‘See if you can arrange for me to be in the first floor flat. Ring the janitor, Hunter, and find out whom it belongs to. The address is Eastwood Mansions.’
Hunter went out to make the call, passing Nelson in the doorway. He had returned to inform Sir Graham that Floyds Bank had turned up Brightman’s cheque, which corresponded in every detail with the Commissioner’s description.
‘Well, Mac, it looks as if things are moving,’ mused Sir Graham.
‘They always are moving, sir, in this business,’ was the non-committal reply.
‘By the way, here are two more cards for your collection. They were sent to Brightman.’
Before Mac could ask any further questions, Hunter returned.
‘That flat, sir,’ he began.
The Chief looked up.
‘Whose is it?’
‘The address is 49, Eastwood Mansions, sir.’
There was a rather peculiar smile on Hunter’s mobile features.
‘The flat belongs to Mr. and Mrs. Paul Temple, sir,’ he said.
CHAPTER III
Sir Norman Blakeley
The morning after Sir Norman Blakeley visited Scotland Yard, a taxi drew up at the main entrance of Northern Bank in the Haymarket, and Sir Norman emerged, carrying a small leather suitcase. He was nervous and apprehensive, yet to the casual observer here seemed to be almost an attitude of resigned indifference in his manner. His eyes were weary, and the skin on his face was flabby and greyish-yellow. A doctor would have taken one look at him and immediately reached for his hypodermic needle.
‘Wait for me; I shan’t be long,’ Sir Norman ordered, as he stepped out rather heavily, and the driver touched his cap respectfully in acknowledgment. It was a fine morning, the sort of morning on which people preferred to walk rather than take a taxi, and he was lucky to have picked up this fare so early in the day; with a bit of luck, this distinguished-looking passenger would demand to be taken to one of the outer suburbs like Richmond – it would be a nice run through the Park this morning. ‘All the same, I’d sooner it was Croydon,’ mumbled the driver to himself. ‘It’d be nice to get ’ome for a bit o’ dinner.’ It was surprising how very few people wanted to go to Croydon these days – at night he invariably had to make the journey home without a fare.
He was cogitating upon this point when another well-dressed man came on the scene, opened the taxi- door without warning, and declared briskly: ‘Take me to Euston—quick as you can—I’ve a train in twenty minutes. …’
‘Sorry, guv’nor. The cab’s taken—I’ve got a fare in the bank ’ere. There’s a rank just up the road—’
The stranger immediately took a pound note from his pocket and unceremoniously pushed it under the driver’s nose. ‘I must get the 11.15 from Euston,’ he snapped. ‘And if you do it, there’s a pound for you.’
With a puzzled frown, the driver looked inquiringly into the bank entrance. There was no sign of his former passenger. Then he looked at his meter, which registered three-and-sixpence. He made a rapid calculation on the question of the maximum fare to Euston and decided he would clear at least ten shillings on the deal.
‘Get in, sir,’ he invited, slammed the door after his new fare, clicked the flag down as he sprang into his seat, and briskly started the engine.
The Haymarket branch of the Northern Bank is one of the oldest of its London offices, and its fittings savour of the traditional baronial hall. All the clerks are similarly attired in dark coats and striped trousers, and one or two of them can still remember the days when they were all expected to wear top hats. In spite of the absence of toppers, however, dignity is still the prevailing note.
Sir Norman never particularly liked this bank. He kept his account there because his father had done so before him, and it would have been rather an effort to change. As he stood there now, he resented the slightly supercilious air with which the clerk examined the cheque he had passed over. The young man, who was new to counter-work, had never been asked to such a large cheque before. He turned it over several times in patent hesitation. Suddenly Sir Norman’s temper got the better of him.
‘If you wish to refer that cheque, please do so at once. I want nine thousand pounds in twenty-pound notes, and they must not be numbered consecutively.’
The young cashier blushed, then managed to stammer an apology. ‘I won’t keep you a minute, sir … I just wondered if …’ Rather incoherently, he beat a hasty retreat to the other side of the counter. Sir Norman could see him talking to a small group of three other clerks in hushed whispers. One of them peered over the top of the counter, obviously to make certain of the customer’s identity.
Meanwhile Sir Norman drummed his fingers impatiently upon the expensive walnut surface. After what seemed almost ten minutes, but which was in reality exactly ninety seconds, the door of the manager’s at the far end of the counter was opened by the young cashier.
‘Would you mind stepping this way, please?’ he demanded politely, and Sir Norman had no choice but to obey. He had not the slightest wish to interview Mr. Percy Briggs, an obsequious little man who’d been appointed temporary manager two years ago, and had contrived by judicious methods, which his staff described in unprintable language, to make himself a permanency. None of his staff liked Briggs, but elderly ladies among the bank’s clientele thought him the most charming man they had ever encountered, seriously considered recognizing the fact in their wills. Which was exactly what Mr. Briggs was aiming at.
*
However, his fawning tactics never deceived Sir Norman, and he always felt slightly nauseated when Briggs thrust out a flabby hand to welcome him.
‘Good morning, Sir Norman – a very fine morning,’ smiled Briggs, exposing two teeth heavily stopped in gold.
‘I think it will turn to rain,’ replied Sir Norman, as disagreeably as possible, ‘and I want nine thousand pounds as quickly as you can let me have them.’
‘Certainly, Sir Norman. There are just one or two formalities, if you wouldn’t mind taking a seat.’ He indicated the comfortable chair reserved for customers. Briggs delighted in entertaining what he invariably termed ‘the upper classes’. At lunch he would mention Sir Norman’s name at least three times – as casually as possible – and there was no doubt that his table companions would be suitably impressed, particularly as Sir Norman was so much in the news just now. The manager adopted an attitude of polite sympathy. He had followed the Blakeley case very closely in the papers, and he loved to know what was going on behind the scenes. He told himself that it was part of his job. (‘Never be afraid to ask questions,’ he always impressed upon his new juniors.)
‘I was very distressed to read about your son, Sir Norman,’ he began in smooth accents.
‘Ah yes, nasty business,’ growled Blakeley. This was the last subject he wished to discuss with Briggs.
‘I was reading in the Evening Post that Scotland Yard consider that the Front Page Men are really an organisation of—’
‘The newspapers print too much damn rubbish,’ said Sir Norman abruptly.
‘Yes, but all the same, Sir Norman, don’t you think—’
‘I think I’d like that money as soon as possible, if it isn’t troubling you too much,’ retorted Sir Norman sarcastically.
So he was going to be unpleasant, was he, ruminated Briggs. All right, he would have to be shown that two could play the same game.
‘You realise, of course, Sir Norman,’ he cleared his throat rather ponderously, ‘this cheque will make you about four thousand overdrawn? Of course, there will be no difficulty about that, but I thought you may have lost track of your affairs lately in view of this—er …’ He cleared his throat again.
‘That will be all right. I shall be paying in some big dividends during the next week or two,’ Sir Norman informed him.
‘Quite, Sir Norman; I hope you did not mind my mentioning the matter.’
‘Not in the least; I presume you will charge the usual rate,’ replied Blakeley,
hoping that the note of sarcasm in his tones did not escape Briggs.
‘It may take a little while to get the notes,’ continued Briggs, moving a pile of red-sealed documents from one side of his desk to the other in a manner which seemed to suggest that Sir Norman was trying to get a glimpse of them. This was one of Briggs’ favourite little tricks. ‘You see our main stock of banknotes are numbered consecutively. We may have to send out to the other banks.’ He shrugged his shoulders, as if to impress upon his visitor the many intricacies of the banking system.
Sir Norman fumed inwardly.
Meanwhile Briggs meandered on. He touched upon the refugee problem, National Service, unemployment and Sir Montagu Norman.
After what seemed an eternity, the young cashier returned, carrying a bulky package, and Briggs dismissed him with a curt nod.
‘Would you care to run through the notes, Sir Norman?’ he asked.
Sir Norman half-heartedly fingered the notes, then put them into his suitcase. He hardly imagined that the receiver would quibble if there were twenty pounds short. He took his leave of Briggs as rapidly as he could, but the manager insisted on following him to the outer door of the bank.
Curiously enough, Sir Norman’s prediction concerning the weather had been fulfilled, and rain was falling sharply. He was both irritated and annoyed to find that the taxi was nowhere to be seen. He distinctly remembered telling the man to wait for him. ‘Confound the impudence of the fellow!’
Sir Norman glanced down the practically deserted thoroughfare, and instinctively turned up the collar of his coat.
There was no sign of a taxi. Just as he was turning away from the bank, however, a powerful American limousine swung out of a side-street and came sleekly to a standstill level with the kerb. Sir Norman was delighted to find that he at once recognised the man sitting in the back of the car.
‘Jump in, Sir Norman,’ called Andrew Brightman smilingly as he swung open the door of the car. Sir Norman sank into the heavily sprung seat with a sigh of relief. He was feeling tired, and rather apprehensive about forthcoming events. Placing the suitcase on the floor beside him, he tried to relax.
‘I had a taxi waiting for me, but the fool disappeared,’ he explained, for Brightman’s benefit. Brightman smiled again, and produced his cigarette-case.
‘Lucky I was passing,’ he commented. ‘Where can I drop you?’
‘Well, I’m really on my way home,’ Sir Norman informed him, ‘if that isn’t taking you too far out of your way.’
Brightman shook his head. ‘As a matter of fact, I was going home myself to pick up some documents, so it’s only a question of a couple of minutes.’ He produced a gold petrol-lighter and lit Sir Norman’s cigarette.
Sir Norman puffed contentedly, and felt more at ease than he had done all day. ‘By the way, Brightman, how did you get on at the Yard yesterday?’ he asked at length, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
Brightman made a faint moue which might have meant anything.
‘They were very polite, but rather vague. I suppose one expects that of a Government department,’ he laughed. ‘Though Sir Graham did seem rather interested in my information. He’s a good man, Forbes, though inclined to be a little too independent. In a case like this, Sir Norman, I maintain that Scotland Yard cannot afford to ignore the most trivial clue.’
Sir Norman nodded. ‘It was very decent of you to go along there and tell them all you knew,’ he murmured, drowsily, flicking the ash off his cigarette. ‘Very decent indeed …’ This was a very comfortable car, he reflected, though a trifle overheated. Like most of these latest American models, it was designed to nullify the rigours of their climate. Sir Norman leaned forward in an attempt to open the window. To his surprise, he found that his head swam alarmingly the moment he moved his body. He remembered that he had had no food that morning … yes, that would be the trouble …
He raised his hand to his forehead, and the cigarette fell through his fingers on to the expensive upholstery. Brightman picked it up and held it out to Sir Norman. For the first time, Blakeley noticed that the smoke was a peculiar bluish-green colour. There was a strange taste in his mouth, too. Brightman was looking at him intently.
‘You must finish your cigarette, Sir Norman,’ Brightman was saying. There was something strange about that smile of his. In spite of the fact that his head was swimming, and his vision was more than a little blurred, Sir Norman made a mental note that Andrew Brightman was not to be trusted. For some unknown reason, he reminded him of Briggs, the bank manager … and he had never liked Briggs … had … never … liked … Briggs … had never liked …
Andrew Brightman opened the window of the car about two inches and tossed the cigarette into the road. At precisely that moment, Sir Norman fell from the seat across the brown leather suitcase.
CHAPTER IV
Mr. and Mrs. Paul Temple
‘Why Mayfair?’ several of Paul Temple’s acquaintances had demanded when they heard he had taken a flat in that exclusive and somewhat ‘Michael Arlenish’ neighbourhood.
‘Why not?’ urbanely replied the novelist. ‘We’ve got to live somewhere, and one might as well start married life in the best possible surroundings. Besides, I adore seeing Steve in a riding habit, and living so near the Row encourages her.’
Paul Temple was confounding the sceptics who declare that a bachelor is too settled in his habits to make a success of married life. Nowadays he took more exercise, had lost a certain amount of weight, and looked all the better for it. His wife had even persuaded him to cut down his smoking, thereby disconcerting various other cynics who hold the opinion that a man never changes after he is married.
So far, Paul Temple had only one complaint against married life – he was so immersed in the novelty of its routine after his bachelor existence that he found little time, and not a great deal of inclination, to concentrate upon his latest novel.
When Gerald Mitchell, his publisher, brought his wife, Ann, to see the new flat one day, Temple was only too well aware that the visit had a dual purpose. Gerald Mitchell was anxious to discover if the new book was likely to be completed to schedule.
Mitchell was an exceptionally tall, dark man, a distinct Varsity product, and apt to worry himself unduly over matters which he could not control, and which had a habit of straightening themselves out without his assistance.
His wife, Ann, was in some ways a useful sort of antidote. Self-centred and sophisticated, she waved aside all his fears and petty worries until he eventually began to see them in their correct proportion. Almost ash-blonde, and extremely good-looking, Ann Mitchell obviously spent as much on her appearance as would maintain a fair-sized, working-class family.
It was not long before the conversation veered round to the subject of The Front Page Men, and Mitchell was obviously more than a little troubled about the mystery surrounding this, his most successful publishing venture. Temple did his utmost to reassure him, but Mitchell was feeling the strain of the police inquiries and constant cross questioning.
Temple was sorry that Steve was not present to divert the conversation to more cheerful channels in that delightful way she had. She was out shopping, and Temple’s mind wandered away from the conversation occasionally to picture her roaming around Selfridges’, her small mouth set in determined fashion, as from time to time she consulted her shopping list.
‘So you honestly don’t think there’s any need for me to worry about this business?’ Mitchell was saying.
‘Of course not, Gerald. If you hadn’t published The Front Page Men, somebody else would have done so.’
‘That’s exactly what I’ve been telling him all along,’ put in Ann. ‘Isn’t it, darling?’
‘Yes, I know. But these detectives get me rattled. After all, my story does sound a bit thin, doesn’t it? When a woman writes a best-seller like The Front Page Men, she doesn’t usually go out of her way to keep her identity a secret. Not from her publisher, at any rate.’
‘My dear, dar
ling husband, don’t be silly,’ scoffed Ann Mitchell, screwing her head a little, to get a better view of herself in the full-length mirror that stood at one end of the drawing-room. ‘It’s as obvious as daylight. The woman who wrote the book is scared to death because some gang is putting her ideas into practice. I know I’d keep in the background if it were me – and I’ve never objected to publicity. Why, goodness, if she revealed herself, the police would be down on her right away. They’d immediately jump to the conclusion that she was the master mind behind these robberies.’
This idea seemed to intrigue Temple.
‘I don’t think the police are as stupid as all that,’ he smiled. ‘I have a feeling that Miss Andrea Fortune has a better reason than that for keeping her identity a secret. Still, there’s nothing for you to worry about, Gerald.’
‘Of course not. Come along, darling, we really must be going,’ decided Ann, moving over to the mirror and adjusting a Suzy hat, which appeared to be in perpetual danger of dislodgment.
Temple saw his visitors to the door, and had just closed it when the phone rang. It was Sir Graham Forbes. Rather to the novelist’s surprise, Sir Graham declared himself greatly interested in the new flat, and wondered if he could come round. Temple was inclined to feel a trifle dubious of this sudden enthusiasm, but his invitation was convincing enough.
As he replaced the receiver, there was a sound of someone lightly kicking the outer door He opened it, and there stood Steve, almost obscured by a huge pile of parcels, which seemed to hang from every part of her person.
‘I couldn’t ring or knock,’ she informed him, her dark-blue eyes twinkling with glee. ‘Quick, Paul, help me with these before I drop them.’
‘What on earth have you been doing?’ he asked, taking several parcels and carrying them into the lounge.
‘Only a little shopping, darling,’ she answered placidly. ‘Just a few odds and ends.’
‘But you’ve been away all afternoon,’ he pointed out.
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