Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘Brightman!’ he ejaculated in a strangled voice. ‘He’s all right, Brightman is. Why, only the other day he said …’

  Lucky broke off, and the queer, lifeless expression was again visible in his eyes. ‘Somehow – there’s a mist – it’s blotting things out …’ he gasped. ‘If only I could see through the mist, I’d be all right. Just—just—can’t remember …’ His head sagged.

  ‘Take him to the hospital, Hunter,’ advised Sir Graham. ‘We’ll never get anything out of him while he’s in this state.’

  With a considerable effort Hunter pulled Gibson to his feet and managed to get him out of the room. In the corridor, Sergeant Leopold came to his assistance.

  Sir Graham went back to his desk with a baffled expression on his face. He collected the pile of photographs left by Temple, and pushed them carelessly into a drawer.

  There was a cautious knock at the door, and Chief Inspector Reed appeared.

  ‘Did the wee laddie talk, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Hunter’s taking him to hospital. He seems in a bad way.’

  Reed nodded understandingly.

  ‘Well, I canna find Jimmy Mills,’ he sighed. ‘I’ve searched every dump in the town.’

  ‘Have you looked in the milk-bars?’ suggested Sir Graham, a rather grim smile lighting his saturnine features for a moment.

  Mac’s face was a study. ‘In the milk-bars?’ he echoed.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Chief Commissioner. ‘Jimmy Mills happens to be a teetotaller.’

  Reed seemed quite incredulous.

  ‘Ay, he may have told ye that, Sir Graham, but I well remember arresting him two years ago while he was holding a glass of fine old Jamaica rum – the smell took my breath away.’ He sighed reminiscently. ‘I remember it so well, because I let the wee laddie finish his drink. After a’, he’d paid for it, and it seemed such a pity to waste guid stuff like that!’

  With the help of Sergeant Leopold, Hunter managed to get his charge downstairs.

  ‘Where’s Morris with the police-car?’ he asked.

  ‘Out on a job,’ replied the sergeant enigmatically. ‘I’d better get you a taxi.’

  Suddenly a fairly ancient vehicle seemed to appear from nowhere, and the sergeant signalled to it vigorously.

  ‘Queen’s Hospital,’ called out Hunter, when he had seen Gibson stowed safely inside.

  Lucky relaxed limply into one corner of the cab, and Hunter eyed him curiously.

  ‘That’s all right, Lucky,’ he murmured, encouragingly. ‘Just sit back and take things easily.’

  ‘I feel—so—weak …’ whispered Lucky in that queer, lifeless voice. ‘If only this veil would lift – can’t remember—seen him before …’

  ‘Seen who before?’ asked Hunter, suddenly alert.

  However, when it became obvious that Lucky was referring to the taxi-driver, Hunter paid no further attention.

  ‘It’s this drug,’ muttered Lucky. ‘Wish I hadn’t taken it.’

  ‘They’ll soon fix you up at the hospital,’ Hunter reassured him.

  ‘Oh! Oh! The hospital!’ moaned Lucky. ‘My head’s like—like—like …’

  He appeared to be in some danger of relapsing into hysterics again, and Hunter watched him anxiously, wishing their journey were over.

  Then, to Hunter’s surprise, the taxi-engine spluttered to a standstill. He pushed back the glass partition which communicated with the driver.

  ‘What’s the trouble?’ he snapped.

  ‘Sorry, guv’nor – it’s them there plugs. There’s a garage on the corner. I’ll get a couple o’ new ’uns in a jiffy,’ said the driver, jumping out and slamming the door.

  ‘If you’re not back in five minutes,’ said Hunter irritably, ‘we shall get another taxi.’

  ‘Leave it to me, sir,’ the driver reassured him. He made off in the direction of the garage he had indicated.

  ‘If only I could remember who he is,’ rambled Lucky. ‘It’s like … like a part of a dream before … before …’

  ‘You’re sure you know this man?’ demanded Hunter, rather more interested now.

  ‘Of course I know him, but somehow …’

  Hunter suddenly grabbed Lucky and flung open the taxi-door.

  ‘Come on! We’re getting out of this!’

  All this rushing about had made Lucky Gibson more bewildered than ever, and he almost fell as he got out of the taxi. One or two pedestrians eyed the strange couple rather curiously.

  ‘Hurry!’ urged Hunter, leading his prisoner in the direction of the garage. They were still twenty yards away from their objective when there was a shattering explosion behind them.

  Fragments of glass and metal showered around them. People were running towards the wreck of the taxi. One or two women were screaming. A figure lay very still in the gutter.

  ‘Great Scot! A time-bomb in the taxi!’ ejaculated Hunter. ‘Phew! That was a near thing!’

  In a grimy back alley, Jed Ware tossed his chauffeur’s hat into a dustbin, substituted a large cap, felt the vibration of the explosion, and chuckled to himself.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Mr. Goldie’s Mistake

  Paul Temple stopped his taxi at three florists’ on the way back to the flat before he was able to buy what he wanted. He came into the drawing-room carrying (rather self-consciously), a huge bunch of particularly fine lilies, the scent from which was already giving him a slight headache. His vision was somewhat obscured by the flowers he held before him, and for a moment he did not see Ann Mitchell sitting on a corner of the settee.

  ‘Do take these flowers, darling,’ he begged, handing them over to Steve.

  ‘Good gracious, Paul, whatever made you buy lilies?’

  ‘There’s a sinister motive,’ he laughed. ‘Why, hallo, Ann! How are you?’

  ‘I’m—I’m all right, thanks,’ smiled Ann, nervously.

  ‘She’s worried, Paul,’ Steve told him.

  ‘Oh, what’s the trouble?’

  Ann hesitated. ‘Everywhere I go,’ she said at last, ‘there’s always someone following me. It’s—awful.’

  ‘Ann, you must be mistaken,’ said Temple.

  ‘No … no, honestly I’m not. It’s getting on my nerves.’

  ‘But who can it be? Does the man do anything or say anything?’

  ‘No … he’s just there … always looking at me …’

  ‘But surely, Ann …’

  ‘I tell you it’s getting on my nerves,’ she blurted out, desperately.

  ‘Have you told Gerald?’

  ‘No. The poor darling has too many worries as it is. I was wondering if …’ She paused with a look of fear in her eyes.

  ‘If what?’ prompted Temple.

  ‘It couldn’t be—the police?’

  There was silence for a moment.

  Then Temple asked quietly, ‘Why should the police follow you?’

  ‘They might think that because Gerald published The Front Page Men, that I—I—wrote it.’

  ‘Did you?’ asked Temple, calmly.

  ‘Why, of course not,’ she replied, hastily.

  ‘Then why worry?’ he smiled. ‘You’re probably imagining things, Ann.’ He was about to add further reassurances when Pryce announced, ‘Mr. Mitchell has called, sir.’

  Gerald followed him in almost immediately.

  ‘Sorry to barge in, but I saw Ann’s car outside,’ he explained.

  ‘I was just leaving,’ Ann told him, and Steve thought she detected the merest trace of coldness in her voice.

  ‘I wonder if you’d run me out to Croydon, dear,’ he asked. ‘One of my readers has just phoned to say he’s spotted a real winner.’

  ‘Then let’s hope it turns out another The Front Page Men,’ smiled the novelist.

  ‘If it is, you can rest assured that I shan’t publish it,’ declared Mitchell, emphatically.

  ‘Why ever not?’ demanded Steve, in all innocence.

  ‘My dear Steve, if you knew the sleep I’ve l
ost over that opus …’

  ‘But how perfectly ridiculous!’ protested Steve. ‘I don’t believe for one moment that Andrea Fortune has anything to do with the real Front Page Men.’

  ‘Off we go again!’ laughed Temple.

  ‘Yes, and talking of going …’ Mitchell drew on his gloves.

  ‘I’m ready, dear,’ said Ann.

  ‘Don’t worry, Ann,’ Temple murmured to her, as Steve and Gerald went out ahead of them. Steve stood talking until they were in the lift, then returned to find her husband rather quizzically regarding the lilies he had bought.

  ‘Paul, are the police really following Ann?’ she asked, in a worried voice.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. I had to tell them about Gerald calling at Bramley Lodge with that story about Ann being a good impersonator.’

  Steve nodded thoughtfully. ‘Poor Ann, it seems a shame.’

  ‘I do hope Mr. Goldie hasn’t left the building,’ Temple briskly interrupted her commiserations.

  ‘I told the porter to detain him.’

  ‘Good. Now get a vase for these flowers, darling.’

  ‘What on earth possessed you to buy lilies?’ she demanded, for the second time.

  ‘You’ll soon see,’ he smiled, carefully arranging them in the large black vase she had given him. Having completed this to his satisfaction, he placed them on the piano.

  ‘Not there, Paul,’ cried Steve in dismay. ‘They look ghastly, and besides, they might fall off if—’

  The door opened silently, and Pryce informed them that Mr. Goldie was waiting.

  ‘Show him in, Pryce,’ said Temple at once.

  He seemed very much the same Mr. Goldie, with the hesitant manner, and rather short-sighted trick of blinking behind his spectacles.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Mr. Temple?’ he murmured gently, as if reluctant to intrude. Temple went forward to meet him.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said the little man, smiling pleasantly at Steve, who replied to his greeting.

  ‘I heard you were in the building, Mr. Goldie, so I thought I would take this opportunity of consulting you,’ began Temple.

  ‘If I can be of any help at all, Mr. Temple, I shall be only too delighted.’

  ‘Well—er—the fact of the matter is, I’m thinking of changing my piano.’

  ‘Ah now,’ protested Goldie, ‘it’s such a beautiful instrument – almost perfect, and there are very few like it in the country today.’ As if to emphasise his dismay at the idea, he sat down and very quietly ran his fingers over the keys. Soon, he was apparently oblivious of his audience, and continued playing for some minutes.

  ‘I—I—beg your pardon,’ he apologised, coming out of his trance.

  ‘Not at all, Mr. Goldie,’ said Steve gently. ‘You play very well.’ He acknowledged her praise with a slight bow. Then, as if he could not resist the temptation, started to play again. This time it was the familiar Liebestraum. Temple leaned against the piano and gently lifted the lid.

  ‘I’m sure it sounds better with the lid raised,’ he began, when the vase of lilies fell to the floor with a crash.

  ‘I told you those flowers would fall off, Paul,’ cried Steve, irritated by the mishap.

  ‘How very careless of me,’ said Temple, lightly. ‘And just look at the floor!’ He went to retrieve the flowers, but she forestalled him.

  ‘It’s all right, Paul. I’ll attend to it.’

  Temple straightened himself and smiled whimsically at Mr. Goldie. ‘I’m particularly fond of tiger lilies, aren’t you, Mr. Goldie?’

  The piano-tuner looked up quickly. ‘Yes … yes … very much,’ he replied politely. Goldie resumed his playing while Steve replaced the flowers in the vase, which fortunately was not broken.

  ‘Well, what do you really think of the piano?’ asked Temple, at length.

  ‘I very much doubt if you would find a better instrument in this country, Mr. Temple.’

  ‘Then that settles it. I did seriously think of buying one of those new Remsteins …’

  ‘No! No!’ cried Mr. Goldie, almost in horror, ‘This is far superior in every way.’

  ‘Well, it’s a comfort to know that,’ said Temple, easily. ‘I’m very glad you were able to call. Would you care for a drink or—’

  ‘No, thank you, I really must be going I have an appointment in Chelsea.’

  ‘By Timothy! You do get about!’ smiled Temple.

  ‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ said Mr. Goldie deprecatingly. ‘I spent two days in Nottingham last week.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have thought it would have been worth your while to go that far.’

  Mr. Goldie shook his head wisely. ‘It really is surprising, Mr. Temple,’ he murmured, and Temple imagined the grey eyes gleamed for a moment. Then Goldie bowed himself out in an old-world manner which greatly intrigued Steve.

  ‘Well, what was behind that little scene?’ she demanded, deliberately, when the door had closed.

  ‘What little scene, my sweet gazelle?’ riposted Temple lightly, placing an arm affectionately around her.

  ‘Don’t try to act the innocent,’ she chided him. ‘Why did you knock those lilies off the piano?’

  ‘Just an accident, my pet.’

  ‘An accident!’ scoffed Steve, bursting into rather strained laughter. ‘I’m particularly fond of tiger lilies. Aren’t you, Mr. Goldie?’ she mimicked him almost perfectly.

  ‘Apparently he is,’ said Temple coolly.

  ‘What did you expect him to say?’ challenged Steve.

  ‘To be perfectly honest, I thought he would say: “Excuse me, Mr. Temple, but they are not tiger lilies.”’

  ‘Not tiger lilies,’ said Steve with a puzzled look. ‘Then what are they?’

  ‘They’re known as “Lily Regale”, but apparently Mr. J. P. Goldie didn’t realise it.’

  ‘But … but why should he?’ asked Steve, in complete bewilderment.

  Temple looked into her eyes.

  ‘Steve, me old pal,’ he murmured with mock seriousness, ‘I think you’re slipping, partner!’

  CHAPTER XX

  Concerning Lucky Gibson

  Mr. Brightman was irritated. In the first place, he had, following the Medusa Club raid, been compelled to call a meeting of the Front Page Men at his flat in Hampstead, on the orders of Front Page Man Number One, and in spite of the fact that he had a shrewd suspicion that the flat was under police observation.

  Secondly, the news he had received at this meeting was by no means reassuring. He had just had a report that Lucky Gibson was still alive.

  ‘I can’t understand it. What could have made them leave the taxi?’ he queried impatiently for the second time.

  ‘Lucky must have recognised Jed,’ was Jimmy Mills’ solution to the problem. But Ware stoutly denied this. ‘He wasn’t in a state to recognise anyone,’ he asserted emphatically.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing,’ said Mills, adding the merest suspicion of a splash to his whisky, ‘we’ve got to get him. If we don’t he’ll talk.’

  ‘Talk?’ snapped Swan Williams. ‘What the hell can he talk about, anyway? The police know all there is to know.’

  ‘They’ve got a warrant out for Jimmy, and I’ve a hunch that I’ll be the next,’ said Brightman, moodily.

  ‘They’ll soon ’ave a warrant out for the lot of us, and then the only bloke who’ll be sittin’ pretty is the big noise ’imself,’ concluded Mills rather bitterly. There was a short silence, during which everybody drank deeply and seemed none the better for it.

  ‘I can’t figure out how they managed to get back the Blakeley kid,’ went on Brightman. ‘It shows that somebody must know about the hide-out.’

  ‘D’you think Ginger’s talking?’ queried Mills.

  Brightman negatived the idea.

  ‘I had a word with him yesterday. He’s made more out of us in the past two months than he’d make out of that tin factory in two years. Ginger isn’t likely to do any talking.’

  ‘Well,
we’ve got to find a new place to meet, and that’s definite,’ decided Mills.

  Brightman was completely in agreement with this. In fact, he had been gazing uneasily out of the window and listening to every footstep ever since the meeting began.

  ‘And for the lord’s sake, let’s keep away from Piccadilly,’ implored Swan Williams.

  ‘The Medusa was perfect,’ retorted Brightman, somewhat offended, ‘if Rivoli hadn’t started putting two and two together.’

  ‘Rivoli isn’t the only man in the world capable of putting two and two together!’

  There was a swift succession of knocks on the outside door, and Brightman started up at once and went to open it. They heard a woman’s voice outside, and Lina came in, remote and self-possessed as ever, though she was slightly out of breath.

  ‘You’re late, Lina,’ Brightman was protesting as they entered.

  She nodded distantly, but offered no excuse.

  ‘Did you see him?’ eagerly demanded Brightman.

  Lina slowly drew off her gloves.

  ‘I spoke to him on the phone.’

  ‘You mean Front Page Man Number One?’ demanded Jimmy Mills.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lina. ‘He was pleased about the Nottingham job.’ She took a cigarette from her case and lit it.

  ‘Gor blimey, so ’e ought to be!’ cried Jimmy.

  ‘But,’ continued Lina, firmly, ‘we’ve got to get Lucky before he talks.’

  ‘That’s impossible – he’s under constant supervision at the hospital,’ Brightman began to protest, but she quelled him with a look.

  ‘It’s got to be made possible. They’re taking Lucky from the hospital this afternoon. He’s due at Scotland Yard shortly before six. According to the present schedule, Hunter will be picking him up at about five-thirty.’

  ‘Well, I’m not trying any fancy tricks this time,’ flatly declared Jed Ware.

  ‘There’s no necessity for fancy tricks – but we’ve got to stop Lucky talking.’

  ‘He’s probably spilt the beans by now, anyway,’ muttered Ware, dismally.

  ‘No,’ Lina contradicted, emphatically. ‘Lucky hasn’t talked – yet.’

  They all looked at her inquiringly, and in answer to their unspoken question she murmured, ‘The Chief told me.’