Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘Yes,’ said Mitchell quietly. ‘She’s been acting rather strangely just lately. I don’t quite know why, but she seems to have been rather, well, furtive and underhand about various things.’

  ‘Did she say anything to you about her being—followed?’

  Mitchell looked rather alarmed. ‘Then she told you, too? She was under the impression that there was someone trailing her. I did my best to convince her that it was just her imagination, and yet—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I couldn’t help remembering that night when Steve heard Carol Forbes on the telephone,’ continued Mitchell.

  ‘You still think it might have been Ann?’ demanded Steve, swiftly.

  ‘Oh no! No!’ cried Mitchell frantically. ‘It couldn’t have been Ann.’ Then his voice quavered. ‘And yet, I— I—suppose it could!’ He finished off the rest of his whisky.

  ‘Paul,’ he whispered presently, ‘you don’t think Ann could be mixed up with— with the Front Page Men?’

  ‘I really don’t know, Gerald,’ admitted Temple, quietly. ‘Gerald, you’re quite sure that Ann can still impersonate people’s voices? I mean she may have lost the trick, having left the stage some years.’

  ‘No, she can still do it, I know. She does it at parties – she’s always been able to – ever since she was a girl.’

  ‘Did she act under her own name?’ asked Steve.

  ‘No, she had a stage name, Lydia Royal.’

  ‘Lydia Royal,’ repeated Temple thoughtfully. ‘Now where have I heard that before?’

  But Carol Forbes burst in on them and interrupted his reflections.

  ‘Why, Carol! This is a nice surprise,’ cried Steve. ‘I forget whether you’ve met Gerald Mitchell.’

  ‘Oh yes. How do you do, Mr. Mitchell?’

  They shook hands.

  ‘I think my wife introduced us at Lady Ronson’s,’ hazarded Mitchell, and Carol nodded.

  ‘You never told me you knew Ann Mitchell,’ said Steve to Carol.

  ‘Oh yes, we knew each other – we met several times at parties,’ explained Carol. ‘Strangely enough,’ she added, ‘that was why I came here – it’s quite a coincidence.’

  Steve looked puzzled.

  ‘You came here because of my wife?’ asked Mitchell.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Carol brightly. ‘I had a letter from her this morning, asking me to meet her at a flat in Bloomsbury … well, read it for yourself.’

  She handed Mitchell an envelope, from which he extracted a small sheet of notepaper and read:

  Flat K, Tavistock Court, Bloomsbury.

  Dear Carol, I should like to see you tomorrow at about seven-thirty. Please come to the above address. Don’t fail me; the matter is urgent.

  Yours,

  Ann Mitchell.

  Rather dazedly, he handed the letter to Temple. ‘That’s Ann’s writing,’ he told them.

  ‘I was worried about it,’ confessed Carol. ‘I kept thinking of that night when Steve received the telephone message. So I thought I’d try to discover if the note is genuine, because I haven’t the slightest idea what Ann can want to see me about.’

  ‘It’s genuine all right,’ Mitchell repeated.

  ‘You’re positive about the handwriting?’ insisted Temple.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  There was silence for a few moments, until Carol suddenly demanded, ‘I say, is anything the matter?’

  ‘Yes, Carol,’ said Steve. ‘Ann Mitchell disappeared last night.’

  While Carol was recovering from her astonishment, Temple asked, ‘Gerald, did you know anything about this flat in Bloomsbury?’

  ‘Good lord, no!’ cried Mitchell, in complete bewilderment. ‘This is news to me. Whose flat is it, anyway?’

  ‘Presumably, it’s Ann’s.’

  ‘But—but that’s ridiculous!’

  ‘Well, we can soon find out,’ said Temple smoothly.

  ‘What are you going to do, Paul?’ asked Steve.

  ‘If Carol has no objection,’ continued Temple, ‘I think it would be a good idea if we all kept that appointment.’

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Concerning a Flat in Bloomsbury

  Standing in a Bloomsbury backwater, Tavistock Court is a substantial red-brick building of architecture which is more or less commonplace in that quarter. Its windows are flush with the walls, and the only outer protuberance is an uninspiring porch supported by two very substantial pillars. It is the sort of building you might pass every day for a year without being aware of its existence.

  On rather a dismal evening, Carol and Steve found the approach to Tavistock Court singularly depressing, and did not fail to comment upon the fact. Temple and Mitchell were silent, and the latter spoke for the first time when they stood outside the building.

  ‘It looks more like offices than flats,’ he declared. ‘Are you sure we’re at the right place?’

  ‘Here’s someone coming,’ said Steve. ‘Perhaps we’d better ask.’

  A light-hearted young man in evening dress came out of the entrance, pulled his scarf round his throat, and was about to walk away when Temple accosted him.

  ‘Excuse me, is this Tavistock Court?’

  The newcomer nodded pleasantly. ‘This is Tavistock Court – and you can have it!’ he announced grandiloquently.

  Carol and Steve could not repress a smile.

  ‘We were looking for Flat K,’ went on Temple.

  ‘That might be anywhere – absolutely cock-eyed place, this,’ the young man informed them.

  ‘I’m sorry – I thought you might be a resident,’ said Temple.

  The man was quite shocked at the idea. ‘Sooner die than live in a hovel like this,’ he announced. ‘You’ll find a lift at the end of the passage, but I won’t guarantee that it works!’

  ‘Thanks,’ smiled Temple. ‘Do you mind telling me if they are all flats in this building?’

  ‘I believe so. Used to be a club for spinsters at some time or other.’ The idea seemed to tickle him. ‘Can you imagine the riotous gaiety?’ he demanded.

  ‘I suppose this is the only Tavistock Court in Bloomsbury,’ put in Carol, tentatively.

  ‘Heaven forbid there should be another!’ declared the young man, as he hailed a taxi and drove off.

  ‘How nice to have a cheerful outlook like that on life,’ laughed Steve, as they walked to the end of the passage in the direction of the lift. This proved to be a tiny affair, which could only accommodate three people at the most.

  ‘I wonder what has happened to the liftman,’ said Steve.

  ‘It’s automatic, darling,’ answered her husband, indicating a row of buttons. ‘And our gay young friend was obviously right about it being a club. Look, it says: Restaurant, Reading Room, Sewing Room – and so on.’

  ‘Not particularly helpful to strangers,’ commented Steve, ‘but I suppose we may as well get in and see where it will take us.’

  They found it a bit of a squeeze, and Temple, who was last in, instructed, ‘You press the button, Gerald, after I’ve closed the gate.’

  Presently they were being taken upwards with a considerable amount of creaking and grinding. Their faces appeared a trifle strained in the glimmer of light from a tiny bulb in the lift. When it came to a standstill, Temple pushed back the gate and stepped out.

  ‘What floor is this?’ asked Steve.

  ‘The fourth, I think. Might as well start from here as from anywhere, I suppose. There doesn’t seem to be anybody about to direct us.’

  The others left the lift and began to wander along a corridor. Suddenly Carol called out, ‘Here it is, Paul.’

  ‘Yes, by Jove,’ confirmed Mitchell, ‘it’s on the door – Flat K.’

  ‘By Timothy, I believe you’re right!’

  Temple paused, then knocked. As there was no reply, he rapped again, the knocks echoing dismally along the deserted corridor.

  ‘There’s no one in,’ decided Steve, at length, and they regarded each other in p
erplexity.

  ‘Paul, I hope there’s nothing the matter,’ muttered Mitchell, in some alarm.

  ‘I don’t like it, Gerald,’ admitted Temple, shaking his head.

  ‘The flat is obviously empty,’ pronounced Carol, a little impatiently.

  ‘Well, we’ll soon find out,’ decided Temple, taking a bunch of skeleton keys from his pocket. He was usually prepared for emergencies. In less than five minutes the door clicked open.

  Temple entered first, with Steve close behind him. They were in a fair-sized room, but it was difficult to distinguish anything beyond this fact, for the windows were concealed by heavy curtains.

  Steve’s foot touched something, and with a stifled scream, she half turned towards the door. ‘Paul, there’s someone on the floor!’

  ‘Just a minute, I’ll strike a match,’ he told her.

  While he was fumbling, Carol called, ‘I’ve found the switch,’ and the room was flooded with light. Almost simultaneously, a scream from Steve pierced the air.

  ‘Paul – it’s Ann!’ she gasped. ‘She’s dead!’

  They all ran towards the corner where Steve was standing, supporting herself against the wall.

  At her feet lay the body of Ann Mitchell.

  ‘She’s been stabbed!’ cried Carol. ‘Look, there’s the knife!’

  ‘Don’t touch it!’ said Temple, quickly.

  ‘Ann!’ shouted Mitchell, hysterically, bending over her. ‘Ann! By God, I’ll make the swine pay for this!’ He was almost demented with fury, when Temple gripped him by the arm.

  ‘Listen!’ he ordered, forcefully.

  They stood in hushed silence.

  Faintly from the flat above came the wistful refrain of Liebestraum. It was the melody that Paul Temple instinctively associated with Mr. J. P. Goldie.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  The Flat Above

  ‘Wait here!’ said Temple, making for the door.

  ‘Paul, where are you going?’ demanded Steve, in alarm.

  ‘Upstairs!’ replied Temple, briefly.

  ‘Darling, please don’t!’

  ‘It’s all right, Steve.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ offered Gerald Mitchell.

  ‘No. You stay here, Gerald. I shan’t be long.’

  Temple pulled the door to behind him, and after a little while they could hear him running along the corridor.

  Mitchell dropped into a chair.

  ‘I wonder what made Ann come here,’ he brooded.

  Steve looked at the body and shuddered; Carol was rather nervily lighting a cigarette.

  ‘What’s behind all this, Steve?’ demanded Mitchell frantically. ‘Do you think Ann was—oh, my God, I daren’t even think of it!’

  ‘You’ll have to pull yourself together, Gerald,’ urged Steve, quietly.

  ‘I wouldn’t care if only I could get things in their right perspective,’ continued Mitchell, desperately. ‘But somehow everything seems so terribly confused. What made Ann send for Miss Forbes? Whose flat is this? Why should Ann deceive me?’

  ‘Gerald – you’re only torturing yourself,’ murmured Steve, gently.

  Mitchell clasped and unclasped his hands, ran them through his hair, then paced up and down the room. He was having great difficulty in refraining from breaking down.

  ‘I am sorry, Gerald,’ sympathised Steve.

  Steve, too, was worried, and breathed a sigh of relief when the door opened and Temple came in.

  ‘Was it Mr—?’ Steve was starting to ask, when he cut her short.

  ‘There was no one!’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous!’ exclaimed Mitchell.

  ‘Why, we heard the piano! Someone must have been there,’ protested Carol.

  ‘I tell you the flat is deserted,’ retorted Temple, rather irritably.

  ‘Darling,’ said Steve gently, ‘it’s no use denying that someone was there.’

  ‘I wonder if he’s climbed on to the roof,’ speculated Mitchell, thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes, that is possible,’ Temple admitted. ‘In that case, he’s almost certain to have got away by now.’

  He returned to their immediate situation.

  ‘Gerald, I’m afraid we shall have to get in touch with the Yard straight away about Ann.’

  Mitchell nodded silently.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, old man,’ continued the novelist, placing a hand on Mitchell’s shoulder.

  ‘You know, it’s so difficult to believe. I keep looking at Ann and thinking of the last time we were together – she was joking about Steve’s novel and I know it seems strange, but it’s almost as if we were—’ Mitchell’s voice broke.

  ‘Come along, Gerald,’ said Steve, leading him to the door.

  Temple paused to take a last look at the body of Ann Mitchell. Curiously, he examined the long, narrow knife. It might have been a duplicate of the one which had accounted for Tony Rivoli.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  Mr. Brightman is Worried

  Every meeting of the Front Page Men was growing considerably less pleasant than its predecessor. With the police chase becoming more acute and every proposition doubly difficult, even the iron nerves of Brightman and his associates were beginning to show signs of fraying.

  Whereas they had previously been content to wait weeks for their share of the spoils, they were suspicious nowadays if this was delayed for more than a week. And although he tried to keep them in order, Brightman was slowly becoming as restless as the others. Once again they had met in his flat, which he did not use much these days, preferring to stay at various small hotels all over London in case his movements were under observation.

  With his back to the mantelpiece, Brightman scowled at Jimmy Mills, who was perched on the edge of the table protesting vigorously.

  ‘It’s all very well talking, Brightman,’ snarled Jimmy, ‘but it’s about time we saw some results.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Jimmy, try to use your head!’ snapped Brightman, becoming more and more angry. ‘Can I help it if the stuff doesn’t come through? You know I’ve always shared out—’

  ‘Listen, Brightman,’ put in Swan Williams, ‘we had a tricky job on our hands with that Carter Collection, and it’s about time we had our cut.’

  ‘Which means now – not next Christmas!’ supplied Jed Ware.

  Brightman spoke quietly now, though he was inwardly furious. ‘You know as well as I do that the Carter Collection has not been disposed of yet.’

  ‘Then it’s about time it was!’ rasped Jimmy Mills.

  ‘What the hell’s the idea of keeping us hanging round like this?’ growled Ware.

  ‘Things are getting pretty hot, Brightman, and you know it,’ said Jimmy. ‘We want that dough – and the sooner we get it, the sooner we can disappear.’

  ‘What do you expect me to do about it?’ demanded Brightman, impatiently. ‘You know very well that the Chief is handling the Carter Collection.’

  ‘As far as we’re concerned, Mr. Brightman,’ said Jimmy slowly, ‘you are the Number One Man of this outfit.’

  ‘But I’m just as helpless as you are,’ protested Brightman, indignantly.

  ‘If the Chief has got the Carter Collection, how do we know he isn’t going to double-cross us?’ pursued Jed Ware.

  ‘Has he double-crossed you before?’ asked Brightman, without much enthusiasm.

  Ware ignored the question.

  ‘Brightman, who is the Front Page Man?’ he demanded.

  There was a slight pause. Brightman shook his head helplessly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he confessed. ‘Nobody knows – except Lina.’

  ‘Then she’s got to tell us!’ cried Jimmy.

  Jed Ware nodded a vigorous approval.

  ‘She’s got to tell us, Brightman,’ insisted Swan Williams.

  They looked at him expectantly, and for a moment he seemed lost in thought. Then, ‘I agree with you,’ he said suddenly, and rather to their surprise. ‘We’ve been working in the dark long eno
ugh.’

  The tension relaxed a little as it dawned upon the others that Brightman was speaking the truth.

  ‘I thought the Chief was getting in touch right away with this German fence, von Zelton?’ grumbled Ware.

  ‘Blimey, ’e’s ’ad long enough to get in touch with Greta Garbo!’ exclaimed Jimmy Mills.

  ‘It’s just occurred to me,’ murmured Brightman, thoughtfully, ‘that supposing the Chief has been in touch and the stuff has already gone, then we’ve no means of tracing anything.’

  ‘My God, if he has double-crossed us …’ snarled Jimmy desperately, but the string of threats he was about to embark upon were cut short by Lina’s familiar knock on the door.

  As she came in, she read at once the expressions of doubt and suspicion on every face.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

  Brightman placed a chair for her, and she sat down rather wearily.

  ‘Well, what’s the trouble?’ she continued.

  ‘Oh—er—nothing—’ answered Brightman, smoothly. ‘We’ve just been having a little chat.’

  ‘H’m. It doesn’t seem to have left you in the best of spirits,’ commented Lina, sceptically. ‘I wouldn’t call any of you a ray of sunshine.’

  ‘Listen to me, Lina,’ burst in Jimmy Mills. ‘I’m tired of beating about the bush. We want to know—’

  Brightman cut him short.

  ‘Jimmy! I’ll handle this.’

  Jimmy relapsed sulkily into an armchair.

  ‘Now, Lina,’ went on Brightman evenly, ‘we were merely wondering if there is any news about the Carter Collection.’

  Brightman thought he noticed her expression change for a moment, as though she resented the inquiry. But her voice was as calm and unemotional as ever.

  ‘Von Zelton is flying from Munich,’ she announced. ‘He’s meeting the Chief tomorrow night.’

  ‘Good!’ approved Brightman.

  ‘If von Zelton closes the deal,’ said Lina, ‘you should make the best part of twenty thousand each.’

  ‘We earned it!’ snorted Ware.

  ‘And what,’ demanded Jimmy Mills with a note of sarcasm in his voice, ‘does Front Page Man Number One get out of it?’