Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘I’ve got some news for you, Sir Graham,’ said Temple briskly, after they had interchanged greetings. ‘Whether it’s important or not, I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes, and I have some news for you too. Blakeley’s boy has been returned.’

  ‘Is he all right?’ demanded Temple, obviously rather startled.

  ‘Yes, he’s all right, but somehow, he can’t remember things.’

  Temple looked up quickly.

  ‘Amashyer?’

  Forbes nodded. ‘Looks like it. They must have given the poor kid a tidy dose of it.’

  ‘How did you find him?’

  ‘Oh, one of our men found him,’ answered Forbes, with rather studied indifference, which did not deceive Temple. He seemed to be waiting for further information, so eventually Sir Graham continued, ‘Temple, I’m going to take you into my confidence. Wrenson’s working on this case.’

  ‘Wrenson? I thought he retired about four years ago.’

  ‘So he did. But this Front Page Men business intrigued him so much that he asked me to take him back. And, quite candidly, I was rather glad he offered. He was always inclined to be a bit theatrical, but, by Jove, he gets results!’

  Temple nodded thoughtfully. He remembered Wrenson quite well.

  ‘Do the others know about this – Reed and Hunter, and …’

  ‘No,’ said Sir Graham, ‘I’ve kept it a pretty close secret. Wrenson always plays a lone hand better if he receives no official recognition. Seems to act as a sort of spur. Already he’s begun to get results.’

  ‘Very glad to hear it,’ murmured Temple.

  ‘Now let’s hear your news,’ went on Sir Graham, who seemed to have recovered some of his vitality by now.

  Temple seated himself casually on the corner of the Chief Commissioner’s desk. ‘Shortly after you left Bramley Lodge yesterday, Mitchell arrived,’ he told Sir Graham.

  ‘Yes, I passed him just as he was turning into the drive. Nearly bumped my right wing. What did he want, tearing along in a hurry like that?’

  ‘Apparently Reed had told him about someone imitating Carol’s voice on the telephone.’

  ‘Oh, and why should that worry him?’

  ‘Because,’ Temple explained, ‘his wife is apparently a very good impersonator.’

  ‘Ann Mitchell? H’m, that’s interesting.’ Sir Graham traced a series of lines on his blotting-pad with his paper-knife.

  ‘Have you known her long?’

  ‘Off and on for about two years – since Mitchell started publishing my stuff.’

  ‘They were married when you first knew him?’

  ‘Yes. Unlike most actresses, she never discusses her past successes.’

  ‘What about her husband? Has he always been in the publishing business?’

  ‘No. He used to be a reporter on the Morning Express.’

  Forbes’ eyebrows were raised a trifle as he asked, ‘H’m, so he can write?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. He was on the Morning Express.’

  If Sir Graham saw anything funny in this remark, he chose to ignore the fact. ‘I was just wondering,’ he went on thoughtfully, ‘whether Gerald Mitchell is really Andrea Fortune, author of The Front Page Men. After all, he published the book.’

  The rather abrupt entry of Chief Inspector Reed prevented any further speculations, ‘I’m sorry to be interrupting ye, Sir Graham, but Mr. Rivoli’s called to see ye. He says it’s verra important.’

  ‘Rivoli?’ repeated Forbes, impatiently. ‘You mean …’

  ‘Tony Rivoli, who runs the Medusa Club in Piccadilly,’ supplied Temple.

  ‘Ay, that’s right,’ nodded Reed.

  ‘You mean the fellow we were talking about that night we traced the telephone call to the Manhattan Club? All right, show him in, Mac.’

  Reed turned briskly on his heel, and presently returned with the little Italian, who looked rather insignificant out of evening dress, though he affected a pair of immaculate spats which would have done credit to any City director.

  ‘Good morning, Mr. Rivoli,’ welcomed Sir Graham, rising to greet his visitor, and motioning Reed to remain.

  Tony was by no means ill at ease in these surroundings; in fact, his manner retained all that charm so appreciated by his wealthy lady clients.

  ‘I hope I do not intrude, Sir Graham?’ he began, with a deprecating gesture.

  ‘No, no, not at all,’ Forbes assured him. ‘May I introduce Mr. Temple?’

  Tony shook hands with the novelist. ‘Ah yes, Mr. Temple – I see your name on the posters. They say “Send for Paul Temple”, no?’

  Sir Graham coughed. He considered that particular episode better forgotten. Tony turned to him.

  ‘Sir Graham, I think you know all there is to know about me. In the past I ’ave been a little foolish, perhaps – and maybe a little naughty.’

  ‘Ay!’ confirmed Reed with some emphasis.

  Tony turned a bewitching smile on him.

  ‘Ah – the Inspector – he remembers me, yes?’

  ‘I do that!’ declared Mac with a glint in his eye.

  ‘But now,’ smiled Tony, ‘I ’ave a pretty swell business. The Medusa Club in Piccadilly; the High Spot at Waring; my restaurant in Bruton Street.’

  ‘Mr. Rivoli, what is it you wanted to see me about?’ demanded Forbes in a tone which implied that he supposed these aliens must be tolerated.

  Quite undismayed, Tony nodded his head vigorously, and proceeded.

  ‘Sir Graham, I am a little confused. On Tuesday I read in the paper about that business at Nottingham. Oh, ver’ bad news. And every night since I lie in bed and think … and I say to myself: “Tony, it is ver’, ver’ strange.” Then last night I wake up and say: ‘Tony, put two and two together – and go to Scotland Yard, and tell them …’

  ‘Yes—er—quite so,’ rumbled Forbes, who was obviously at sea.

  ‘Mr. Rivoli, I’m afraid you are just a little confusing,’ explained Temple, diplomatically.

  ‘Ay,’ grunted Mac, who had understood less than anyone.

  ‘Would you mind talking a little slower, Mr. Rivoli?’ suggested Temple.

  ‘O.K,’ smiled Tony, obviously eager to oblige. ‘Well, I lie in bed, and I think that the night before this robbery at Nottingham some men come to my club and take a private room for talk and dinner. Now this is ver’ strange, because I remember that they come before – several times. And after one of them there is a big bank robbery at Margate …’

  The Chief Commissioner looked up curiously. ‘So these men have patronised your club before?’

  ‘Yes, yes, that is what I say. An’ always after they meet there is something in the paper about the Front Page Men. One time it is the Margate bank, one time Sir Norman Blakeley’s child is kidnapped, and last week it was …’

  ‘What are these men like?’ snapped Forbes, now very intent upon his visitor’s story.

  Tony shrugged expressively. ‘Oh, they are not what you would call ’andsome.’

  ‘Yes,’ growled Forbes impatiently, ‘but what do they look like?’

  ‘One is tall and—’ow you say?—plump?’

  ‘Dark or fair?’

  ‘Dark.’

  ‘That,’ ruminated Forbes, ‘might be Brightman.’

  ‘It might,’ murmured Temple, ‘be any of a million men in London.’

  ‘He call ’imself Mr. Blake,’ put in Tony, trying to be helpful.

  ‘What are the others like?’ asked Forbes.

  ‘One is ’ver ugly. He ’as a scar across ’is face.’

  ‘How many of these men are there?’

  ‘Usually five. And of course the girl.’

  Sir Graham leaned forward intently.

  ‘Oh, there’s a girl. What’s she like?’

  ‘Ver’ nice indeed,’ smiled Tony pleasantly. ‘She ’as ver’ beautiful legs.’ He made an expressive gesture.

  It was Temple who patiently pointed out to Tony that there were scores of young w
omen with beautiful legs, and that the only way they could hope to recognise the young lady in question was by a description of her features.

  ‘Ah yes, Mr. Temple,’ laughed Tony, ‘she is so pretty!’

  Forbes gave it up as a bad job. He made a sign to Mac and addressed Tony once more. ‘I want you to go downstairs with Chief Inspector Reed. He’ll show you a lot of photographs, and if you see a picture of one of these people, tell the Inspector.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, I do that,’ agreed Tony eagerly. ‘An’ – you will not close my beautiful club, no?’ he pleaded.

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ said Forbes, gruffly.

  Tony followed Reed, highly delighted.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ demanded Forbes, after the door had closed behind them.

  ‘I have a feeling he was telling the truth,’ said Temple, simply.

  ‘Yes, but look here,’ protested Forbes, ‘the Front Page Men aren’t going to use the Medusa Club as a meeting-place.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘But it’s bang in the middle of Piccadilly.’

  ‘Precisely,’ smiled the novelist. ‘And who would think of looking for the Front Page Men in the middle of Piccadilly? There is method in their madness, Sir Graham.’

  Forbes paused to consider the proposition, and had to admit that there might be something in it.

  ‘Well, supposing the Front Page Men do meet there …’ He stopped and shook his head. ‘No, it’s much too obvious, Temple.’

  But the novelist did not appear to hear him.

  ‘What’s worrying you, Temple?’

  Temple came to life and smiled. ‘Nothing, Sir Graham – nothing at all. In fact, I was just thinking that a little night life might do me a world of good.’

  He wished the Chief Commissioner a pleasant good morning, sauntered to the door, and let himself out, exchanging a brief quip with Sergeant Leopold.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Paul Temple Receives a Warning

  After lunch that morning Temple reflectively stirred his coffee. ‘What would you say if I suggested we went to a night club this evening?’

  ‘Yes!’ answered Steve promptly, and they both laughed.

  ‘Now tell me the subtle motive underlying this invitation,’ pouted Steve.

  ‘And what if I refuse?’

  ‘I shall come anyway. I’ve just bought a new gown from Molyneux, and it’s got to be worn before the week’s out. Where are we going, Paul – some low dive?’

  Her husband pretended to be shocked.

  ‘On the contrary,’ he rebuked her, ‘we are going to the highly respectable Medusa Club. At least, the proprietor assures me it’s respectable, and I’m inclined to believe him.’

  ‘The Medusa? Carol’s often been there. She loves it.’

  ‘Then I hope you won’t be too bored.’

  ‘I’m never bored when I’m with you,’ she smiled. ‘But why this sudden urge to visit the Medusa Club?’

  ‘If you think there’s going to be a lot of unlawful excitement, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed,’ said Temple.

  ‘All the same, I’d like to know …’

  He laughed. ‘It’s quite simple. We have reason to suspect that the Front Page Men have been making use of the Medusa Club as a meeting-place.’

  ‘And so …’ prompted Steve.

  ‘And so, my sweet, I’m going to take a quiet look round, and see if I recognise any familiar faces.’

  For an air of discreet opulence, the Medusa Club’s dining-room was probably unsurpassed in the West End. Its furnishing was the last word in lavishness, the lighting was softly effective, calculated to take at least ten years off any woman’s age. Indeed, the Medusa Club was particularly popular with the fair sex, who, as Tony argued, invariably have the last word in choosing where an evening shall be frittered away.

  In keeping with the lighting, the music was similarly restrained. Ray Carmino engaged the most expensive musicians in London for his ten-piece band. They were reputed to cost him over £400 a week. In fact, their efficiency seemed almost monotonous, if you did not happen to be a dance enthusiast.

  Steve and Temple had a table about half-way down the room, on the edge of the dance-floor, which was now packed so tightly that they had given up the idea of dancing for the time being. Occasionally the swaying couples brushed a napkin off the Temples’ table, or bumped gently into one of the chairs.

  ‘No wonder Tony believes in going straight,’ commented the novelist. ‘He must be making a small fortune out of this place.’

  ‘I rather like it for a change,’ confessed Steve.

  ‘All right in small doses,’ was Temple’s laconic opinion, as a particularly artificial blonde brushed his shoulder, and coyly smiled her apologies, when her partner wasn’t looking. The band concluded a popular dance number, and amidst the applauding dancers Temple espied Tony Rivoli threading his way towards their table.

  ‘Ah, Mr. Temple!’ cried Tony extravagantly, when he was still some distance away. ‘Welcome to the Medusa Club!’ Several couples stared curiously. Rather embarrassed and somewhat annoyed at this unwelcome publicity, Temple rose to shake hands with Tony.

  ‘Steve – this is Mr. Rivoli – my wife.’

  ‘How do you do? This is most charming,’ cried Tony. ‘Please you come often to the Medusa Club, yes?’

  ‘We hope so,’ laughed Steve. ‘I’m enjoying myself immensely. Do sit down for a moment.’

  ‘We must ’ave some champagne to celebrate your visit,’ went on Tony. ‘Leon!’ He snapped his fingers and whispered an order to a waiter, who presently returned with a bottle of champagne. ‘My favourite brand,’ confided Tony as he filled their glasses.

  ‘Now, Mr. Temple, you tell me what you think of the Medusa. Everything is perfect—yes?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ smiled Temple, who saw no reason to mention the fact that the place’s one drawback was its popularity. After they had drunk the health of the club, Temple leaned forward and asked quietly, ‘Tony, did you recognise any of the pictures they showed you?’

  ‘Ah yes, yes!’ cried Tony, excitedly. ‘I recognise one man, and I tell the Inspector. He said ’is name was …’ Tony broke off abruptly, as the sound of loud voices penetrated across the room, almost drowning the band, which straggled into silence. A group of men were pushing their way across the floor.

  ‘What is the matter? Who are these men?’ shouted Tony, leaping to his feet.

  ‘Paul, they’re police,’ whispered Steve, urgently.

  A broad-shouldered, authoritative man stood in the middle of the floor. ‘Kindly keep your seats, please,’ he shouted. ‘We won’t detain you any longer than is necessary.’

  ‘Mr. Temple, what is this? What is the reason for raiding my club?’ cried Tony, wringing his hands, and looking the picture of abject misery.

  Temple could only shake his head helplessly.

  ‘Is your name Rivoli – Tony Rivoli?’ asked the man in charge, coming up to them.

  Tony nodded and began to protest in voluble Italian.

  ‘I have a warrant for your arrest.’

  ‘For my—arrest?’ gabbled Tony incoherently.

  ‘Look here, officer,’ began Temple, but the newcomer interrupted him.

  ‘Are you Mr. Temple?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name is Low, Inspector Low. Sir Graham Forbes asked me to deliver this note to you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Temple, rather nonplussed. He read the scrap of paper, and turned to his wife. ‘We’d better go, Steve. Sir Graham is waiting for us at the flat.’

  ‘At the flat?’ echoed Steve, in some surprise.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t give you a lift there, sir,’ said Inspector Low respectfully, ‘but we have orders to search this place from top to bottom.’

  ‘No! No!’ protested Rivoli, energetically, but he was rushed away while the Temples stood watching helplessly.

  ‘Come along, Steve,’ said Temple at last. ‘Sir Graham will be wa
iting.’

  ‘I’m afraid it hasn’t been a very successful evening from a social point of view,’ said Temple, as they sat in the taxi on their way home.

  ‘One can’t have everything,’ murmured Steve.

  ‘I’m sorry for Tony Rivoli – he was so gay – just like a child with a new toy. I’ll never forget that look in his eyes when they dragged him away.’

  ‘Poor devil! This business will break his heart. I can’t think what made Forbes have the place raided. Something pretty drastic must have happened.’

  Steve considered this for some moments.

  ‘It isn’t like Sir Graham to break his word,’ she decided. ‘Though this business has got him pretty well worked up lately.’

  ‘Even so …’ began her husband, but just then the taxi slid to a standstill, and he broke off to delve in his pockets for some loose silver. ‘Got your key, darling?’ he asked, when the taxi had driven off and they stood in the entrance hall of the flats.

  ‘Yes, of course. But if Sir Graham’s up there, Pryce must have let him in.’

  For some unaccountable reason, Steve shivered as they stood in the lift, and neither spoke until it stopped at their landing.

  ‘Close the gate, Paul,’ she said as she stepped out. ‘You know how irritating it is to find somebody has left it open.’

  ‘Funny, there isn’t a light in the drawing-room,’ mused Temple, peering through the glass panel of the outer door as he fitted the key.

  Having heard them enter, Pryce came to inquire if he should prepare sandwiches and coffee.

  ‘But where’s Sir Graham?’ demanded Temple, immediately.

  ‘Sir Graham, sir?’ repeated Pryce, in some confusion. ‘He hasn’t called, sir.’

  ‘I see,’ said Temple quietly. He crossed over to the telephone and rapidly dialled the Chief Commissioner’s private number.

  ‘Paul, you don’t think it’s a trick?’ asked Steve.

  But he did not reply.

  ‘I hope nothing is the matter, sir,’ said Pryce anxiously. ‘I’m sure if Sir Graham had called …’

  ‘That’s all right, Pryce,’ nodded Temple. He returned to the telephone.

  ‘Hallo, Sir Graham? This is Temple. Sir Graham, did you send any of your men to the Medusa Club?’

  Steve noted with alarm Temple’s change of expression.