Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘I’m afraid that was inevitable,’ Reed explained. ‘When they heard the shots, most of our men came upstairs.’

  Sir Graham accepted this explanation rather gloomily.

  ‘If it comes to that, who noticed the girl in the bar-parlour?’ asked Reed. ‘I’m sure I didn’t.’

  ‘Come to think of it, Mac, I did see a young woman – she was on the right-hand side. But it didn’t occur to me that she would be Lina Fresnay.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Temple, quickly.

  ‘Weil, she was rather muffled up, and not particularly well-dressed. I thought she might be one of the regular customers.’

  ‘Ay, we expected to find her with the rest of the gang,’ added Mac.

  ‘She wasn’t the only person missing from the bar-parlour, either,’ continued Hunter.

  Sir Graham raised his brows inquiringly.

  ‘When we first entered, I noticed a parson sitting in one of the alcove affairs,’ pursued Hunter. ‘After the shooting, he seemed to have miraculously disappeared.’

  ‘H’m, a parson,’ repeated Forbes without much enthusiasm.

  ‘Could it be our old friend the Reverend Charles Hargreaves?’ queried Temple, pleasantly.

  ‘Hargreaves!’ cried Hunter. ‘Why, that’s the fellow who rang me up at the hospital to warn me that—’

  The telephone rang. It was Sergeant Leopold, who told Sir Graham that there was a caller waiting to see him.

  ‘Eh? I can’t see anyone now,’ barked Sir Graham. ‘What’s that? Who? Oh … Hargreaves … all right, send him in …’ He replaced the receiver.

  ‘Why, this is the man I was talking about!’ exclaimed Hunter, in complete amazement. Temple, too, was obviously interested.

  ‘The Reverend Charles Hargreaves,’ announced Sergeant Leopold, and all eyes were turned on the door.

  With a slight smile curving his whimsical mouth, the Reverend Hargreaves shook hands with Sir Graham and then turned to Temple.

  ‘I hoped we should meet again, Mr. Temple – and here we are,’ smiled Hargreaves.

  Hunter, however, was not to be denied.

  ‘Sir Graham, this is the man who was at the Glass Bowl on the night of the raid – I’ll swear to that!’ he insisted.

  The Chief Commissioner smiled rather grimly.

  ‘That’s all right, Hunter. He won’t try to get away.’ Sir Graham paused as if he were making a decision; then announced, ‘Gentlemen, may I present an old colleague of mine – Gilbert Wrenson of the Intelligence Department?’

  ‘How do you do?’ Hunter managed to stutter at length.

  ‘I’m very well, thank you, Inspector,’ smiled Wrenson, pleasantly. ‘Well, Temple, I hope we haven’t been treading on each other’s toes too often.’

  ‘No,’ laughed the novelist, ‘but that get-up of yours had me completely baffled at first. I racked my brain for hours, trying to think where I’d seen you before.’

  ‘Yes, it seems to have been fairly successful,’ agreed Wrenson.

  ‘No complaints from me,’ murmured Sir Graham, ‘you’ve certainly done as well as any of us.’

  ‘What exactly happened upstairs at the Glass Bowl?’ Wrenson was anxious to know.

  ‘We picked up Brightman, Jed Ware and Swan Williams,’ Sir Graham informed him.

  ‘But we missed the chappie we’re after, Mr. Wrenson – the Front Page Man.’

  Wrenson seemed lost in thought.

  ‘Gilbert,’ said Forbes presently, ‘who is this Front Page Man?’

  Reed and Hunter eagerly scanned Wrenson’s features, trying to anticipate his reply. Wrenson eased his clerical collar uncomfortably.

  ‘I wish I knew,’ he had to admit. ‘Nobody knows except Lina Fresnay. Not even Brightman.’

  With a muttered imprecation, Forbes leaned back wearily in his chair and closed his eyes.

  ‘I think I’ve worked harder on this case, and taken more risks than ever in my life before, and yet, somehow, I haven’t got the results I’ve aimed at,’ admitted Wrenson. ‘I fixed up a microphone in the Hampstead flat, and got Sir Graham to hold up the arrests of Mills and Brightman as long as possible, so that I could listen to their meetings. That was how I heard about the proposed attack on Lucky Gibson at the hospital. I got in touch with Hunter, but unfortunately was just too late. I also had a pretty good idea of how the gang worked the Nottingham affair; but at the time was unable to do anything about it – except be on the spot when it happened.’

  ‘You’ve done remarkably well,’ said Temple, with considerable respect in his voice.

  ‘Up to a point, yes,’ nodded Wrenson. ‘I was damned lucky to get the Blakeley child back safe and sound. They’d taken him to a deserted tinworks on the river, owned by a rat-faced little devil named Ginger Ricketts. Your old pal Chubby Wilson was really responsible for my getting a clue in that business. I was in the Seamen’s Hostel one night preparing for one of the weekly sing-songs, when a note came for Chubby. It said: “Be at Redhouse Wharf tonight at nine.” I delivered the note, of course, then trailed Chubby for all I was worth!’

  ‘And he led you to Ginger Ricketts’ place?’ asked Temple.

  ‘Yes. I thought at first that I’d stumbled on their real hideout. But after finding the Blakeley kid, I realised that they’d more or less deserted the place, and were only using it on rare occasions.’

  ‘What made you go to the Glass Bowl tonight?’ demanded Forbes, curiously.

  ‘I was there waiting for a gentleman I’d give ten years of my life to meet – Front Page Man Number One,’ answered Wrenson, simply.

  ‘But what made you think he’d be there?’ Hunter was anxious to learn.

  ‘If it comes to that,’ answered Wrenson with a twinkle in his eye, ‘what made you people think he’d be there?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, I had this card,’ said Forbes, handing it over. ‘Also, we picked up Jimmy Mills earlier in the evening, and he decided to talk.’

  ‘I see,’ nodded Wrenson. ‘Well, my information came straight from the horse’s mouth. I listened in to a jolly little meeting they had the night before last. Lina Fresnay definitely promised Brightman and the gang that they would meet the Front Page Man last night at the Glass Bowl, together with another interesting gentleman named von Zelton.’

  ‘Yes, Jimmy told us about him. I’ve had a warrant issued. Have you found out anything about von Zelton?’

  ‘Not a great deal. He’s the biggest fence in Europe, of course. And there’s not the slightest doubt what he’s over here for.’

  ‘The Carter Collection!’ said Reed.

  ‘Exactly. I heard them talking about it in the flat.’

  ‘Temple thinks, and I’m inclined to agree with him,’ said Forbes, ‘that the Chief intended to get the gang together at the Glass Bowl and then double-cross them.’

  ‘That’s what he intended all right, and he’s got away with it. Our only chance now is if we can pick up von Zelton, and find out where he’s arranged to meet the Front Page Man.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll get the girl yet,’ hazarded Forbes.

  ‘She was at the Glass Bowl last night, and in view of what’s happened, that rather surprises me,’ frowned Wrenson. ‘I can’t quite see why the Front Page Man should want to double-cross her. After all, she’s the only person who knows his real identity.’

  ‘Perhaps she was there for a purpose,’ said Forbes.

  ‘To see that all the gang turned up, for instance. You notice she didn’t go upstairs to their meeting-place. She probably had an appointment with the Chief later on. Remember, she was his only contact with the gang, and he relied on her to keep him in touch.’

  ‘Soon after the police arrived, she slipped out of one of the side entrances – that would be when the shooting started,’ recalled Wrenson. ‘I did my best to follow her, but it was very misty by the river. I made one interesting discovery, though.’

  ‘Really?’ said Temple curiously.

  ‘She dropped her handbag, and there was
this card inside.’

  The card was just a plain piece of pasteboard, on which was scribbled, ‘Mr. Wallace Sabina … The Autumn Hotel.’

  ‘Who on earth is Wallace Sabina?’ asked Temple, leaning over Sir Graham’s shoulder.

  ‘If you look underneath, you’ll see the letters “V.Z.”’ Wrenson pointed out.

  ‘By Jove!’ ejaculated Sir Graham.

  ‘“V.Z.” – that’s von Zelton!’ exclaimed Hunter.

  ‘Great Scott! It’s just occurred to me – Sabina must be the Front Page Man, and he’s waiting for von Zelton at the Autumn Hotel,’ said Wrenson, thumping the desk.

  ‘Then von Zelton mustn’t reach him, whatever happens,’ decided the Chief Commissioner.

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Temple, to everybody’s surprise.

  ‘But surely, Temple, you see …’

  ‘I have always thought killing two birds with one stone rather a pleasant occupation,’ said Temple, rather cryptically.

  Any further argument was cut short by the telephone ringing. Reed, who was nearest, picked up the receiver.

  ‘Chief Commissioner’s Office … oh, hello, Thompson … ye’ve what? Good man! Stick to him like glue. Ay, bring him back here as soon as ye can!’

  ‘Who was it?’ asked Forbes.

  ‘It’s Thompson, speaking from Croydon,’ replied Reed.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘They’ve got von Zelton. He’s just arrived by special plane.’

  ‘Thank God!’ breathed Forbes.

  ‘Well, whoever our friend Sabina is, it looks as if he’s going to be very lonely, as far as von Zelton is concerned, at any rate,’ smiled Wrenson.

  Reed and Hunter made no attempt to conceal their delight. Paul Temple was the only member of the party who gave no sign that he welcomed the news.

  A rather short, fairly well-built little man placed his elbows on the counter of the reception office in the dowdy lobby of the Autumn Hotel.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said the reception clerk.

  ‘Good morning!’ The little man spoke in a thick, guttural accent. ‘I believe you have a gentleman staying here I wish to see.’

  ‘What name, sir?’

  ‘The gentleman’s name is Mr. Wallace Sabina.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. Mr. Sabina is in Room Seventy-four. I believe he’s expecting you.’ He summoned a page.

  ‘What name shall I say, sir?’

  Mr. J. P. Goldie smiled benevolently at the waiting pageboy.

  ‘My name,’ he said softly, ‘is Herr von Zelton.’

  CHAPTER XXXII

  The Autumn Hotel

  If Mr. Wallace Sabina had met Mr. J. P. Goldie on any previous occasion, he showed no sign of recognition, though it must be admitted that Goldie’s make-up would have defied many masters of the art. From every angle, his face had a genuine Teuton appearance, and his German inflection was in the true guttural tradition.

  As the page opened the door, Mr. Wallace Sabina rose from a small writing-desk in the far corner of the room and came to welcome his guest.

  ‘Mr. Sabina?’ asked the little man.

  ‘Herr von Zelton – I am delighted.’

  ‘I am a little late, eh?’ smiled von Zelton. ‘I had to take a special plane and then this traffic – it was very difficult this morning.’

  Sabina nodded understandingly. ‘Did you have a good journey?’ he asked politely, drawing up the one armchair for his guest.

  ‘No journeys are good, my friend,’ rasped von Zelton, ‘some are bad, some not so bad. This was what you call—er—putrid.’

  Sabina was amused by his visitor’s quaint mannerism of speech.

  ‘I’m sorry to have brought you all this way, von Zelton, but this matter is urgent, and I think well worth your journey.’

  Herr von Zelton rubbed his hands.

  ‘Let us forget about the journey. It is very nice to meet you after so much business we ’ave done together.’

  ‘Business … together?’ repeated Sabina, rather puzzled.

  Von Zelton nodded. ‘I mean, indirectly.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You see, my friend, whenever you do anything really big over here, it ’as what you call—er—favourable repercussions on my side.’

  ‘I see,’ smiled Sabina affably. ‘Would you care for a drink, or—’

  ‘No, no – thank you very much, but I am anxious to discuss at once this business you wish to see me about.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ nodded Sabina, pouring himself a whisky. He slowly filled his glass with soda before asking in a more serious voice, ‘Von Zelton, you’ve heard of the Carter Collection?’

  Von Zelton was obviously impressed.

  ‘But who has not, my friend?’

  ‘Exactly,’ nodded Sabina.

  ‘It is, I am told, worth about two hundred thousand pounds in your money,’ continued von Zelton.

  ‘You seem to have been misinformed, my friend. It is worth … a million!’

  ‘A million!’ von Zelton laughed sceptically. ‘There is not so much money in the world!’

  ‘All the same, I want two hundred thousand, and I want it tonight,’ announced Sabina, with grim determination.

  ‘It is a lot of money,’ mused von Zelton.

  ‘The Carter Collection is worth a million,’ Sabina insisted earnestly. ‘Why, even if the stones have to be cut, you’ll make—’

  ‘One moment! One moment, please,’ gently interposed von Zelton. ‘I am not in the habit of – as you English say – buying a pig in a bag. I shall want to see this collection.’

  Sabina produced a key, went to the writing-desk, extracted a small case, and unlocked it. There, sparkling against their black velvet background, lay the Carter Collection.

  ‘So, murmured von Zelton, very much impressed, ‘this is the famous collection, wonderful, beautiful!’

  ‘So you see,’ pursued Sabina, ‘you have only to get them out of the country.’

  ‘That may not be so easy. The police are sure to be on their guard,’ argued von Zelton, gently trickling the stones through his sensitive fingers. ‘They are beauties, but it is a risk—’

  The telephone shrilled, and with a muttered imprecation at the interruption, Sabina excused himself, and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello – yes, this is Sabina.’

  He recognised Lina’s voice immediately. For once, she was excited, and no longer spoke in her unhurried, level tones.

  ‘This is bad news,’ she whispered, urgently.

  ‘What do you mean? Where are you?’

  ‘Not far from Scotland Yard. They’ve got von Zelton.’

  ‘Don’t be silly – he’s here now!’

  ‘I’ve just seen them take him into the Yard.’

  ‘There must be some mistake.’

  ‘You know I never make mistakes like that.’

  ‘But I tell you, von Zelton is here!’ Sabina was quite angry now. ‘Lina, for God’s sake, if this is a joke—’

  ‘It’s no joke for any of us,’ came her steely voice. ‘I can’t stay any longer – there’s a plain-clothes man just passed this box and—good-bye!’

  Sabina slammed down the receiver, looking rather bewildered, then seemed as if he were about to pick it up again.

  A strange voice suddenly interrupted him in his plans.

  ‘Put that phone down, Mr. Sabina!’

  The receiver clattered on to its rest once more.

  ‘Then—then you’re not von Zelton!’ stammered Sabina, in alarm.

  ‘No,’ said the clear, firm voice, without a trace of accent.

  ‘Then who the devil are you?’

  ‘That is a long story, Sabina,’ went on the other, ‘and I am just a little weary. There is one more job for me, and then—’

  ‘For God’s sake put that gun down!’ cried Sabina, desperately. ‘If it’s a question of money …’

  ‘It is not a question of money,’ coldly replied the other.

  ‘Then what is it? What
do you want?’

  For a few seconds the men surveyed each other, as shrewdly as opponents in the boxing ring. Then the little man spoke again.

  ‘I want revenge!’ There was a soft, sinister inflection in his voice, which, however, grew louder until he was almost screaming. ‘Revenge! Revenge!’

  The revolver was thrust ominously forward.

  ‘No! No!’ cried Sabina. ‘For God’s sake—’

  The little man recovered himself slightly. ‘Do you remember Lester Granville, the actor?’ he asked, in very deliberate tones. ‘His child was kidnapped. His only daughter. He paid seven thousand pounds for her return.’ He advanced a step, and once more his voice rose.

  ‘But she was not returned! She was not returned!’

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ begged Sabina, hysterically.

  But Lester Granville shot four times with cold deliberation. Then he carefully replaced the diamonds in their box, which he thrust into his overcoat pocket, together with the revolver. With a final contemptuous glance at the body that had been Gerald Mitchell, he swiftly opened the door, and walked casually along the corridor.

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  A Surprise for Gilbert Wrenson

  With determined expressions on their faces, four men got out of a police car and strode purposefully into the entrance hall of the Autumn Hotel. Their leader went up to the manager and introduced himself at once.

  ‘I am Sir Graham Forbes, of New Scotland Yard.’

  ‘You haven’t lost much time,’ commented the manager, admiringly. ‘Why, it’s only about five minutes since I telephoned.’

  ‘Telephoned?’

  ‘About the suicide.’

  Sir Graham shot an inquiring glance at Reed, Hunter and Paul Temple. Then he turned to the manager again.

  ‘I’m not concerned with your suicide at the moment. I’m making some inquiries about a Mr. Wallace Sabina.’

  ‘But, it is Mr. Sabina!’ cried the manager, excitedly.

  ‘Show us his room,’ ordered Sir Graham at once, and the manager led the way upstairs.

  *

  On the way, he explained that it was barely twenty minutes ago that a chambermaid had heard four distinct shots. She had been afraid to go and investigate, and some time elapsed before she had given the alarm and they had entered the room.