Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  Ignoring this, she went on with her story. ‘So I decided to get myself up fit to kill, and you are going to do the same. How long will it take you to slip into a dinner-jacket?’

  ‘How do you know I’ve got one?’

  ‘Don’t you need one when you raid clubs?’ she demanded, innocently. ‘I suppose you live in the same poky little flat?’ she continued, turning in the right direction, and at the same time, managing to extract a cigarette from the case he offered her.

  ‘You don’t seem to realise,’ and Hunter frowned severely as he spoke, ‘that I have just finished a very hard and thankless day’s work.’

  ‘Then you most certainly need a change.’

  ‘You seem to overlook the fact that a policeman’s salary hardly encourages him to entertain film stars.’

  ‘Don’t let that worry you,’ she smiled, as the car drew up outside Hunter’s flat. ‘We’ll go to a new roadhouse that’s just been opened by a friend of mine. It’ll cost practically nothing, and I’m lousy with money anyway.’

  ‘That,’ said Hunter, fumbling for his latchkey, ‘rather alters the complexion of things.’

  While he changed into evening dress, she perched on a chair near the open bedroom door and plied him with questions.

  ‘What have you been doing all day?’

  ‘I thought I told you. Looking for a man named Lucky Gibson. I suppose you didn’t come across him in Hanley by any chance.’

  Sue considered this. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she decided at last. ‘Is he nice?’

  ‘Dreadful piece of work.’

  ‘Then why look for him?’

  ‘He’s wanted – by the police.’

  ‘Then he can’t be so very lucky after all,’ declared Sue in the tone of one who has made a discovery.

  ‘The luck’s been with him today all right,’ replied Hunter grimly.

  ‘I once knew someone named Lucky Lorrimer,’ said Sue rather irrelevantly. ‘But that was a girl, and they called her Lucky because she was just the opposite.’

  ‘You stage people do the quaintest things,’ commented Hunter, with a touch of sarcasm that was lost on Sue.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, complacently, ‘don’t we?’

  Some sounds of struggle emerged from the bedroom as Hunter wrestled with his tie.

  ‘Would you like me to do that for you?’ asked Sue. ‘I used to be frightfully good at that sort of thing.’

  ‘Then I hope you haven’t lost the knack,’ growled Hunter, coming out of the bedroom. In less than two minutes, the tie was adjusted to the satisfaction of both of them. Sue stood back and surveyed him.

  ‘You really do look rather sweet when you’re dressed up,’ she announced. ‘Nobody would ever take you for a policeman.’

  He bowed gravely. ‘Much obliged, I’m sure.’

  She picked up her bag. ‘We’d better go if you are ready. It’s quite a way out of town.’ They clattered down the stairs.

  ‘Where and what is this place?’ asked Hunter, after they had settled themselves in the car.

  ‘It’s just off the Great West Road – a place called The First Circle.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  Hunter lit a cigarette. ‘I just thought your friend might have explained,’ he grinned.

  ‘Now you come to mention it, I rather think he did. But I wasn’t paying much attention at the time. It was something to do with the Pyramids from what I remember.’

  ‘The Pyramids?’

  ‘Yes. Aren’t they covered with circles and squares and things?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised.’ The little car suddenly roared, cutting between a tramcar and an oncoming lorry.

  ‘It is my painful duty to remind you that you are proceeding at forty-five miles per hour in a built-up area,’ said Hunter solemnly.

  ‘But you can’t arrest me, darling. You aren’t in uniform.’

  ‘I can arrest anybody at any time, given sufficient reason,’ he declared, firmly.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be fun, darling? To see you in court. I mean, swearing this, that and the other. Then giving your evidence … “on the tenth instant, your honour, I was proceeding in the direction of Hendon …” I wonder why policemen always “proceed”. It fascinates me.’

  ‘Not nearly so much as you would fascinate the policemen.’

  She gravely wagged a finger at him. ‘Don’t overdo the compliments, Inspector.’

  ‘You make it very hard for us poor policemen,’ plaintively murmured Hunter. They looked at each other and laughed. Hunter was feeling better than he had done all day. The fresh night air had driven away his headache, and he was beginning to feel distinctly hungry.

  ‘What have you been doing lately?’ she asked. ‘Anything exciting?’

  ‘I’m always doing something exciting.’

  ‘Didn’t you go round the world or somewhere after leaving the Varsity?’

  ‘It was the world,’ said Hunter, giving an extremely bad imitation of Noel Coward.

  They were on the Great West Road now, and the little car whizzed along at a speed that was quite amazing.

  ‘I do wish you wouldn’t go so fast,’ he reproached her.

  ‘It’s perfectly safe.’

  ‘Then you might consider my reputation. Suppose you were pinched while I was with you. What do you think the magistrate would say?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. But, ten to one, it would be very good publicity. Magistrates always say the quaintest things. We turn off somewhere here, and these arterial roads all look the same to me … I think this is it …’

  Presently the red-and-blue neon and cleverly contrived floodlighting of The First Circle came into view. Sue steered the little car into the most advantageous position among some thirty others and the engine sighed to a standstill.

  Collecting her things together, she paused. ‘Darling, I knew there was something I’d been meaning to ask you for quite a while. It’s often worried me, and I knew you’d be just the man to tell me all about it.’

  ‘Well?’ smiled Hunter.

  ‘Darling – who are these Front Page Men?’

  Hunter leaned back in his seat and roared with laughter until she thought he would never stop.

  As might be expected from its name, the roadhouse was designed in the form of a circle, and the idea was also maintained in the interior planning. Most of the rooms were semi-circular in shape and attractively decorated. All the furnishing and equipment was of the best, and the lighting was a joy to the eye of an artist. Hunter felt at peace with the world.

  Sue introduced him to her friend the proprietor, whose name she had temporarily forgotten, though it didn’t seem to matter particularly. The proprietor was a young American, very confident of himself, and proud of this, the first of a proposed chain of Circle roadhouses.

  Over dinner, Hunter and Sue continued the flippant conversation which was proving such a pleasant relief to him after days of tight-lipped interchanges.

  ‘Sue, after all these years I do believe I’m falling in love with you!’

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling!’

  ‘Oh, I’m not being silly,’ said Hunter. ‘Oh dear, no! I know the symptoms all right.’

  ‘You sound to me disgustingly experienced,’ said Sue.

  ‘I am experienced,’ said Hunter, helping himself to another glass of wine. ‘Didn’t I ever tell you about the time I was in love with a schoolmistress?’

  ‘Not a very good schoolmistress, of course?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Sue.

  ‘It took me a long time to get over it. A very long time.’

  ‘You did get over it?’

  ‘Oh, rather! It was in Halifax.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said, I got over it in Halifax.’

  ‘And do you think you’ll get over your love for me, too?’

  ‘I can hardly believe so at the moment,’ said H
unter, ‘but deep down inside of me something seems to tell me I shall.’

  ‘That’s a pretty useful “something” you’ve got deep down inside of you,’ laughed Sue. ‘But supposing I fell in love with someone else?’

  ‘I should travel and try to forget.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be cheaper to go straight to Halifax?’

  Hunter laughed. ‘I have only one retort to make to that remark, young lady: you are about to dance with a policeman!’

  *

  On their way to the dance-floor, they decided they might as well take a look at some of the other rooms. Hand in hand, they walked leisurely along heavily carpeted corridors, pushed open doors, looked round and walked out again. Until they came to a door which led into a tiny room shaped like the segment of a circle, and intended for a very modern equivalent of the old-fashioned snug. Four men sat there playing cards. Glasses of various shapes and sizes littered the small tables around them. Three of the men Hunter did not recognise. But there could be no mistake about the fourth, who sat facing him. Hunter gripped Sue’s hand tightly.

  ‘The luck has changed,’ he breathed. For the fourth man who was busily dealing the cards was none other than Lucky Gibson.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  ‘Taxi, sir!’

  Paul Temple was becoming more than a little familiar these days with the Chief Commissioner’s office at Scotland Yard. He began to wonder whether the carpet was beginning to look shabby as a result of his pacing over it so often.

  On the morning after the discovery of Rivoli’s body, Paul Temple felt profoundly depressed. He had conceived quite a liking for the little Italian, with his flashing eyes and extravagant enthusiasm. Temple was inclined to speculate morosely on the possibility of ever bringing these alarming outrages to an end.

  After considerable argument he had persuaded Steve to take breakfast in bed, as she had slept very little, and he himself had come on to the Yard in response to a telephone call from Sir Graham.

  The Chief Commissioner had sat up with Temple, Reed and Hunter until the small hours, trying to reconstruct the murder of Tony Rivoli. Temple had given them a minute description of the man who called himself Inspector Low, but this had proved to be of little assistance so far, as there was no trace of this individual in the Yard’s comprehensive files. Even now, Temple was sitting by Sir Graham’s desk listlessly looking through a batch of photographs which Hunter had passed on to him as likely suspects.

  ‘Come to think of it,’ suggested Temple for Sir Graham’s benefit, ‘there was nothing to prevent the Front Page Men engaging a bunch of out-of-work actors to stage this raid – telling them it was just a lark – and then taking Rivoli off their hands when he was supposed to be under arrest.’

  Sir Graham nodded gloomily. ‘They never seem to be lacking in ideas,’ he acknowledged.

  ‘Maybe the note will tell us something,’ said Temple hopefully. ‘Glad I decided to keep it – I might easily have crumpled it up in the heat of the moment and left it there.’

  ‘I’ve got Nelson working on it now.’

  ‘I didn’t know he was a handwriting expert.’

  ‘Yes, that’s his pet sideline. Pretty good at it, too. I’ve always given him the important stuff ever since the Holborn forgery case.’

  There was a knock at the door, and Sergeant Leopold entered with Inspector Nelson’s report, which he placed before Sir Graham.

  Silence fell upon the room while Forbes frowned over the document, and Temple flicked aside another half-dozen pictures rather restlessly.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded, at length.

  ‘I’m afraid this doesn’t tell us a great deal,’ Sir Graham informed him reluctantly. ‘According to Nelson, the note was definitely written by a man, but apparently we haven’t any record of the actual handwriting.’

  Temple shrugged impatiently. ‘What about fingerprints?’

  ‘From what I gather, they’re somewhat blurred. For once in a way, Nelson seems reluctant to commit himself.’ He tossed the report over to Temple, who glanced at it casually.

  ‘We seem to strike a dead end in every direction,’ he declared irritably. ‘What about Brightman; have you been in touch with him lately?’

  ‘No,’ answered Forbes. ‘But I’ve got a very good man on his tail. I’ve some pretty strong suspicions about Brightman, and I’m just hanging on until something more definite comes along.’

  ‘And then there’s Wrenson – you told me the other day that he was working in his own mysterious way. Has he had any luck so far?’ pursued Temple, determined to explore every avenue.

  ‘Wrenson’s always pretty vague when he’s busy on a job,’ said Sir Graham, ‘but he did advise me to pick up Lucky Gibson and Jimmy Mills.’

  Temple looked up inquiringly as the last name was mentioned.

  ‘Our old friend Jimmy, eh? Does Wrenson suggest they are Front Page Men?’

  ‘He seemed fairly sure of it.’

  ‘Then you’ve had them brought in?’

  Forbes shook his head.

  ‘Not yet. There was a time when we could always lay our hands on Lucky Gibson, but just lately he seems to be giving a pretty good impersonation of the Invisible Man.’

  The telephone, which had been constantly interrupting them throughout the morning, rang again.

  This time it was Steve.

  ‘Really, darling,’ Temple protested, with a humorous grimace at Sir Graham, ‘you ex-reporters have no respect for Scotland Yard conferences. And besides, I told you to stay in bed …’

  ‘Paul, do be serious,’ she interrupted. ‘Mr. Goldie’s here.’

  Temple’s expression changed at once.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the flat below.’

  Temple thought for a moment.

  ‘Get hold of the porter, Steve,’ he instructed, ‘and tell him to keep Goldie in the building – yes – anything that occurs to you …’

  He rang off and turned to Forbes. ‘Sorry, I’ll have to be off, Sir Graham. Mr. J. P. Goldie is in Eastwood Mansions. And I particularly want to see him.’

  ‘Oh, why?’ asked Forbes, obviously more than a little interested.

  Temple picked up his hat and smiled.

  ‘I had some thought of changing my piano,’ he declared cryptically. He had almost reached the door when it was opened by Sergeant Leopold.

  ‘Inspector Hunter is here, sir, with Gibson.’

  ‘At last,’ said Forbes. ‘Better hang on, Temple, and see what he has to say.’

  Temple hesitated. ‘No,’ he decided, ‘I’ll give you a ring later, Sir Graham.’ He nodded briefly to Hunter, who stood in the doorway, and wished Sir Graham good morning.

  Forbes beckoned to Hunter to enter.

  ‘Bring in Gibson now,’ he ordered. But Hunter closed the door after him.

  ‘Sir Graham, I rather wanted to have a word with you first,’ he began, seriously.

  Forbes looked up interrogatively. ‘Oh – anything wrong?’

  Hunter seemed worried.

  ‘I picked up Lucky Gibson last night at a roadhouse called The First Circle,’ he reported. ‘He seemed all right when I first spoke to him, but on the way here in the taxi he was, well, peculiar, to say the least.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s rather difficult to explain,’ replied Hunter. ‘When I first spoke to him, he answered my questions sensibly. Now he seems in a sort of daze – as if he can’t remember things. Then without the slightest warning, he suddenly becomes hysterical.’

  ‘H’m,’ grunted Forbes, ‘did you leave him on his own at all?’

  ‘Why, no … at least …’ Hunter hesitated. ‘He did go into one of the other rooms at the station this morning,’ he admitted. ‘Said he’d left his raincoat there.’

  ‘Did you go with him?’

  ‘No. I knew he couldn’t escape that way, because the sergeant told me there was only one door, and—’

  ‘That isn’t the point, Hunter. You should h
ave stayed with him.’

  ‘But really, sir, I don’t quite see …’ Hunter had begun to protest when Sir Graham silenced him.

  ‘While he was in there, if I’m not mistaken, he gave himself a pretty good injection of this Amashyer drug.’

  ‘Then that accounts for what Mac said!’ cried Hunter, suddenly enlightened. ‘Eh?’

  ‘When I brought Gibson in just now, Mac said he had the same look about the eyes as the Blakeley child when he was returned.’

  He paused, considering this. ‘The Blakeley child wasn’t hysterical, was he, Sir Graham?’

  ‘No. It probably affects people different ways. I expect Lucky Gibson was fairly shot to pieces to start with.’

  ‘I daresay,’ agreed Hunter. ‘We’ve hounded him around pretty well these past few days.’

  ‘Tell the Sergeant to bring him in,’ Forbes ordered.

  Hunter went to the door and gave the necessary instructions. There was a pause, then a gentle shuffling was heard outside. Lucky appeared in the doorway, blinking in the strong light from the window behind the Chief Commissioner’s desk. Hunter took him by the arm and dismissed the sergeant.

  ‘Sit down, Gibson,’ said Hunter, leading him to a chair and pushing him gently into it.

  Nobody spoke for a moment. Lucky Gibson was obviously quite bewildered and far from his normal self. His mouth hung loosely and his eyes were glazed.

  ‘What have you brought me here for?’ he mouthed, very slowly.

  Forbes went across to him and spoke distinctly.

  ‘Lucky, when you did the Nottingham job, who went with you?’

  ‘Went with you where?’ whispered Lucky hoarsely, looking round as if seeking a means of escape.

  Patiently, Forbes repeated his question.

  ‘Went with me?’ intoned Lucky, mechanically. ‘I—I—can’t remember—can’t remember …’

  His distress was obviously not assumed. Suddenly two large tears rolled slowly down his cheeks, and he began to sob hysterically. Forbes waited a while, then took him by the shoulder and shook him sharply.

  ‘Lucky! Pull yourself together. I want you to tell me about Brightman.’

  The mention of this name seemed to strike a responsive chord, and Lucky’s hysteria temporarily ceased.