Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  When he opened the door, and disclosed the body with its features grotesquely distorted, the three Scotland Yard men gasped.

  Only Paul Temple betrayed not the slightest sign of surprise at the body of Gerald Mitchell.

  Sir Graham began firing a string of questions at the manager, but the latter was not able to help him very much. He suggested that his reception clerk might know more about Wallace Sabina, and telephoned down for him.

  ‘Well, if it’s suicide, he made a pretty good job of it,’ commented Mac, looking at the body.

  ‘Suicide!’ scoffed Forbes. ‘How the devil could a man pump four bullets into himself like this?’

  Paul Temple spoke for the first time since they had entered the room. ‘Would you mind if I asked the reception clerk some questions, Sir Graham? I have rather an interesting theory about the murder, and if it all fits in—’

  ‘All right, Temple, go ahead,’ gruffly agreed Forbes, and just then the man arrived. ‘This gentleman would like to ask you some questions,’ Sir Graham told the reception clerk, and nodded to Temple to proceed.

  ‘I am rather interested in the gentleman who visited Mr. Sabina,’ began Temple, shrewdly surveying the receptionist.

  ‘You mean Mr. von Zelton, sir?’

  There was an exclamation from Hunter, but Temple ignored it.

  ‘Exactly,’ he continued evenly, ‘I mean Mr. von Zelton. How old would you say he was?’

  ‘Oh, it’s difficult to say, sir. Perhaps about fifty-five.’

  ‘When did he arrive?’

  ‘About an hour ago, sir, as far as I can judge. He seemed a funny little man,’ added the clerk, trying to be helpful.

  ‘Then you’ve never seen him before?’

  ‘No, sir,’ was the very definite reply.

  ‘How long had Mr. Sabina been staying here?’

  ‘Well, he hasn’t actually stayed, sir, in a manner of speaking. He only came in this morning about ten, and booked his room till Tuesday.’

  ‘H’m. Has he had any other visitors during the day?’

  ‘No, sir. But there were two telephone calls, sir. One came through while Mr. von Zelton was here.’

  ‘Did you happen to overhear them?’

  ‘Oh, no, sir!’ the clerk replied, in an injured tone.

  ‘Did Sabina say that he was expecting a Mr. von Zelton?’

  ‘Yes, sir, he told me that as soon as he’d registered.’

  ‘And this Mr. von Zelton – you’re quite sure he was a foreigner?’

  ‘I’d stake my life on it, sir,’ replied the clerk, with considerable emphasis.

  ‘I see,’ murmured Temple reflectively. Then he dismissed the clerk, who went out with the manager.

  ‘How the hell could it be von Zelton?’ demanded Forbes, irritably, as Hunter closed the door.

  ‘You don’t think Thompson picked up the wrong laddie?’ suggested Reed.

  ‘Not a chance!’ replied Hunter. ‘The fellow we picked up at Croydon was von Zelton all right. I checked up on his pictures.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ agreed Sir Graham impatiently. ‘That was the real von Zelton.’

  ‘Then who the devil was this fellow? He must have known a darn sight more than we do about the Front Page Men,’ said Hunter.

  ‘Ay, and he must have been a pretty good actor, too,’ added Reed.

  ‘By Timothy!’ ejaculated Temple suddenly.

  Forbes looked up suspiciously. ‘Well, Temple, what is it?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ replied the novelist, looking rather embarrassed. The telephone started ringing, and saved him any further explanation.

  Forbes answered it.

  ‘This may be for Sabina,’ he muttered. But it proved to be Wrenson, speaking from the Yard. The conversation did not convey much to the others, except the fact that Sir Graham was considerably startled by the message.

  ‘Well, I’m damned!’ he exclaimed, as he replaced the receiver. In response to the eager looks of inquiry from his subordinates, he announced, ‘About five minutes ago a parcel was handed in at the Yard. It was addressed to the Reverend Charles Hargreaves.’ He paused. ‘It was the Carter Collection.’

  His colleagues were duly impressed.

  ‘It must have been taken from Mitchell by this— this fellow who impersonated von Zelton,’ decided Hunter, wrinkling his brow. ‘So, whoever he was, he couldn’t have been a crook.’

  Temple smiled quietly.

  ‘Well, I’m off back to the Yard. Can’t see much point in staying here. You fellows look after the doctor and the photographer when they get here,’ ordered Sir Graham. ‘Coming, Temple?’

  Temple nodded. They walked downstairs, discussing the case, and while Sir Graham went to have a final word with the manager, Temple asked permission to use the telephone. He dialled the number of his flat, and soon heard Steve’s voice.

  ‘Hello, darling, I just rang up to warn you that I may be rather late tonight … yes … well, I couldn’t say just how late … oh, yes, darling, perfectly respectable ! As a matter of fact, I’m going to see an old friend of ours, yes, a Mr. Goldie.’

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  In Which Paul Temple Eats Far Too Many Muffins

  It was tea-time the following day before Steve could get her husband to herself. All day long he had been at Scotland Yard, giving them the benefit of the information he had gathered, and comparing notes on the various aspects of the Front Page Men’s activities.

  Steve had only the sketchiest idea of what had happened, and her reportorial instincts were well and truly aroused. At the moment, however, her husband seemed to have but one purpose in life – reducing the pile of muffins arrayed temptingly before him.

  ‘If Sherlock Holmes had married, his wife would have had my deepest sympathy,’ sighed Steve, with the merest twinkle in her eye.

  ‘I’m sure she would have been a terrible trial to him,’ gravely replied Temple, reaching for another muffin.

  ‘All the same, darling, I do think you’re marvellous!’ smiled Steve.

  ‘So do I, by Timothy!’ placidly declared her husband.

  ‘I really don’t know how you do it!’

  ‘It’s a gift,’ solemnly announced Temple, with his mouth full. ‘You simply buy a good old magnifying-glass, find a couple of clues, put two and two together, and then write a book about it. Tell Pryce to order some more muffins, darling. We’ll have them for tea tomorrow and the day after and—’

  ‘Paul—’ began Steve, seriously.

  ‘Yes, my pet?’ He placed a hand cautiously on his diaphragm. ‘I do hope these muffins aren’t going to play me false.’

  ‘Paul, do be serious. I want to hear all about the case.’

  ‘Oh, you mean that little matter of the Front Page Men. Well, I suppose there should be no secrets between husband and wife.’

  ‘Tell me, Paul, when did you first suspect Gerald?’ Steve demanded, eagerly.

  ‘The day he came to Bramley Lodge and told us about Ann being good at impersonating people. I couldn’t quite see the point in that … after all, if one is reasonably fond of one’s wife, and discovers she has criminal instincts, one doesn’t rush to the nearest police-station. Gerald knew I was almost bound to go to Sir Graham with such valuable information.’

  ‘But what was his point?’ persisted Steve.

  ‘I haven’t quite figured that out,’ replied Temple, thoughtfully. ‘He must have persuaded Ann to impersonate Carol over the telephone without her realising the significance of it. He probably bluffed her that it was just a practical joke.’

  ‘Yes, but later she must have realised that—’

  ‘Later, Ann realised many things, Steve, but I’ve a feeling he had some devilish hold over her in some way. That’s why she tried to get away, and took that flat in Bloomsbury.’

  ‘Gerald, of course, tried to throw suspicion on Ann.’

  ‘Yes. Because he wasn’t at all sure just how much Ann knew about him, and how much she had told the police. He was devili
shly frightened. After all, except for this other woman, Lina, no one connected Gerald with the Front Page Men.’

  ‘Then you think he killed Ann – suspecting that she was going to tell Carol Forbes all she knew?’

  Temple nodded. ‘Yes, he must have brought that off very cleverly. But it was at Tavistock Court that he first really gave the show away.’

  Temple selected another muffin, and took a large bite.

  ‘If you remember, Gerald tried to play the complete innocent about Tavistock Court. Yet he knew which button to press in the lift to take us to the right floor. How could he have known that without visiting the place beforehand? That’s why I asked him to press the button.’

  ‘Darling, you deserve another muffin for that,’ smiled Steve.

  ‘Thanks. And there was another point which rather interested me,’ continued Temple. ‘After we had heard Goldie in the flat above—’

  ‘Then it was Goldie?’

  ‘Of course. We had quite a little chat together.’

  ‘But, you said the flat was deserted,’ Steve reminded him.

  Temple smiled. ‘Yes, that little brainwave occurred to me on the way down. And Gerald said, “I wonder if he’s climbed on to the roof!”’

  ‘Would it have been possible for Mr. Goldie to have climbed on to the roof?’

  ‘That’s just the point. The flat was being thoroughly overhauled, and there was an opening above one of the windows, covered by a tarpaulin. Obviously, Gerald knew all about that.’

  Steve poured her husband a second cup of tea before demanding rather casually, ‘Who is Mr. Goldie?’

  ‘Ah,’ murmured Temple, with a slightly humorous twitch of his mobile mouth. ‘Mr. J. P. Goldie – well, I believe he’s rather a meek little man with a passion for horticulture. Of course, I’ve never actually met him.’

  ‘Never met him!’ repeated Steve in a startled voice.

  Temple shook his head, and stared thoughtfully into his teacup.

  ‘But, Paul—’ Steve began to protest.

  ‘Oh, yes, darling, I know what you’re thinking. But our Mr. Goldie isn’t the Mr. Goldie. In fact, he isn’t a Mr. Goldie at all.’

  ‘Then who is he?’

  ‘His name’s Granville – Lester Granville,’ explained Temple quietly. ‘Does that convey anything to you?’

  ‘You mean the actor?’

  ‘I do. And a pretty successful character-actor too, for many years. He had one child, a little girl. About two years ago she was kidnapped, and her father was instructed to pay seven thousand pounds for her return. He paid up all right. But, because he considered it was his duty, he also got in touch with Scotland Yard. Because of this, the child was murdered.’

  Steve shuddered. She remembered working on the case with half a dozen fellow reporters in her newspaper days. It had been one of the most unpleasant cases she had covered.

  ‘The effect on Granville was almost unbelievable,’ continued Temple. ‘He went nearly demented with fury, left the stage at once, and has since devoted all his time to tracking down the criminals responsible for his daughter’s death. And Granville was no fool, Steve! He knew what he was doing all right. He realised from the start that it was quite hopeless for him to make a thorough investigation, unless he could first of all manage to conceal his real identity. And so—’

  ‘He became Mr. J. P. Goldie,’ prompted Steve.

  Temple nodded and helped himself to more sugar. ‘It was a clever move. Actually, Granville had known the real Mr. Goldie for quite a little while. He was, in fact, by way of being a friend of his. Fortunately, Granville was a pretty good musician, and had often discussed the technical problems of piano-tuning with Goldie. So he soon settled down to the work.’

  ‘Yes, but darling, how did you discover he wasn’t the real Mr. Goldie?’ asked Steve.

  ‘Well, I had my suspicions from the first. I knew he was either connected with the gang or making some sort of private investigation. Then one day I decided to visit Clapshaw and Thompson’s in Regent Street. Goldie used to work there, remember. The fellow in charge described him absolutely to a T. It really did look as if my suspicions were unfounded. Then suddenly, just as I was leaving, the salesman said, “I expect the old boy is still crazy over lilies.” That remark rather fascinated me, and I soon discovered my first clue. The real Mr. Goldie was considered an expert on certain flowers, and particularly lilies.’

  Steve’s face lit up. ‘So that was why you brought those lilies home that day Mr. Goldie was here.’

  ‘Exactly. I literally scoured London for the finest lilies in the country. But Goldie was quite unimpressed by them. He didn’t even make a single comment. Then, as a final test, I deliberately called them tiger lilies. Now, no expert would stand for that! They were quite obviously nothing of the kind. But Goldie never contradicted me. In fact, to put it bluntly, as far as he was concerned, they might just as well have been the bluebells of Scotland!’

  ‘Darling, your ingenuity leaves me breathless,’ laughed Steve.

  ‘Thank you, my pet,’ murmured Temple affably. ‘I also have the finest figure in the business – in spite of muffins.’

  ‘But, Paul, how did you discover he was Lester Granville?’ asked Steve, becoming serious again.

  Temple shrugged his shoulders. ‘Oh—er—deduction, just deduction, my dear,’ he informed her with a deprecating air.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t see how you could arrive at that.’

  ‘If you’ll swear not to breathe a word, I’ll tell you,’ he whispered, looking into her eyes. ‘Granville told me himself.’

  For a moment Steve was taken aback. ‘When did he tell you?’

  ‘That night in Bloomsbury.’

  ‘What was he doing at Tavistock Court?’

  ‘Just keeping his eye on Gerald Mitchell. You see Goldie, or rather Granville, had already discovered that Gerald was Front Page Man Number One.’

  ‘How strange for a little man like that to succeed where all Scotland Yard failed,’ said Steve.

  ‘Yes, it’s rather a curious story,’ continued Temple, thoughtfully. ‘At the time when Granville’s child disappeared, he was playing in a show called Mist Over the Moon. Lydia Royal, alias Ann Mitchell, also had a small part in the cast, and she became quite friendly with Granville’s little girl. It was through her, in fact, that Gerald organised the kidnapping. Though Ann, of course, was quite ignorant of that.’

  ‘What made Goldie first suspicious of Gerald?’

  ‘Well, when the Front Page Men came into existence, Goldie suddenly realised that the novel, from which the gang apparently took its title, was published by none other than Lydia Royal’s husband, Gerald Mitchell. This made him think. And suddenly he realised how very friendly Ann had been towards his little girl.’

  ‘So he suspected Ann,’ put in Steve, quickly.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid he did. Nevertheless, this helped to put him on the right track where Gerald was concerned. Oddly enough, however, his investigations led him to believe that Brightman was the leader of the gang, and it wasn’t until the last week or so that he realised that Gerald himself was Front Page Man Number One.’

  Steve frowned thoughtfully. ‘I can’t quite see why Gerald called his organisation The Front Page Men. It seems that by doing so he automatically drew attention to himself.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Temple thumped the small table until the teacups rattled. ‘Don’t you see that was really a brilliant psychological move? The police knew he was the publisher of the novel The Front Page Men. They knew he was telling the truth about the novel being submitted out of the blue by the mysterious Andrea Fortune. This put him in a really excellent position. In the eyes of the law, he was merely the bright, but somewhat bewildered, young book publisher. Certainly, it automatically connected him with the case, but it enabled the police to dismiss him as being an insignificant factor. The same move was made by Andrew Brightman, who deliberately brought himself to the notice of the police by saying that his daugh
ter had been kidnapped. This, again, was a very carefully planned move on Brightman’s part, for it also enabled him to throw suspicion on Mr. Goldie.’

  ‘It was particularly clever of Gerald to contrive to be on both sides of the fence at the same time – why, he even went with you on that river trip,’ recalled Steve.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed her husband, ‘and he acted pretty scared, too. In fact, I think Gerald was a much better actor than Ann.’

  ‘But this doesn’t solve the mystery of Andrea Fortune,’ went on Steve. ‘Do you think she wrote that letter Sir Graham received?’

  ‘I know she did,’ replied Temple quietly.

  Neither spoke for a few moments. Then Steve asked, ‘What are you thinking of?’

  Temple placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. ‘Of a certain newspaper reporter I used to know. A girl by the name of Steve Trent …’

  ‘Was she – nice?’ asked Steve, taking his hand.

  ‘She was quite tall, and dark and very attractive in rather a special sort of way.’ He paused, then added, ‘and, of course, she was very, very clever.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because she married a popular novelist,’ resumed Temple, ‘who was labouring under the impression that nobody in his family could possibly write anything except himself. And just to prove him wrong, what do you think she did?’

  ‘Three guesses?’

  He nodded.

  ‘She wrote a book?’

  ‘That’s exactly what she did. And she sent it to a small literary agency, with strict instructions that all royalties be made payable to the London and General Hospital in Gerard Street. And the name of the book, my sweet, was The Front Page Men. And the name of the author was Andrea Fortune.’

  ‘Paul, you know that—’

  ‘I know that you are Andrea Fortune,’ said Paul Temple, quietly.

  ‘Darling, I’m so glad you know,’ confessed Steve, impulsively. ‘I’ve been dreadfully worried about the whole business. Of course, I knew that the book had nothing to do with the real Front Page Men, but I somehow couldn’t bring myself to admit—’ She broke off quickly. ‘You’re not annoyed, darling?’