie.

  ‘Horace, listen,’ said Paul Temple gently. ‘Who is the Knave?’ He spoke slowly, deliberately. ‘Horace,’ he added, a little more urgently, as he saw him close his eyes. ‘Horace!’

  Just then Steve Trent came up. ‘How—is he?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Temple softly. For a few moments he knelt before Horace in silence. Then he stood up. It was time to be practical.

  ‘We’ll have to walk into the village, Steve,’ he said. ‘It’s about half a mile, I think.’

  He indicated some steps up to the bridge which they had not noticed before. When they reached the top the road was deserted. Together they set out towards th
e village.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  Conspiracy

  It was a very startled Pryce who beheld his master standing outside the servants’ entrance to Bramley Lodge, an hour or two later. As the door opened, Paul Temple put his finger to his lips in an urgent gesture of silence. Once inside the kitchen, a whispered consultation took place between the two.

  Even the most disinterested spectator would have been amused by the spectacle of Pryce tiptoeing upstairs in front of the novelist, turning round every few yards or so to beckon him on. At last they reached the library on the first floor. Paul Temple closed the door as softly as he could, then walked silently over to a chair. Not till then did they speak.

  ‘Well, this is a surprise, sir,’ exclaimed Pryce, unable to restrain himself any longer, especially now that the elaborate need for caution seemed to have ceased.

  ‘Pryce, listen!’ Paul Temple spoke quietly, but urgently. He had no time to lose. ‘Has anyone been here tonight, since I left with Sir Graham for “The Little General”?’

  ‘Why, yes, sir.’ Pryce was accustomed to queer moods as well as queer deeds from his master, but even he could not conceal the surprise he now felt. ‘Inspector Merritt and—’

  ‘Inspector Merritt?’ put in Paul Temple quickly.

  ‘Yes, sir. He’s downstairs with Inspector Dale and Sir Graham. They’re waiting for you in the drawing-room. Shall I tell them that you’ve arrived?’

  Temple looked at him sharply. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want them to know I’m here; that’s why I came in through the back entrance.’

  ‘I—I see, sir.’

  ‘Pryce!’ The novelist’s tones were still urgent. ‘How long has Sir Graham been here?’

  ‘About, er, two hours, sir. He rather expected to find you here, sir, when he arrived.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He asked me if I’d seen you – or a Miss Parchment. I told him that you had not been here since, er, yourself and Sir Graham left for “The Little General”.’

  Paul Temple nodded. ‘Was he alone?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir. Inspector Merritt was with him.’

  ‘Inspector Merritt.… Oh, I see. Well, when did Dale arrive?’

  ‘Much later than the others, sir. He came from Ashdown House, I believe.’

  ‘Then what happened, Pryce?’

  ‘I believe Inspector Dale and Sir Graham went back to the inn, sir.’

  ‘Leaving Inspector Merritt here?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘In the drawing-room, I presume?’

  ‘Yes, sir. In the drawing-room.’

  ‘Did Inspector Merritt use the telephone, do you know, Pryce?’

  ‘Yes, I believe he did, now you come to mention it. I was passing through the kitchen and I heard the bell.… You know how it tinkles, sir.’

  ‘Then I expect Sir Graham and Dale returned from the inn?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and almost immediately two of them departed for Ashdown House again.’

  ‘Which two?’ asked Paul Temple anxiously. ‘Merritt and Dale, or—’

  ‘That I couldn’t say, sir,’ replied Pryce. ‘I was in the kitchen getting Mrs. Neddy a cup of tea. I heard voices in the hall, and then the front door slammed.’

  ‘What time would that be – about 10.30?’

  ‘Yes. A little later, if anything, sir.’

  Paul Temple nodded.

  ‘After a short while they returned from Ashdown House, sir, and all three of them – Sir Graham Forbes, Inspector Dale, and Inspector Merritt – have been in the drawing-room ever since.’

  Temple got up and started walking up and down the room. Suddenly he paused in front of the desk.

  ‘Now, Pryce, listen,’ he said. ‘I’m going to write a short note. While I’m writing it, you slip round to the garage, get the small car out, and take it to the end of the drive. Miss Trent is there waiting. She’ll take over. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And, this is important!’ He spoke emphatically. ‘Under no circumstances must Sir Graham, Inspector Dale, or Inspector Merritt know that I’ve been here. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good! Now, where’s the writing paper?’ He rummaged about on his desk. ‘Oh, here we are!’ he exclaimed as he found the pad. ‘Do you know, Pryce,’ he said suddenly, and there was almost a jovial note in his voice, ‘I think this is going to be my greatest contribution to popular fiction! Yes, by Timothy, I’m sure it is.’

  The faithful Pryce looked at him, wondering whether he was expected to laugh or remain serious. Then he gave up the problem, turned and closed the door noiselessly behind him. Quickly he walked downstairs. Even more quickly he walked through the hall, fervently praying that the drawing-room door would not open and somebody issue from it to ask him a series of awkward questions.

  In a few seconds he had gained the safety of the kitchen. A little later, he was outside the house, armed with his duplicate key to the garage. The garage could also be reached from inside the house by means of a door in the hall, but under the circumstances Pryce was not anxious to disturb the gathering in the drawing-room.

  It did not take him long to get to the garage, and he very quickly opened the doors and entered the little eight horsepower car Paul Temple kept in reserve. In a few seconds he was driving the car out of the garage, and down the drive. He stopped at the gate which closed the drive from the main road, but which had been left open all day owing to the frequent use that had been made of the drive.

  Leaving the engine quietly ticking over, he got out of the car and stared into the darkness around him. There was no sign of Steve Trent.

  ‘Miss Trent,’ he called in a hoarse whisper. ‘Miss Trent.’

  Suddenly he heard a light footstep and a girlish figure appeared beside him.

  ‘Oh, here you are, Pryce,’ she said softly.

  ‘Mr. Temple said you would take over from here, Miss Trent, and then—’

  ‘Yes, that’s all right, Pryce.’

  Suddenly footsteps sounded behind them in the gravel, and they both turned. It was Pryce who recognized the newcomer.

  ‘Here is Mr. Temple!’ he exclaimed.

  A moment or two later the novelist arrived. Temple had been hurrying and was obviously out of breath.

  ‘Ah, you’ve got the car,’ he began. ‘Good! Now get back to the house, Pryce,’ he ordered. ‘And remember what I told you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Pryce turned away from the car. ‘Good night, madam. Good night, sir.’

  They saw him vanish into the darkness, and listened to his footsteps receding as he neared the house. Paul Temple took Steve by the arm.

  ‘Merritt, Dale, and Sir Graham are at the house,’ he said softly. ‘They’ve been waiting for me.’

  ‘Did you see them?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he replied. He paused. ‘Now listen, Steve,’ he said urgently. ‘I’m going across the tennis court to the front of the drawing-room. They won’t be able to see me from there. I shall be gone about two minutes.’

  Again Steve was puzzled. ‘But – what are you going to do?’ she asked. Steve Trent had all the average reporter’s curiosity, and Temple’s habit of concealing his purpose inevitably increased her anxiety to know his intentions.

  ‘I can’t explain now, Steve,’ he answered. ‘But as soon as I get back to the car, let it rip!’

  Steve nodded. Action, at any rate, she could appreciate, even if she did not understand its purpose. ‘Yes, all right,’ she said excitedly.

  As she spoke, Paul Temple vanished. She listened to his footsteps disappearing. Then she got into the car and sat in the driver’s seat in readiness.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  The Message

  ‘Well, I’m damned if I can understand it. We must have been here nearly two hours.’

  The Commissioner was clearly not in the best of tempers. He was still in the drawing-room at Bramley Lodge, waiting for the arrival of Paul Temp
le. Indeed, Sir Graham was finding it difficult to contain himself.

  ‘Did Temple say he was coming back here, sir?’ asked Chief Inspector Dale.

  ‘Yes, of course he did!’ Sir Graham snapped. ‘After the raid on the inn, he departed with Miss Parchment and said he’d meet us here, didn’t he, Merritt?’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ Merritt agreed.

  ‘Well, he wasn’t at Ashdown House when I left,’ said Dale thoughtfully.

  ‘Of course he wasn’t,’ added the Commissioner abruptly. ‘What the devil would he be doing at Ashdown House?’

  ‘Well, wherever he is,’ put in Inspector Merritt, ‘I think he might have telephoned, instead of keeping us in the dark like this.’

  ‘Yes, I agree with you,’ said the Commissioner.

  For a few moments, there was silence. Dale walked over to the telephone as if he were going to put a call through, then stood motionless before the receiver.

  ‘Sir Graham,’ he said suddenly. ‘Perhaps this explains why we haven’t received a telephone message from Temple.’

  The Commissioner got up and joined Dale in the hall.

  ‘Good lord!’ he exclaimed with astonishment, as he looked at the spot Dale indicated.

  The telephone cable had been cut. It appeared at first glance to have been hacked through with a penknife or a small pair of scissors. Merritt came over to them and picked up the ends. He was looking very surprised.

  ‘It can’t have been unless—’ He paused.

  ‘Unless what, Merritt?’

  ‘I was going to say, unless it’s been done quite recently,’ he said.

  ‘I say, Sir Graham,’ said Dale suddenly, ‘do you know anything about this butler fellow—er—Pryce?’

  ‘No,’ the Commissioner replied thoughtfully. ‘No, I don’t, Dale. And then there’s the Irish woman. The woman who says she’s Steve Trent’s landlady…She’s still in the house, remember.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, Sir Graham,’ Dale replied. ‘And she delivered the gramophone record that time when Temple and Miss Trent had such—’

  ‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Inspector Merritt. ‘Why, Mrs. Neddy is out—’ He did not complete the sentence.