Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  They had progressed the better part of two miles when Hunter asked, ‘What’s that place over there?’ He indicated a large building that had loomed up at a bend in the river.

  ‘Fisher and Watkins, sir. They’re the coal people,’ Brooks informed him.

  ‘Then that couldn’t be it.’

  ‘No, sir. That place is pretty well known. There isn’t a tug on the river that doesn’t call there at some time or other.’

  ‘You seem to know the river pretty well, Sergeant,’ commented Mitchell.

  ‘Well, I’ve been up and down a few times, sir,’ was Brooks’ laconic reply. ‘I could write a book on the things I’ve seen …’

  ‘If ever you do, you must give me the first chance of publishing it.’

  ‘Are we anywhere near the place they call “People’s Wharf”?’ asked Forbes, recalling the name in connection with a notorious case.

  ‘That’s the other direction, sir. You mean the place where we found the Wapping Kid the night he was all shot to pieces. I shall never forget that night as long as I—’

  ‘Listen!’ interrupted Mitchell, gripping Temple’s arm.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I thought I heard something,’ said Mitchell, nervously. ‘It sounded rather like a revolver shot.’

  ‘A revolver shot?’ queried Sir Graham sharply.

  Brooks seemed sceptical. ‘This old river’s full of strange noises, sir – until you get used to ’em. You might imagine almost anything.’

  ‘I don’t think that light is imagination, Sergeant,’ interposed Paul Temple.

  ‘Light, sir? Where?’

  ‘To the left, George. Look!’ called out Sergeant Donovan, before Temple could reply.

  ‘H’m, that’s a light, true enough,’ admitted Brooks. ‘A pretty powerful one, too. Why, it must be—’

  ‘Listen!’ hissed Donovan.

  From the distance, somewhat muffled by the fog, came the familiar ‘chug-chug’ of a motor-launch, like a quickened heart-beat. Its light swept the river inquiringly, but so far had not picked up the police launch.

  ‘That must have been the boat I heard before,’ observed Mitchell.

  ‘Not one of your men, by any chance, Sergeant?’ queried Temple.

  Brooks shook his head. ‘Not our type of engine, sir,’ he declared, positively.

  ‘Perhaps it’s Ginger Ricketts. He often comes down to his tinworks about this time,’ suggested Donovan.

  ‘I’d know the sound of his old tub anywhere,’ said Brooks.

  ‘It’s a pretty powerful light they’ve got,’ said Temple, peering across the water.

  ‘They’re getting closer,’ announced Donovan from the wheel.

  ‘Give ’em a hail,’ ordered Sir Graham.

  Brooks stood up, cupped his hands and shouted:

  ‘Ahoy there! Ahoy!’

  There was no reply, but the oncoming launch appeared to change her course slightly.

  ‘Turn the light on, Harry,’ ordered Brooks.

  There was a click, and a thin, powerful beam pencilled its way across the river towards the light in the other boat, which was immediately switched off.

  ‘They’ve gone right over to the other side,’ declared Temple, who was watching closely. ‘They’re trying to dodge us. Bring the light over to the right, Sergeant. A bit more … now back to your left a shade …’

  The sound of a shot echoed clearly over the water, and everybody ducked instinctively as there was a sudden crash of splintered glass. The lamp on the police-launch was out, leaving them in a darkness that seemed more intense than ever.

  ‘What the ’ell is this?’ gasped Donovan, completely bewildered. To him, an attack on a police-launch was akin to high treason.

  ‘Get the reserve lamp, Harry, and look sharp,’ snapped Brooks.

  Donovan began to fumble in a locker with his free hand, and Brooks went to help him.

  ‘Where the blazes did Thompson put that flex?’ Temple heard one of them mutter, then another shot was heard and a bullet whined away to their left. This was followed by a rapid fusillade.

  ‘Keep down! For God’s sake keep down, Sir Graham!’ shrieked Brooks, and they all crouched as low as they could in the well of the launch. Again the staccato racket that obviously emanated from a machine-gun.

  ‘Keep down, Donovan,’ called out Forbes. But the man at the wheel had straightened to a sitting position.

  ‘We must turn her round and get after them,’ he answered, and was about to add something further when there was another spurt of machine-gun fire, this time much nearer and more prolonged.

  Temple saw Donovan clutch his shoulder and sink slowly into his cockpit. Brooks went over to him at once.

  ‘Are you all right, Harry?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes—yes—’ gasped Donovan weakly, and with a queer strangled sigh relapsed into unconsciousness. He had switched off the engine, and the boat was drifting aimlessly with the tide.

  ‘Get him in the corner if you can,’ suggested Mitchell.

  Suddenly the light from the other launch blazed on them, and Brooks ducked quickly. To all outward appearance there was no sign of life on the police launch. For the better part of a minute, the relentless glare swept the boat, then snapped out. Apparently the strangers were not tempted to investigate further.

  Temple made for Donovan and hastily examined his injury. ‘He’s in a pretty bad way,’ he announced.

  As he spoke they heard the steady beat of the engine of the other boat amplified to a roar which gradually faded into the night.

  ‘The swine have gone!’ said Mitchell.

  ‘Donovan is getting worse. We’ll have to turn back,’ declared Brooks.

  ‘Yes, better wait a couple of minutes till they are clear,’ advised Sir Graham.

  ‘Paul – you don’t think that Carol and your wife are in that boat?’ blurted out Mitchell.

  Temple shook his head helplessly.

  Brooks was struggling to restart the engine.

  ‘All right, Sergeant, I’ll take the wheel,’ offered Mitchell. ‘You look after Donovan.’

  ‘Think you can manage it all right, sir?’

  ‘Perfectly. I’ve got a boat of my own up at Maidenhead.’

  He lowered himself into the cockpit and gingerly felt for the starter.

  ‘Perhaps it would be as well if we made for the bank and telephoned the nearest hospital,’ Brooks was suggesting, when there was a sudden exclamation from Forbes.

  ‘Temple! There’s something in the water!’

  Temple leaned over the side and peered in the direction Sir Graham indicated. ‘It’s a man!’

  ‘My God, he’s right!’ confirmed Brooks.

  ‘Over to the left, Gerald – cut out the engine – that’s it …’ instructed Temple.

  The wavelets washed listlessly against the launch as the engine spluttered to a standstill. Brooks produced a long boathook and dragged in the black object that bobbed gently up and down on the dark waters.

  ‘Have you got him, Temple?’

  ‘Yes,’ gasped Temple, as he clutched at the body and lifted it slightly. But it was so sodden that getting it aboard was quite another problem. Forbes and Hunter went to his assistance, and eventually they succeeded in heaving this strange, inert mass over the side, though at one time there appeared to be some danger of the boat capsizing.

  They laid the pitiful object full length in the well of the launch.

  It was a man, quite heavily built, and his face was swathed in yards of bandages.

  ‘He looks a goner,’ announced Mitchell, kneeling on the driving-seat to get a better view.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid he is,’ agreed Temple, bending over the body.

  ‘Better get that cloth off his face,’ suggested Brooks.

  ‘Afraid it’s too late,’ grunted Sir Graham.

  Temple had carefully pulled a sodden card away from the man’s sleeve. He passed it on to Sir Graham without comment. The Chief Commissioner ignited his
cigarette lighter and looked at the card, though he knew what to expect before he did so. Hunter leaned over.

  ‘The Front Page Men,’ he murmured.

  ‘Hadn’t we better untie this bandage stuff round his face, sir, and then we’ll be able to see who—’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Forbes. He produced a penknife and cut away some of the soaked outer wrappings.

  ‘They’ve certainly tied this tight enough – the poor devil must have died from suffocation,’ he pronounced, struggling with various knots.

  ‘Let me hold the lighter, sir,’ offered Hunter. With both hands freed, Sir Graham worked faster. ‘Ah, that’s done it,’ he announced at last.

  ‘My God!’ breathed Paul Temple, as the bandage fell away.

  He was looking at the face of Chubby Wilson.

  CHAPTER IX

  News of Steve

  ‘Chubby Wilson?’ echoed Forbes, letting fall the dripping pile of bandages.

  ‘Yes, the man who told me about the warehouse,’ nodded Temple.

  ‘So that’s why they put him out,’ said Brooks.

  ‘I’m afraid so, Sergeant.’

  ‘Poor devil!’ growled Forbes, placing a handkerchief over the face of the corpse.

  Temple pondered upon the tragedy as the launch steadily chugged its way homewards. As far as he knew, only the Reverend Charles Hargreaves had any idea that he and Chubby had talked together. Of course, someone else in the Glass Bowl might have caught a glimpse of them. But Hargreaves was certainly a primary suspect.

  ‘Donovan looks in a bad way,’ muttered Forbes in a troubled voice, and Brooks also seemed anxious about his colleague.

  At last, amidst the swirling mist, the lights of the pier were faintly visible, and Mitchell, who had by now mastered the little idiosyncrasies of the launch, steered her towards the lights.

  ‘There’s someone waiting for us,’ said Forbes.

  ‘Yes, it looks to me like Reed,’ confirmed Temple. ‘That might mean news of some sort.’

  ‘It’s Reed all right,’ laughed Hunter. ‘I can recognise that dirty old raincoat of his. Give me the painter, Sergeant.’

  He sorted out the rope, then turned to help Brooks with Donovan, who had temporarily recovered consciousness. But he was in such pain that when they tried to lift him he fainted again.

  ‘Hello, is that you, Mac?’ called Sir Graham.

  ‘Ay, I’ve got a message for ye,’ answered Reed, running down the steps of the landing stage.

  ‘Catch hold of the rope, Mac,’ called Hunter, and the Scotsman deftly obeyed.

  ‘Well, how’s that?’ sighed Mitchell, as he shut off the engine and leaned back in some relief.

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Mitchell. We’re very grateful for your assistance,’ acknowledged Sir Graham.

  ‘Yes, it was very lucky you came along, Gerald,’ said Temple, noticing that Mitchell’s hand shook slightly as he mopped his brow.

  ‘Holy Moses!’ ejaculated Reed in astonishment, when he came close up to the rather dejected party. ‘Where the devil have ye been? An’ what’s the matter with yon laddie?’

  ‘Bullet through his shoulder. He’s pretty badly hurt, and I’m afraid of chill,’ snapped Sir Graham, a little impatient at this questioning. ‘Better phone the station, Brooks, and get them to send a hand-ambulance right away.’ Brooks leapt ashore.

  ‘Don’t put the wind up the missis, George,’ gasped Donovan weakly, in a fleeting spell of consciousness.

  ‘That’s all right, old man. Don’t you worry,’ Brooks reassured him, as he ran to the nearest telephone.

  Reed was peering intently at the body in the well of the launch.

  ‘I say, what’s wrong with the other chappie?’ he asked.

  ‘Dead,’ replied Temple laconically.

  ‘Dead! Phew!’ whistled Reed. ‘It’s been a pleasant little picnic you’ve been on, by the look of things.’

  Temple nodded grimly.

  ‘His face is familiar, but I canna just place him,’ ruminated Reed.

  ‘Then you can’t have seen much of him lately. It’s Chubby Wilson.’

  ‘Chubby Wilson! The dope laddie! My, my! Ye’ve certainly been hobnobbing in high society. However, it’ll save the police a lot of—’

  Reed broke off abruptly.

  ‘Good heavens, Sir Graham, I was forgetting all about the message!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Message?’ repeated Temple quickly. ‘You haven’t had any news?’

  ‘Ay, it’s from Mrs. Temple and Miss Forbes, sir. They’re waitin’ for ye at the flat.’

  ‘At my flat?’ queried Temple in amazement.

  ‘Ay, that’s right, sir.’

  ‘Are you sure of this?’ gasped Sir Graham, incredulously.

  ‘Well, that was the message Nelson gave me, sir. He said Mrs. Temple telephoned the Yard about half an hour after ye left for the river.’

  Temple and Forbes looked at each other blankly.

  ‘At that rate, we’d better run along to your place, Temple, and see what it’s all about,’ decided Sir Graham at last.

  ‘I’ll get a taxi,’ suggested Mitchell at once. ‘Then I can drop you on my way home.’ He moved over towards the roadway.

  ‘Shall I stay with Donovan, sir, till the Sergeant gets here?’ offered Hunter.

  ‘Yes, I wish you would, Hunter. And you come along with us, Mac.’

  ‘I will, sir,’ agreed Mac with alacrity. ‘And I hope ye’ve got a wee drop of Scotch handy, Mr. Temple. I’m nearly frozen stiff waitin’ here for ye.’

  Forbes took another look at Donovan, and shook his head dubiously. The wounded man was now in the early stages of delirium, and was talking wildly.

  ‘Keep that coat over him, Hunter,’ advised Sir Graham. ‘If he gets pneumonia now …’

  Looking very worried, he rejoined the others, who were just about to enter the taxi.

  Despite his native hardness, Chief Inspector Reed complained of the cold all the way to Mayfair. This, at any rate, relieved the others of making conversation. Outside Temple’s flat they said good night to Mitchell, who promised to telephone Paul Temple first thing in the morning.

  CHAPTER X

  Story of a Rendezvous

  With a hand that trembled slightly, Temple sorted out his latchkey, and let his companions into the flat. Then, with a muttered excuse, he went on into the lounge, which he had noticed was occupied.

  As soon as he opened the door, Steve jumped up and came to meet him. Her eyes were shining and just a little moist.

  ‘Darling!’ she cried softly, clasping him tightly for a moment, and finding a response as he clutched her shoulders and held her to him.

  Then they simultaneously realised that Carol was sitting in an armchair, and that Sir Graham and Reed were standing rather awkwardly in the doorway.

  ‘Come in, Sir Graham, and you too, Reed,’ said Temple hastily. ‘Whisky for both of you?’ He went to get the decanter, and everybody started talking at once.

  ‘We’ve had a devil of a game, Carol,’ Sir Graham was saying when his host brought the drinks. ‘Temple and I have been practically at our wits’ end.’

  ‘You explain, Steve,’ drawled Carol, a dark, slim young woman in the early twenties, and rather too inclined to adopt a blase pose, though perhaps this was incited by her father’s continual activity. Carol did not seem to be taking the events of the evening particularly seriously, and her dark eyes smouldered with a twinkle of amusement from time to time. Crime and criminals were so much a part of her daily mealtime conversation at home that they no longer awed her.

  ‘Well, it’s all rather strange really,’ began Steve, obviously rather puzzled. ‘I must admit I can’t quite make it all out.’

  Temple replenished Reed’s glass, which had rapidly emptied. ‘My, but that’s a grand drop o’ Scotch,’ whispered the Chief Inspector. ‘Only a wee splash of soda, if ye don’t mind.’

  ‘Tell me about this mysterious telephone call, Steve,’ urged Temple.

&n
bsp; ‘It came through just after you had left. There was a girl at the other end, and I hadn’t the slightest doubt that it was Carol. The voice was exactly the same, and besides, she said it was Carol speaking.’

  ‘Naturally, you wouldn’t question it,’ agreed Sir Graham. ‘Please go on, Mrs. Temple.’

  ‘Well, she asked me to meet her at the corner of Half Moon Street shortly before nine. That struck me as rather queer, because Carol usually calls for me, but I thought she might have been seeing someone in that district and hadn’t time to come on here. So I changed into a costume and left about twenty to nine.’ She paused. ‘Now this is the strange part. Before I got to the end of Park Lane, a taxi sailed past, and who should be sitting inside, gazing blissfully out of the window, but Carol.’

  ‘I was on my way to the Fosters’,’ that young lady lazily explained.

  ‘Naturally, seeing Carol like this rather surprised me,’ continued Steve. ‘Apart from the taxi going in the opposite direction to Half Moon Street, I noticed that Carol was wearing evening dress. This certainly didn’t look as if she was on her way to keep our appointment. So I waved my arms frantically, and Carol stopped the taxi.’

  ‘Lucky I saw you,’ commented Carol, lighting the cigarette she had inserted in a holder. ‘Even so, I thought poor Steve had gone potty!’

  ‘What then?’ asked Temple.

  ‘There’s really nothing more to tell,’ said Steve. ‘Carol swears she never went near the phone all evening, and most certainly didn’t ring me up.’

  ‘And yet you were sure it was Carol who spoke on the telephone?’

  ‘I was certain at the time,’ declared Steve, emphatically.

  ‘And when did you arrange to go to the Fosters’, Carol?’ asked Sir Graham.

  ‘Why, ages ago. I told you they were giving a dinner party to celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary. They were both so amazed the marriage had lasted so long they felt they had to do something about it,’ explained Carol, cynically.

  ‘Of course – they were the people you were telling me about this afternoon when we were shopping,’ recalled Steve, and Carol nodded.