Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  She was a large, flamboyant woman of about forty-five, obviously a little too much inclined to sampling her own wares. Although it was still comparatively early in the evening, Mrs. Taylor’s tongue had received sufficient lubrication to set it going merrily.

  ‘“My Gawd!” I said to ’er,’ she ended her story, ‘“to ’ear you talk anybody would think your ole man were a blasted admiral, instead of a yellow-bellied first mate on a perishin’ tramp steamer.”’

  This seemed to tickle Jimmy Mills, a shifty young man of about thirty, who was rather too well dressed for his surroundings. He had a cruel mouth, which rarely relaxed from its thin, set line, except when he laughed rather too loudly, and he wore an expensive soft felt hat, pulled a little too far to one side.

  ‘I bet she was nonplussed, Mrs. Taylor,’ he remarked, stressing the long word, as if proud of his vocabulary.

  ‘It took the wind out of ’er sails, I don’t mind telling you,’ nodded Mrs. Taylor. ‘Can I get you anything else, love?’ she suggested pleasantly, noticing that Mills’ glass needed refilling.

  ‘Yes,’ ruminated Mills, ‘I’d like another dry ginger; but this time you can put in a drop of—’

  Suddenly his jaw dropped, as he caught sight of Paul Temple standing in the passage outside.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Mrs. Taylor nervously. She had always been a little jumpy since the place had been raided last year. ‘Who is it?’ she repeated urgently.

  ‘A fellow called Temple,’ Mills told her. ‘The last time I saw him was—’

  ‘Phew! You ’ad me all of a jitter for a minute. I thought it was that dirty swine Brook, or one of his river cops.’

  ‘Sh, he’s coming in here,’ cut in Mills. ‘Now, the name’s Smith – remember that!’ he ordered curtly.

  *

  Temple came up to them and leaned against the bar, slightly nauseated by the odour of stale beer, foul tobacco-smoke, and the general uncleanliness of the bar-parlour.

  ‘Good evening, sir. What can I get you?’ primly demanded Mrs. Taylor, in her politest manner.

  Temple ran a speculative eye over the bottles at the back of the counter.

  ‘Well now, I think I’ll have a ginger ale,’ he decided.

  ‘Yes, sir, very good, sir,’ answered the obsequious Mrs. Taylor, and busied herself with bottle and opener. Meanwhile, Temple moved over to her late companion.

  ‘Well, well! Look who’s here! If it isn’t Jimmy Mills!’ he ejaculated.

  ‘The name’s Smith,’ retorted Mills, shortly.

  ‘Smith?’ Temple seemed amazed. ‘Not one of the Devonshire Smiths?’

  ‘Don’t try to be funny!’ snapped Mills, savagely, and Paul Temple laughed.

  ‘Still the same old Jimmy. Tell me, what happened to that Canadian gold mine of yours? Don’t say there wasn’t any gold. Dear me, what did the shareholders have to say at the general meeting? Or perhaps there wasn’t any general meeting, Jimmy?’

  Apparently the shot went home.

  ‘Look ’ere, Temple,’ snorted Mills, ‘there’s no need for any of this funny business. If a fellow can’t keep to the straight and narrow without some busybody shovin’ ’is nose where it’s not wanted, then it’s come to something!’

  ‘Jimmy, I’m disappointed in you,’ pronounced Temple, appearing to be hurt. ‘You’re dropping your aitches again. It’s a bad sign, Jimmy, it’s a bad sign!’

  ‘Ah, you are a one, Mr. Temple!’ laughed Jimmy, but his laugh was somewhat reluctant and rather hollow, and he was by no means at ease. He had decided that his policy was to play up to Temple without giving anything away.

  ‘I’m glad to see you again, Mr. Temple,’ he went on. ‘Looking pretty fit, too. I heard you was married. Is that right?’

  ‘That’s right, Jimmy,’ nodded Temple.

  ‘Seems to agree with you. I suppose you’ve gone out of the business now.’

  ‘Business?’ queried Temple.

  ‘Yes … you know …’

  Paul Temple smiled enigmatically. ‘That depends …’

  ‘I thought of settling down meself,’ pursued the other. ‘But, well, things ain’t too good in my line just now, and—’

  ‘What exactly is your line nowadays, Jimmy? You’re so versatile, I never know quite—’

  ‘I’m a commercial man now, Mr. Temple.’

  ‘What sort of commerce?’

  ‘Oh, buyin’ and sellin’ things you know,’ said Jimmy vaguely. ‘All above board and legitimate,’ he hastened to add. ‘I’ve got a cosy little office in the West End.’

  ‘Really?’ smiled Temple.

  Mrs. Taylor placed a badly chipped glass of ginger ale in front of the novelist, and noticing Mills’ empty glass, he invited him to have another drink.

  ‘I don’t mind if I do, Mr. Temple. Ginger ale, please, Mrs. Taylor.’

  As she moved away, he turned to Temple. ‘I’m on the wagon these days – going straight, you see, Mr. Temple.’

  ‘I should have thought that there would have been rather more congenial pubs near your West End office,’ said Temple pensively.

  ‘Oh, I dunno. You get a hankering to see the old places,’ replied Mills, with a shrug.

  Mrs. Taylor brought the drink, and would obviously have had no objections to joining in the conversation, but neither of the men encouraged her, and she eventually returned to the tap-room.

  Temple lifted his glass and sniffed it suspiciously. It smelt strongly of beer. He took a quick gulp by way of acknowledging Mills’ salutation, and set the glass aside.

  ‘It’s always hard for a bloke like me to convince people what knew ’im in the old days that he’s running straight,’ persisted Mills, but Paul Temple was paying little attention. A newcomer had entered the bar parlour.

  Dressed in sober black, the stranger had a thin face and ascetic appearance. He wore a clerical collar, but no hat. His dark hair was plastered smoothly, but free from any unguent, and Temple thought he detected a roguish glint in his eyes. He might have been any age between thirty and forty-five. For a second he stood in the doorway; then Jimmy Mills hailed him heartily.

  ‘Mr. Hargreaves! Come over here and vouch for me to this gentleman.’

  ‘Certainly I will!’ agreed the newcomer, joining them.

  ‘This is the Reverend Hargreaves – Mr. Temple,’ Mills introduced them, and the parson shook hands warmly. ‘He’s in charge of the Seamen’s Hostel just round the corner,’ explained Mills for Temple’s benefit. ‘Knew me before I took to the straight and narrow.’

  Hargreaves managed to get in a word at last.

  ‘Not—Paul Temple, by any chance?’ and there was a note of astonishment in his voice.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Reverend,’ corroborated Jimmy Mills.

  ‘Well, indeed, this is a pleasure,’ enthused Hargreaves. ‘I’ve read so many of your books, Mr. Temple, that I feel as if, well, as if I’ve known you for years.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ replied Temple, who did not know quite what to make of this unusual cleric.

  He was just a shade too effusive, and Temple did not like the way he constantly looked out of the corner of his eyes at the other occupants of the room.

  ‘You never told me that you were a friend of Mr. Temple’s, Jimmy,’ reproached Hargreaves.

  ‘Well, I don’t know whether you’d call us friends or not, Reverend.’

  Hargreaves seemed to understand, and was obviously amused. ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be friends now, Jimmy.’ He turned to Temple. ‘He’s going straight, Mr. Temple, and making a very fine job of it.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Temple. ‘Jimmy always made a very fine job of everything,’ he added cryptically.

  Mrs. Taylor intruded once more.

  ‘Anything I can get you, Parson?’

  ‘No,’ smiled Hargreaves, as though deliberating the point. ‘No, thank you very much, my dear. But I wonder if you would be so kind as to place these bills in a prominent position for me
. I’m holding a special concert on Sunday afternoon, and I do hope the attendance will be a record.’

  ‘Well, I’ll do my best, Reverend,’ offered Mills. ‘I’ll bring some of my City pals along.’

  ‘Thank you, Jimmy, that’s very good of you,’ said Hargreaves, laying a friendly hand on Mills’ shoulder.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Hargreaves,’ said Mrs Taylor, taking the bills. ‘I can’t promise nothin’, mind you.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear. I know I can rely on you.’

  ‘Well, I must be toddlin’,’ said Jimmy Mills at length, draining his glass. ‘Good night, Mr. Temple.’

  ‘Good night, Jimmy.’

  ‘Good night, my son,’ said Hargreaves, shaking Jimmy’s hand.

  ‘Cheerio, Lucy,’ called Mills, with a significant wink and backward nod as he passed the tap-room.

  Paul Temple tried to persuade his companion to change his mind about a drink, but the latter shook his head resolutely.

  ‘I have great faith in Jimmy Mills, Mr. Temple,’ said Hargreaves earnestly. ‘He’s changed a great deal in the last two years.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, sir. He used to be one of the cleverest confidence men in the country.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know, Mr. Temple. How dreadful, how very dreadful!’ deplored Hargreaves, a shade too piously.

  ‘I don’t want to disillusion you, sir, but I think I ought to warn you that Mills has a knack of convincing anybody about anything he sets his mind on. Of course, it’s no business of mine, but—’

  ‘That’s all right, Mr. Temple. I quite understand, and I appreciate your trying to warn me. But I want to give Jimmy a chance.’

  ‘Do you spend much time here, sir – I mean in this part of the world?’ demanded Temple, abruptly changing the subject.

  ‘Oh, a great deal, Mr. Temple. I’m more or less in charge of the Seamen’s Hostel, you know. It’s uphill work, but I’m always doing my best to persuade those unfortunate fellows to regard our hostel as a sort of home from home.’ He added with a sigh, ‘My task isn’t an easy one, Mr. Temple, by any means.’

  ‘I’m sure it isn’t,’ said Temple sympathetically.

  ‘However, one mustn’t grumble. There’s never a dull moment; I’ll say that for my daily round.’

  ‘I can quite appreciate that,’ smiled the novelist. He looked round the smoky parlour, which was now filling up with men from all the seven seas. Temple noticed their looks of suspicion and lowered his voice.

  ‘Mr. Hargreaves, do you know a man called Wilson, Chubby Wilson?’

  ‘Why, yes, I know him quite well,’ admitted Hargreaves with some slight hesitation. ‘A delightful fellow, but – well, I hate to say this – thoroughly untrustworthy.’

  He seemed reluctant to pursue the subject, and continued hastily: ‘Let’s talk about yourself, Mr. Temple. I’m really quite thrilled at meeting you like this. I’ve often wondered how you get those charming little eccentricities into your characterisation – but of course I see now. You come to places like this and study your types at first hand.’ He paused. ‘You know, it may sound rather funny, but I’ve always thought that, given the opportunity, I should be able to write.’

  Paul Temple began to feel rather bored. He had not come to the Glass Bowl to swop enthusiasms with a literary amateur.

  ‘Oh, I know it sounds frightfully conceited,’ persisted Hargreaves deprecatingly, ‘and I suppose rather priggish in a way, but when one studies human nature in the raw, as it were—’

  ‘Talking of life in the raw, have you read The Front Page Men?’ asked Temple, quietly.

  Whether Hargreaves resented this diversion from the subject of his ambitions, or whether he was taken aback by the question, Temple was not certain. But he paused for a moment before replying.

  ‘The Front Page Men? No, no, I haven’t read the book. I’m told it’s very good.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Temple, ‘extremely realistic.’

  ‘I really feel quite—er—reluctant to read it,’ confessed Hargreaves, ingenuously. ‘I mean, with all these terrible robberies, and that shocking case of Sir Norman Blakeley’s. Although I suppose one can hardly hold the dear lady who wrote the book responsible. After all, according to the newspapers, she is devoting the royalties to a worthy charity.’

  Temple absent-mindedly picked up his glass, set it down again, and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Well, this is a coincidence,’ said Hargreaves suddenly, in a surprised voice. ‘Here’s the gentleman you were asking about.’

  ‘Chubby Wilson? Where?’ demanded Temple.

  ‘In that far corner, Mr. Temple. I only just caught a glimpse of him.’

  ‘Then would you excuse me?’ said Temple rather abruptly.

  ‘Why yes, yes, of course. But I hope we may meet again on some future occasion.’

  ‘Yes, I hope so too,’ hastily agreed Temple, as he quickly shook hands, and moved over to the corner of the bar which Hargreaves had indicated.

  As he approached, he could hear Chubby Wilson’s voice rising above the hubbub of general conversation. Apparently Chubby was trying to impress his political opinions upon one of the loungers from outside, whom he had brought in for a drink.

  Chubby was not exactly worthy of his cognomen. Rather was he inclined to be pudgy and flabby. His complexion was a dirty yellowish brown, and a shabby scarf concealed a none-too-clean neck. He paused occasionally in his harangue to draw a deep breath.

  ‘Hallo, Chubby, still on the soap box?’ Temple greeted him. Chubby Wilson seemed surprised, but quickly recovered.

  ‘Why, hello, Mr. Temple!’ Then he turned to his former listener. ‘’Op it, Larry!’ he ordered. The lounger leered questioningly at Temple, then slunk away.

  ‘Sit down, Mr. Temple,’ invited Chubby. ‘Quite like old times seeing you again.’

  Temple did not obey. Instead, he leaned over and spoke authoritatively. ‘Chubby, I’m a very busy man, and I want to talk to you. Where can we go?’

  ‘Well now, let me think,’ mused Wilson. Then a solution suggested itself. ‘Follow me, guv’nor.’

  He led the way outside and along the passage to a tiny sitting-room, meanly furnished and shabby to a degree. Chubby closed the door after them very carefully.

  ‘How’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s not the Ritz, Chubby, but it will do,’ decreed Temple, choosing a particularly uninviting bent wood chair, and sitting down. ‘Well, how’s life treating you?’

  ‘Very nicely, Mr. Temple. I never was one to grumble.’

  ‘Still in the dope racket?’

  ‘Mr. Temple!’ Chubby gave a very good imitation of shocked innocence, and Temple laughed.

  ‘All right, Chubby – let’s skip the part about going straight. I’ve just had one dose of that from Jimmy Mills.’

  ‘Jimmy Mills, oh, ’im!’ Chubby spat expressively.

  ‘Now tell me,’ continued Temple, bluntly, ‘what do you know about the Front Page Men?’

  At last Wilson appeared to be genuinely frightened, and made no pretence of concealing the fact.

  ‘Nothin—nothin’ at all,’ he gasped. ‘My God, if Basher’s talked, I’ll break every—’

  ‘Oho,’ chortled Temple. ‘Still friendly with poor old Basher, eh? When did he get out?’

  ‘About a month ago, Mr. Temple. He’s a sick man, is Basher. His heart’s in the wrong place.’

  ‘You’re telling me!’ said Temple with a short laugh. ‘It was certainly in the wrong place when he beat up that poor old Chelsea pensioner.’

  Chubby was still very uneasy. His yellow streak was never very far from the surface.

  ‘Have you seen Basher lately, Mr. Temple?’ he blurted out at last.

  ‘No, Chubby, I haven’t. So he hasn’t done any talking. Not to me at any rate.’

  Chubby brightened up at once.

  ‘I’m going to America at the end of the week, Mr. Temple,’ he announced. ‘Wonderful country, America.’

  Te
mple leaned forward somewhat aggressively.

  ‘Chubby, you haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘What question?’ The little man tried vainly to avoid the issue.

  ‘What do you know about the Front Page Men?’ repeated Temple deliberately.

  ‘I’ve told you, nothin’. Why the ’ell should I know anythin’ about ’em?’ cried Chubby, hysterically. He spread out his hands pleadingly. ‘I’ve bin a lot of things in me time, Mr. Temple, but if there’s one thing about me to the good—’

  ‘There isn’t!’ snapped Temple, ‘so you can cut the cackle. You’re a dirty-minded little crook, with about as much backbone as a filleted plaice – but I like you.’

  After this outburst Temple took a wallet from his inside pocket.

  ‘I want information, Chubby, and I’m willing to pay for it.’

  ‘How much?’ demanded Chubby, licking his lips.

  Temple pocketed the wallet again.

  ‘That’s better,’ he approved. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’

  ‘Mind you,’ whispered Chubby guardedly, ‘I don’t say I’ve got anything to tell.’

  ‘Chubby, you know you can trust me,’ said Temple persuasively.

  ‘Oh, sure, Mr. Temple, but—’

  ‘Who are the Front Page Men?’ asked Temple, in his quiet determined tones.

  Wilson hesitated. ‘I don’t know, Mr. Temple. Nobody knows,’ he declared.

  ‘But you’ve had dealings with them,’ pursued Temple, not to be outdone.

  Chubby seemed to be struggling to make up his mind before replying. He went across to the door, opened it, looked around and closed it again. Then he came back to where Temple was sitting.

  ‘Mr. Temple, have you heard of “Amashyer”?’ he said softly.

  ‘Amashyer?’ repeated Temple, rather puzzled. ‘Can’t say I have. What is it?’

  ‘It’s a drug – a very strange and very rare drug,’ explained Chubby, mysteriously.

  ‘What effect does it have?’

  ‘It makes people forget. Forget every blessed thing that’s ’appened to them in the last forty-eight hours.’

  Temple was obviously interested. His mind flew at once to the return of Brightman’s child who had no recollection of what had happened to her. ‘Go on, Chubby,’ he ordered.