Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  There was a sudden crack in the room, followed almost immediately by the sound of glass splintering. On the carpet in front of them a small white object appeared.

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed the Commissioner with a start. ‘What’s that?’

  The three men looked at each other with curious expressions on their faces. Then Dale bent down to pick up the object that had been hurled through the French windows. It was a stone with a small piece of paper wrapped round it.

  ‘Listen!’ said Sir Graham suddenly.

  From outside came the sound of a car starting, and then two brief pauses as the gears were changed.

  ‘Well, that’s certainly a quick getaway,’ remarked Merritt. ‘I say,’ he went on, ‘what does it say on the note?’

  ‘Yes,’ echoed Dale, ‘what is it, Sir Graham?’

  The latter had passed the note over to the Commissioner and put the stone in his pocket. Sir Graham unfolded the small piece of paper. A puzzled frown came over his face while the other two watched him closely.

  ‘Well?’ asked Dale at last.

  The Commissioner said nothing. He was engrossed in the mysterious slip of paper.

  ‘What is it?’ It was Inspector Merritt’s turn to show his curiosity.

  The Commissioner slowly raised his head. His voice was shaking slightly when he replied. ‘It says:

  ‘Temple caught.… First Penguin awaiting instructions.

  …Malvern Pigeons despatched.… Ludmilla.’

  CHAPTER XXIX

  The Meeting is Adjourned

  The Commissioner passed the strange missive across to Inspector Dale. Merritt, however, was the first to break the silence that had fallen on the room.

  ‘Temple caught!’ he murmured. Slowly, unconsciously, he began to rub his hands together. Then he walked over to the French windows and inspected the jagged hole the stone had made. For a few seconds he stood looking into the garden. Then, unable to see anything, he returned to the table.

  ‘Ludmilla’, said Chief Inspector Dale suddenly, looking more bewildered than ever. ‘Who the dickens is Ludmilla?’

  The Commissioner looked strangely at him. ‘She’s a friend of this man Max Lorraine, alias the Knave of Diamonds,’ he explained. ‘She’s the girl who lived at Ashdown House with this so-called Doctor Milton.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ came Dale’s rather puzzled answer. He hesitated a while. ‘But I say,’ he continued, ‘who’s the “First Penguin”?’ A queer smile spread over his face as he spoke the words.

  ‘Heaven only knows,’ answered the Commissioner abruptly. ‘This business seems to get more complicated week after week.’ He scratched his head and lit another cigarette. He had been smoking unceasingly ever since he had set foot in the drawing-room, and having exhausted his own supply, was now helping himself to a box of Virginia cigarettes that Pryce had thoughtfully set down on the table.

  ‘What do they mean by “Malvern Pigeons despatched”?’ inquired Merritt with a frown.

  A strange light came into the Commissioner’s eyes. ‘There’s some pigeons at “The Little General”,’ he remarked thoughtfully. ‘I wonder—’

  ‘Good lord, yes!’ exclaimed Dale.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ put in Merritt quickly. ‘Of course there are.’ He jumped out of his chair and faced the other two. They were again sitting in the comfortable armchairs in front of the big coal fire. The weather had grown warmer during the last few days, but the evenings were still cold, and the crackle of the flames helped to make the room very inviting.

  ‘Malvern—’ said Dale thoughtfully, as if talking to himself: ‘Malvern pigeons despatched…Why!’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘It must have some connection with the robbery at Malvern.… Surely, that’s why—’

  An oath broke from Inspector Merritt. The Commissioner looked up at him sharply. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘We are fools if you like,’ answered Merritt. A strange light had spread over his face. ‘That’s how they’ve been getting the diamonds out of the country—’

  Dale whistled. ‘You mean…by pigeons…carrier pigeons…?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Merritt quietly.

  The Commissioner clapped his hands together. ‘Well, I’m damned!’ he exclaimed.

  Silence fell on them as they considered this new idea. It explained why they had never yet succeeded in discovering how the stolen jewels were smuggled out of the country. Never once had the police been able to lay hands on any of the property that had been stolen. Carrier pigeons!

  ‘But, Sir Graham,’ observed Inspector Merritt quietly, the obvious thought striking him, ‘why should they give the game away, in a note like this.… “Malvern pigeons despatched.”…They must have known we’d guess.’

  ‘They’re not worried about our guessing their little secrets now, Merritt,’ the Commissioner replied. ‘All they’re concerned about is getting the whole matter straightened out, and then vanishing. And, by God, it looks as if they’re doing it.… They’ve got Temple…and they’ve got the girl.’ His voice had risen to a crescendo as he spoke and his expression showed the anxiety he felt.

  ‘Yes,’ put in Dale, ‘but that still doesn’t explain why this note should be thrown through the window, Sir Graham. The note was obviously intended for the Knave of Diamonds—’

  Merritt hastened to his support. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Then this girl—er—’

  ‘Ludmilla,’ supplied Sir Graham Forbes.

  ‘…Ludmilla, must believe that the Knave is here. Here!’ he repeated emphatically. ‘In this house.’

  ‘But there isn’t anyone here,’ said the Commissioner, almost helplessly, ‘except for us and—’

  ‘And Pryce,’ added Dale, as the Commissioner hesitated.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the latter, ‘and Pryce.’

  ‘Oh!’ exclaimed Merritt. ‘But Pryce is out of the question, why—’ He broke off. ‘Just a minute! Don’t forget that old woman’s still here, Mrs. Neddy.’

  ‘Steve Trent’s landlady—’ The Commissioner cleared his throat. ‘I keep forgetting her,’ he added.

  ‘The thing that really beats me is this “First Penguin” reference,’ said Dale. ‘What the devil, or who the devil, is the “First Penguin”?’

  Merritt nodded. ‘That’s what I’d like to know.’

  Sir Graham Forbes took his wallet out of his pocket where he had put the note for safety, and again inspected the message, hoping, perhaps, to find a solution to their problem. Dale looked over his shoulder as he read it.

  ‘Can you think what it all means, sir?’ he asked the Commissioner.

  ‘I’m damned if I can!’ was the abrupt answer. Sir Graham carefully folded up the slip of paper again and returned it to its compartment in his wallet. ‘I say,’ he went on, ‘I hope Steve Trent and Temple are all right: if anything happens to them, then—’ He paused, as if searching for words to express his full intentions.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Merritt, ‘yes, I hope so too.’

  Once again there was silence. Each man was busy with his own thoughts, speculating what was happening, wondering at the outcome of everything. It had become oppressive in the drawing-room. There was even suspicion and mistrust in the air.

  At last, the Commissioner got up. ‘Well, look here,’ he started, ‘it’s no good staying here all night. I’m getting back to the Yard with the note. I’d like Henderson to have a look at it. He can make sense out of any dash thing.’

  ‘I’ll pick Turner up at “The Little General”,’ said Inspector Dale, getting up in turn. ‘Then Mowbray and company at Ashdown House. Is that all right, Sir Graham?’

  ‘Yes. I should bring Turner back here and let him keep guard on the house. He might keep an eye on this fellow—er—Pryce.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well,’ said Merritt. ‘I’m off back to Malvern.’

  As he spoke, the door opened and Pryce made his appearance. He found three curious glances directed towards him. Behind him follo
wed a surprisingly meek Mrs. Neddy.

  ‘Yes, Pryce,’ said the Commissioner, ‘what is it?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ Pryce began. ‘But—er—Mrs. Neddy would rather like to speak to you.’ And he stepped on one side to make room for Steve Trent’s motherly old housekeeper.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Sir Graham replied. ‘What is it, Mrs. Neddy?’

  ‘Sorry to be botherin’ you now, sir,’ the old lady started. ‘But I’m that worried, I am, about Miss Trent an’ I was wonderin’ if—’

  Sir Graham Forbes directed a severe and at the same time curious glance at her before he spoke. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Neddy,’ he said, ‘but—er—well, so far we haven’t any news.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ she sighed. ‘Oh, dear.’ If possible, Steve Trent’s benevolent Irish ‘daily help’ looked even more woebegone. She looked as if she might burst into floods of tears at any moment and the Commissioner, with trouble already on his hands, began to feel more than a little anxious.

  ‘I’ll see that a car is sent for you, Mrs. Neddy,’ he said, ‘so that you can get back to town. As soon as we have any news, we’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thank ye, sir,’ she smiled gratefully at him, then looked sharply at Dale and Merritt, as if feeling that from them, at any rate, she was not receiving such kindness. ‘You’re very kind,’ she added, with a very full-blooded attempt at an old-fashioned curtsey.

  There was a discreet cough from near the door and Pryce made himself known. ‘Sorry to have troubled you, sir,’ he said apologetically.

  Sir Graham Forbes seemed to become aware of Pryce’s existence for the first time. He had always taken Paul Temple’s manservant very much for granted, and even on the occasion of this present visit had not given him more than a passing glance. He now began to study Pryce more carefully. The idea that this man might after all be the mysterious Knave of Diamonds was a consideration to bear in mind, and Sir Graham looked hard into his eyes, hoping, perhaps, to see what lay behind them.

  ‘That’s all right, Pryce,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he informed him, ‘we’re leaving. If by any chance you should hear from Mr. Temple, ask him to get in touch with Scotland Yard. Whitehall 1212.’

  Pryce bowed to him. ‘Whitehall 1212,’ he repeated. There was something rather mysterious in the way he spoke. It was, or so it seemed to Sir Graham, almost as if he were uttering a threat. ‘Very good, sir,’ he added.

  Silently Pryce withdrew from the room. The door closed.

  CHAPTER XXX

  Even if it’s the Commissioner!

  It was a pleasant little Police Station outside which Steve Trent brought the small car to a standstill. Like many police stations in that part of the world, it was built of large grey stones and it had once, quite obviously, been a private house of no very great pretensions. Outside, a blue lamp warned the stranger that here was an outpost of the Warwickshire County Constabulary, while a noticeboard informed the farmers and other inhabitants of the district that the county constable’s duties were not necessarily limited to the detection and prevention of crime.

  Remarking that he would only be inside for a moment or two, Paul Temple jumped out of the car and disappeared inside the door. Steve switched off the headlamps, lit a cigarette, and lazily stretched out her graceful limbs. But she was far too excited to relax. The exciting events of the day, and the events that were still to follow, kept her very much on the alert. She thought too, with no small sense of satisfaction, of the marvellous ‘story’ she would be able to telephone to the office next morning. Completely exclusive too, she reflected, unless the local news-hawks got wind of it. And they could not in any case find out more than enough to whet the appetite of a sensation-loving public for her own complete account.

  At the door of what was once probably a dining-room and was now pleasantly labelled ‘Charge Room’, Paul Temple paused. From the other side he could hear the voice of Sergeant Morrison raised in righteous anger. It was clear that the conduct of his subordinate officer, Police Constable Miller, was not all that he expected.

  ‘The trouble with you, Miller,’ Temple heard, ‘is that you don’t treat this place as a police station. You act as if you were in a…a farm house!’ The worthy sergeant was even stuttering in his wrath.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Sergeant,’ P.C. Miller replied.

  ‘Damn it, man, what’s the use of being—’

  But dearly as Paul Temple would have loved to have gone on listening, he was not too anxious to eavesdrop. In the middle of the sergeant’s tirade, therefore, he pushed the door open and walked in. The sergeant paused in the middle of the sentence and turned round angrily to see who was now so preposterously disturbing his homily.

  ‘Ah, good evening, Mr. Temple,’ he beamed, becoming at once pleasant and affable, as he recognized his visitor.

  ‘Good evening, Sergeant. Evening, Miller,’ added Paul Temple, turning to the luckless subordinate.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ replied the constable, gratified at being noticed.

  ‘Well, what can we do for you, Mr. Temple?’ the Sergeant inquired.

  ‘I should like to have a word with you, Sergeant, if—er—’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Sergeant Morrison. ‘Yes, of course. Right, Miller, you can go,’ he added, dismissing P.C. Miller. ‘Report to me again later, with Constable Hodge.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Sergeant, tell me,’ began Paul Temple, as the constable left the room and closed the door, ‘have you heard of a small inn known as “The First Penguin”?’

  ‘No, sir.’ The sergeant hesitated. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t. “The First Penguin”,’ he repeated thoughtfully, ‘that’s a new one on me!’

  ‘It’s about four miles from Harvington, tucked away down one of the side roads that lead to the river. There’s an A. A. box on the corner, and a milestone with a name on it that looks to me very much like Bidford.’

  Sergeant Morrison frowned. ‘Yes,’ he said at last, ‘I think I know the spot you mean, now I come to think of it.’ He paused. ‘I say,’ he went on suddenly, ‘this “First Penguin”; isn’t it that ramshackle-looking place with a grey roof and part of—’

  ‘Yes,’ put in Paul Temple quickly. ‘Yes, that’s right, Sergeant.’

  Sergeant Morrison grunted and scratched his head.

  ‘Now listen,’ Temple went on, briskly, ‘I want you to get as many men as possible and have them stationed at the corner near the milestone. If anyone leaves “The First Penguin” and comes towards the main road, arrest them. No matter who, or what, they are! Arrest them!’ he repeated with emphasis. ‘Is that clear, Sergeant?’

  ‘No matter…who…or what…they are?’ The sergeant repeated the words slowly and thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes,’ said Temple decisively. ‘Even if it’s the Commissioner himself!’

  Sergeant Morrison began to laugh. ‘Well, I hardly expect that we shall find Sir Graham Forbes,’ he replied.

  ‘You never know,’ was the quiet answer. ‘You never know, Sergeant.’

  Sergeant Morrison looked up sharply, wondering exactly what to make of this remark. Then he suddenly appeared to reach a decision and to place supreme confidence in the novelist.

  ‘When would you like the men stationed?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, the sooner the better.’

  ‘Very well, Mr. Temple,’ he replied. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Keep the men well out of sight,’ Temple ordered, ‘and don’t, under any circumstances, interfere with anyone who looks like making their way towards “The First Penguin”. When you see a light in one of the windows – enter the inn.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ he answered. He paused. ‘Mr. Temple,’ he asked at last, with a puzzled expression, ‘if it isn’t a personal question, who do you think will visit the inn tonight?’

  Paul Temple smiled.

  ‘The Knave of Diamonds, Sergeant! The Knave of Diamonds!’

  CHAPTER XXXI

  Enter the Knave!<
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  Diana Thornley and Dr. Milton were not in the best of tempers. Horace had left them tightly bound in the uncomfortable hard chairs of ‘The First Penguin’ and all their efforts to escape had proved useless. From time to time, a distant car had raised false hopes. Dr. Milton had at length fallen asleep through sheer exasperation and exhaustion. A dog barking had suddenly awakened him and he had again started unburdening himself of his feelings.

  ‘Can’t you do anything except sit there and grumble?’ protested Diana. ‘We must have been tied up here for hours, and all you’ve damned well done is—’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, woman!’ exclaimed Dr. Milton harshly. ‘Shut up!’

  Again there was silence. After ten minutes perhaps, Diana suddenly attempted to stretch her lithe body. She began to struggle with her bonds, summoning together every ounce of strength. ‘Something’s got to be done one way or the other,’ she panted, pulling and twisting in yet another attempt to free herself. ‘We can’t just…sit…Oh! – this is tight!’ The words came out in jerks as if it were costing her more effort to speak than to fight against her bonds.

  Dr. Milton looked at her contemptuously. ‘It’s no earthly use struggling.’

  She went on writhing in a last desperate effort to free herself. She had kicked her legs outwards against the ropes until her feet felt lifeless. Now she fancied the rope must be loosened sufficiently for her to pull her arms through.

  ‘It’s no use, Diana,’ exclaimed Milton. He had long since given up trying to escape.

  ‘I hope Horace caught Temple before he got to Bramley Lodge,’ said Diana anxiously.

  ‘I wonder what on earth made the Chief ring up from Temple’s place!’ ejaculated Milton. It was somebody new to blame, and anything was better than blaming himself for his present predicament. ‘That was a damn’ fool thing to do, if you like!’

  ‘Why was it?’ demanded Diana. ‘How was he to know that Temple was here, and would trace the call?’

  ‘I say,’ said Dr. Milton suddenly. ‘What’s that?’