Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘Excuse me,’ interrupted Chief Inspector Reed, who had been silent up till now, except for an occasional smacking of lips in appreciation of Temple’s whisky. ‘About what time would it be when ye received the telephone call, Mrs. Temple?’

  ‘Oh, I should say … shortly after eight,’ replied Steve.

  ‘We might trace the call, Sir Graham,’ suggested Reed.

  ‘That’s an idea, Mac,’ conceded his superior. ‘May I use the phone, Temple?’

  ‘Certainly, Sir Graham.’

  The Chief Commissioner went out into the hall, where they could hear him dialling vigorously.

  ‘Paul, who do you think would do a thing like that?’ murmured Steve, wrinkling her forehead.

  Her husband took out his wallet and handed her a card.

  ‘This arrived later in the evening,’ he told her.

  ‘The Front Page Men!’ cried Steve in dismay.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed, darling,’ Temple comforted her. ‘Whatever they were after, they didn’t succeed – and in future we shall be on our guard. All the same, I’d like to have been on the corner of Half Moon Street at nine o’clock …’

  By this time Sir Graham had concluded his telephone investigations. ‘Apparently the call came from the Medusa Club in Piccadilly,’ he announced. ‘They’ve got four or five call-boxes there.’

  ‘The Medusa Club?’ echoed Temple, dubiously.

  ‘Ay, that’ll be Tony Rivoli’s new place,’ supplied Reed. ‘It’s that swanky, we daren’t even raid it.’

  This seemed to amuse Carol, who had visited the club in question on several occasions.

  ‘I think I’ve heard of it,’ said her father.

  ‘Who is this Tony Rivoli?’ asked Temple, who had been rather out of touch with London night-life since his marriage.

  ‘You’ve heard of him, Mr. Temple. He was the fellow mixed up with the big Holborn forgery case about four years ago. Nothing very much against him.’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember,’ recalled Temple, thoughtfully.

  ‘Tony’s doing well for himself,’ declared Forbes. ‘He owns the Rivoli Restaurant in Bruton Street, the Highspot on the bypass at Waring. And now this new place in Piccadilly.’

  ‘Ay, his head’s screwed on right,’ sagely agreed Mac.

  ‘Is he going straight?’

  ‘As far as I know,’ conceded Mac. ‘He gambles rather heavily, but I don’t think there’s any real harm in him.’

  Sir Graham dismissed this point for the time being, and returned to their first topic.

  ‘I wonder why the Front Page Men wanted to get hold of your wife, Temple,’ he mused.

  ‘Ransom, of course,’ Carol informed him in the tolerating tone of an indulgent parent. ‘They intended to hold Steve until …’

  But Sir Graham would have none of this theory.

  ‘No, I don’t think that was the reason. In fact, I’m sure it wasn’t,’ he asserted, confidently.

  ‘They’ve got a hunch that Temple is working on this case, and they want a means of keeping his mouth shut,’ was Chief Inspector Reed’s opinion.

  ‘Yes,’ said Forbes after a pause, ‘I think you’re right there, Mac.’

  ‘I can’t see any other reason,’ admitted Temple.

  Steve seemed about to speak, but changed her mind.

  ‘Well,’ concluded Sir Graham, draining his glass, ‘I don’t think there’s anything else we can do at the moment. Are you ready, Carol?’

  She nodded. ‘I telephoned the Fosters and told them to expect me later.’

  ‘Coming, Mac?’ asked Sir Graham.

  ‘Ay,’ murmured Mac reluctantly, with a wistful eye on the decanter. ‘I’m ready, sir.’

  *

  They took their leave, and after hearing the last echo of their voices and the clash of the lift-gates, Temple returned to find Steve gazing pensively into the fire.

  He dropped on the rug at her feet and leaned his head against the arm of her chair. For a while neither spoke – they were just glad to be alone together after the nerve-racking events of the evening. Then Steve stirred uneasily.

  ‘Paul, did you see that man at the Glass Bowl?’

  He offered her a cigarette and lighted one himself before replying.

  ‘Chubby Wilson? Yes, I saw him.’ He paused, then tried to continue in a level voice. ‘We dragged him out of the river about two hours ago.’ Steve recoiled.

  ‘You mean he was murdered? Oh, how horrible!’ She threw the cigarette into the fire with a nervous gesture.

  ‘Who did it?’ she whispered. ‘The Front Page Men.’

  Steve shuddered. ‘If I’d gone to Half Moon Street …’

  ‘Well, you didn’t,’ said her husband firmly. ‘And thank goodness you’re safe.’ But they were both silent for some minutes, speculating on what might have happened.

  ‘By the way, I’ve got some news for you,’ said Temple at last in a more cheerful voice.

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Yes, Gerald Mitchell wants an option on your novel.’ With a twinkle in his eyes, he added graciously, ‘So all you’ve got to do is finish it!’

  Steve could not repress a smile. ‘You can be amused, Mr. Temple, but one of these days I’ll write another Anthony Adverse.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ sighed Temple, as the telephone started ringing. Steve went out to answer it.

  After a little while she put her head round the door. ‘It’s Ann Mitchell – she says have you seen Gerald?’

  ‘He’s on his way home,’ Temple replied, and she went out to resume her conversation.

  ‘Gerald should have been home by now,’ said Temple when she returned. ‘Where did you leave him?’

  ‘Outside. He dropped us, and then went on.’

  ‘Maybe the theatre traffic held him up,’ suggested Steve, making herself comfortable again.

  ‘Paul, what did that man tell you?’ she resumed.

  ‘Which man?’

  ‘The one you went to see … Chubby Wilson.’

  ‘He told me about a warehouse on the river,’ quietly answered Temple.

  ‘Oh? What about it?’

  But her husband made no reply. He was gazing reflectively into the fire, where the dramatic events of the evening flickered at the call of his imagination. Steve could see there was something perplexing him by the two tiny furrows which deepened above his eyes.

  ‘Darling, you’re not listening,’ she murmured, reproachfully.

  ‘Eh? What was that?’ asked Temple, coming out of his reverie.

  ‘What were you thinking about?’

  ‘About a man I met at the Glass Bowl … I know his face frightfully well, and yet, somehow I can’t place him,’ confessed Temple. It always irritated him beyond measure if he could recall a man’s face and nothing else.

  ‘What was his name?’ asked Steve, trying to be helpful.

  ‘He said his name was Hargreaves,’ murmured Temple sceptically. ‘The Reverend Charles Hargreaves.’

  CHAPTER XI

  Paul Temple in Regent Street

  The lavishly furnished showrooms of Clapshaw and Thompson’s rarely failed to attract the footsteps of the lingering Regent Street shopper. Discreetly yet attractively lighted, they gave an impression of airiness calculated to appeal simultaneously to the artiste in search of a new piano or the blase denizen of Mayfair who was merely interested in the latest American swing classics.

  Walking down Regent Street, carrying his hat in one hand, Paul Temple was enjoying the early spring sunshine to the full when the latest Remstein model caught his eye, just as Clapshaw and Thompson’s had intended it should.

  The piano stood in the centre of the larger window; it was, in fact, the only instrument displayed, surmounted by a neatly printed card in brown and gold which announced that it was the very latest in Remsteins. No mention of price, of course. That might deter a prospective customer from inquiring further. Even an old-established firm such as Clapshaw and Thompson’s was not avers
e to arranging terms; they had to keep up with the times, and overheads in Regent Street were heavy.

  Temple stood silently surveying the new Remstein for some minutes, lost in thought, and oblivious to the traffic that roared behind him. Then he appeared to make up his mind quite suddenly and pushed his way through the swing-doors.

  A middle-aged man of rather prim appearance came forward to meet him, looking faintly surprised. Customers in a morning were comparatively rare; people usually waited for the afternoon or evening before indulging their musical whims.

  ‘Good morning, sir. A very fine morning,’ began the salesman, with the merest touch of deference in his tone. ‘Can I help you at all?’

  ‘I’m rather interested in the new Remsteins,’ Temple informed him a little diffidently, for he had all the average man’s reluctance of buying things.

  ‘Ah, yes, the Remstein. They are becoming quite the rage, sir. We are continually replenishing our stock.’

  ‘Indeed? Yet you have quite a large place here. Must need a fair-sized staff.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. Over thirty of us.’

  ‘Really? I hope they treat you well …’

  ‘About the Remstein, sir,’ gently interposed the salesman, nervously fingering his immaculate winged collar. ‘I should like you to take particular notice of the wood, sir.’

  ‘Oh yes, the Remstein,’ repeated Temple, with something of an effort.

  ‘This wood, sir, is what we call continental walnut.’

  ‘How very interesting,’ murmured Temple politely. ‘It does seem rather—er—unusual …’

  ‘I think I may say, sir, that it is highly distinctive,’ continued the salesman, ‘and it also has several advantages over the more usual type of wood, such as mahogany …’

  The salesman sat down and ran his fingers lightly over the keys. ‘You will notice, sir, that it has a very light touch – the keys are very responsive. It is very suitable to the sensitive performer.’ He began to play a Chopin waltz with a mechanical precision and utter lack of inspiration.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Temple, when he had finished.

  ‘Perhaps you would like to try the instrument, sir,’ suggested the salesman, relinquishing his seat.

  ‘I play very little, really,’ confessed Temple, sitting down nevertheless and striking a series of chords. ‘How much is this model?’

  ‘Six hundred and fifty guineas, sir. And a remarkable bargain.’

  ‘It’s a lot of money,’ murmured Temple reflectively. ‘The price of quite an attractive car.’

  ‘If it’s a question of suitable terms, sir, then I am sure Mr. Thompson …’ The salesman waved an expressive hand.

  ‘Then there is a Mr. Thompson,’ said Temple with reawakened interest. ‘And a Mr. Clapshaw?’

  The salesman shook his head. ‘Mr. Clapshaw retired from the business some years ago, during the last depression, in fact.’

  ‘I see. You mean Mr. Thompson bought him out.’ The salesman shrugged his shoulders. He was a little puzzled by this charming customer, whose face was vaguely familiar, and whose curiosity was so disconcerting to high-pressure salesmanship.

  ‘Perhaps you would like to see Mr. Thompson, sir. I’ll see if I can get him—’

  ‘Please don’t trouble,’ smiled Temple disarmingly. ‘I would like to see some of the smaller models. There is hardly room for a really large piano in the modern flat.’

  The salesman nodded understandingly, and led the way along an aisle between dozens of new pianos of all descriptions. They came to a neat baby grand piano in a far corner.

  ‘This is the Remstein Junior, sir. It has all the salient features of the larger model, and makes a most attractive proposition. I forgot to mention, sir, that a rather remarkable feature of the Remstein is that it requires very little tuning. You see, it incorporates a new device which keeps it well up to pitch and—’

  This was the point in the conversation for which Temple had been waiting.

  ‘But surely,’ he said, ‘that’s rather hard on the piano-tuner, who has to earn a living the same as the rest of us.’

  ‘Nevertheless, sir, it is a most attractive feature. Last month we sold over seventy Remsteins, which I think you will admit is pretty good going.’

  Temple nodded. ‘All the same, I can’t help feeling sorry for the poor piano-tuner. I suppose you employ several?’

  The assistant shook his head. ‘Only one now, sir.’

  ‘It wouldn’t by any chance,’ murmured Temple, slowly, ‘be a Mr. Goldie?’

  The salesman looked up quickly.

  ‘Why no, sir. We did have a Mr. Goldie, but he retired some years ago. Do you know him?’

  Temple smiled. ‘He tuned a piano for some friends of mine. The old boy seemed quite a character.’

  ‘You’re right there, sir. And lately I’m beginning to wonder just what sort of a character.’

  Temple swung round on the piano stool, obviously very much intrigued.

  ‘But surely the old man is quite harmless,’ he expostulated.

  The salesman shook his head mysteriously.

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that, sir. Of course, while he was here, I understand that his work gave every satisfaction. So much so that several of his favourite clients persuaded him to continue tuning their pianos after he left us. I believe he still has quite a connection.’

  ‘Surely there’s no harm in that,’ said Temple.

  ‘Of course not, sir. But …’ The salesman looked round, cautiously. ‘There’s been some queer folks making inquiries about Mr. Goldie this last week or two. An inspector from Scotland Yard only last Wednesday.’

  ‘You surprise me. You don’t think Mr. Goldie’s done anything desperate, do you? He seemed such a harmless little man. I shouldn’t have thought he would have hurt a fly.’

  ‘You never can tell, sir. Look at Crippen.’

  Temple obligingly looked at Crippen for a few moments, and nodded sympathetically.

  ‘I said to Mr. Thompson, sir, I said, “If Mr. Goldie hasn’t been up to anything, then what do Scotland Yard want with him?”’

  ‘Exactly,’ nodded Temple solemnly. ‘Could you tell the Scotland Yard men anything?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t know Mr. Goldie very well, sir, and his work used to take him outside most of the time. I must say I always found the old chap very inoffensive, but I always say you can never tell what a man will get up to in his spare time. And with all these people asking about him, he must have been up to something.’

  ‘You mean other people have been inquiring?’

  ‘Well … there’s yourself, sir. You might be a private detective for all I know.’ He smoothed his grey hair a trifle nervously. ‘In fact your face is very familiar, if you will permit me to say so. I must have seen your photo somewhere.’

  Temple took out his wallet and slowly extracted a card, which he handed to the assistant.

  ‘Why, Mr. Temple! How stupid of me not to recognise you before, sir.’

  ‘Now,’ said Temple, ‘as far as I know, there’s nothing against Mr. Goldie, but I’m interested to find out one or two little things about him. First of all, have you had any other inquirers besides the Scotland Yard man and myself?’

  ‘There was one less than an hour ago, Mr. Temple.’

  He noted the novelist’s start of surprise with obvious satisfaction.

  ‘Could you describe him to me?’

  The assistant looked rather shamefaced.

  ‘As a matter of fact, sir,’ he had to confess, ‘the gentleman was a parson.’

  ‘A clergyman?’

  ‘Yes. He said that Mr. Goldie had once been a parishioner of his, and he was rather anxious to get in touch with him again. He seemed quite genuine, sir, but you never can tell, can you?’

  ‘No,’ smiled Temple, ‘you never can tell.’ His informant was obviously a lover of detective fiction, and Temple saw no reason to disillusion him on the subject of the sordid realities of criminal investigation.
In his idle moments, Temple often speculated as to whether the public would ever buy detective fiction if they knew the real story of the painstaking, monotonous elimination that lay behind almost every case.

  ‘This clergyman,’ he continued, ‘could you describe him at all?’

  The assistant obliged to the best of his ability. There was little doubt in Temple’s mind that the gentleman in question had been the Reverend Charles Hargreaves.

  Temple idly played a scale or two, then asked, ‘I suppose we are both talking about the same Mr. Goldie?’

  ‘Of course, sir. A little man with rimless glasses and a bow tie. I never knew him very well myself, sir, but I’ve heard tell he was a brilliant pianist. Seemed quite kind-hearted too. Often used to bring us a bunch of lilies from his garden.’

  ‘Lilies?’ repeated Temple, with a lift of the eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, sir. The old boy was an expert on lilies. And I must say he grew some beauties. They gave the showroom quite an air. I’ve missed ’em more than once since he left.’

  ‘Rather an unusual hobby,’ commented Temple.

  ‘Yes, he wasn’t what you’d call an ordinary sort of man, although he was only a piano-tuner. He was a character, sir, no doubt about that.’

  Temple nodded thoughtfully. Somehow he couldn’t forget the lilies. The assistant brought him back to realities with a start.

  ‘About this Remstein, sir … were you really thinking of buying one?’

  Temple frowned in deep deliberation. ‘I think perhaps I’d better consult Mr. Goldie about that,’ he announced at last, as he picked up his hat and made his way to the door. ‘If he advises in favour of it, I promise to get in touch with you again.’

  The assistant accompanied him to the door and politely held it open for him. But before Temple could leave, a well-built man in morning coat, striped trousers and spats, swung brusquely through the door and into the shop, where Temple heard him loudly demand the presence of the manager.

  It was none other than Mr. Andrew Brightman.

  CHAPTER XII

  The Medusa Club

  The time-honoured Services Clubs in Piccadilly were inclined to look down their nose when the latest newcomer opened its chromium-plated doors and illuminated a violent green and purple neon sign to tell the world that the Medusa Club had sprung into existence.