Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘Hello, Lindsay! Surprised?’ said van Draper.

  ‘Why, hello, Van, I didn’t expect—’

  ‘Drop that gun!’ called Guest sharply. A tiny revolver fell from Lindsay’s left hand onto the wooden floor.

  There was silence for some seconds.

  ‘What’s the idea?’ asked Lindsay at length.

  ‘There seems to have been a slight misunderstanding,’ smiled Guest. ‘Don’t you agree, Mr Lindsay – or should I say Hammond?’

  Lindsay was obviously exerting every ounce of self-control.

  ‘Hammond? Who the devil is Hammond?’ he demanded.

  ‘Your name is Hammond, my friend,’ van Draper informed him with cruel deliberation; ‘Noel Hammond, of the British Intelligence Department.’ His tone was scathing now, but Lindsay broke into a laugh which sounded surprisingly genuine.

  ‘British Intelligence?’ he repeated. ‘That’s damned funny. If I’m from the British Intelligence, why the devil do you think I worked with Hardwick? I’ve sweated my guts out on that blasted screen of his.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ agreed van Draper. ‘You worked very hard on the screen – we’ll grant you that. But you had a reason,’ he added viciously.

  ‘Of course I had a reason,’ replied Lindsay. ‘Six thousand reasons, to be exact.’

  ‘Six thousand?’ echoed Mrs Moffat. ‘Did Z.4 promise you six thousand pounds if—’

  ‘No – dollars,’ replied Lindsay cynically. ‘I say, what the devil is all this about, anyway?’ He looked round desperately. The two revolvers never wavered. Mrs Moffat’s ample form continued to fill the doorway.

  ‘Two years ago,’ van Draper was saying, ‘a certain Mr John Hardwick approached the War Office concerning an invention of his called the Hardwick Screen. This was tested and proved, to all intents and purposes, to be a failure—’

  ‘And then I suppose the British Intelligence Department sent me along just in case?’ suggested Lindsay sarcastically.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed van Draper quietly, ‘just in case a certain other party became interested in the screen and any future developments.’

  ‘I’ve never heard such damned nonsense in my life,’ cried Lindsay indignantly. ‘If the War Office thought the screen was a washout, why should the Intelligence Department take an interest in the affair?’

  ‘The answer to that is quite simple, my friend,’ put in Guest smoothly. ‘They’re after Z.4.’

  ‘Very interesting, I’m sure,’ said Lindsay, trying hard to appear cynical.

  ‘The Intelligence Department discovered that Z.4 had contacted Hardwick,’ pursued van Draper evenly, ‘so they determined to kill two birds with one stone. Keep away from that door!’ he commanded suddenly, as he noticed Lindsay’s glance move in that direction.

  ‘Now listen to me, van Draper,’ began Lindsay nervously. ‘Put that revolver away and don’t be a fool. Surely we can talk this over sensibly.’

  ‘What was in that letter you sent to Richmond?’ demanded van Draper inexorably.

  ‘And who is John Richmond?’ said Guest.

  ‘I—I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about,’ stammered Lindsay, who was obviously rattled.

  ‘That’s a pity,’ sneered van Draper, ‘because I’m going to give you fifteen seconds to refresh your memory.’

  He took a watch from his pocket. ‘Keep him covered, Guest,’ he ordered.

  Lindsay looked round once more in desperation.

  ‘Five,’ said van Draper imperturbably.

  Lindsay moistened his lips, then looked at Mrs Moffat. She returned his stare with eyes that were quite expressionless. There could be no help from that quarter.

  ‘Ten!’ snapped van Draper.

  ‘You—you can’t do this!’ shrieked Lindsay hysterically. He made a sudden dive for the door. Both revolvers barked, and Lindsay fell with a choking gasp across the small table. Mrs Moffat saved the lamp just in time. She picked up the table and replaced the lamp on it as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Pity he didn’t talk,’ commented van Draper unemotionally.

  Suddenly the shop bell tinkled.

  3

  Guest looked somewhat alarmed. ‘Could anyone have heard?’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s probably Z.2,’ Mrs Moffat told him in a scornful voice, as she prepared to go down.

  ‘If it is Archer, get her up here,’ ordered Guest through the half-open door.

  Meanwhile, van Draper had been briskly searching the dead man’s pockets, but had found nothing to enlighten him. He eyed the body distastefully. ‘We’ll have to get this out of the way…Better get the car and heave him over Moorford Ridge,’ he decided. Before they could make any further plans, Iris Archer entered the room. She wore a smart tweed suit, carried a Robin Hood hat, and appeared, as usual, completely self-possessed.

  ‘Hello, Laurence,’ she greeted van Draper. ‘How long have you been up here?’ Then she saw the body of David Lindsay, with the ominous red stain trickling down the sloping floorboards. Iris caught her breath.

  ‘David!’

  She made a movement towards the body.

  ‘Don’t touch him!’ cried Guest sharply.

  Iris looked at them in complete bewilderment.

  ‘I’m sorry – and particularly sorry because he was a—friend of yours,’ said van Draper grimly, ‘but we have had to dispose of Mr David Lindsay.’

  ‘But—why?’ cried Iris, with a shudder.

  ‘His name was Hammond,’ explained Guest drily. ‘He was working for the Intelligence people.’

  Iris was patently staggered, and leaned on the table for support. There was a frightened look in her eyes now.

  ‘My God, I hope you don’t think that I—’ she was beginning.

  ‘No,’ said Guest. ‘He had his tracks well covered.’

  ‘Why, it’s…it’s unbelievable,’ breathed Iris incoherently. ‘I ran into Lindsay two years ago…he had a police record from here to Tokyo. I checked up on him before I even mentioned him to Z.4.’ Neither of the men had ever seen her appear as alarmed as this. ‘Honestly, Laurence,’ she whispered, ‘I never even suspected—’

  ‘That’s all right,’ van Draper reassured her. ‘Hammond was a clever devil. He even convinced us that he was on the level.’

  After a while she calmed down and seated herself in one of the uncomfortable chairs.

  ‘When did you arrive?’ asked Guest.

  ‘Last night. How are things going?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Is the screen ready?’

  ‘Almost. We are waiting for Z.4.’

  This startled Iris. ‘You mean you are waiting for instructions from Z.4?’ she corrected him.

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Moffat, speaking for the first time.

  ‘We mean we are waiting for Z.4,’ insisted van Draper quietly.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ laughed Iris. ‘He’s kept us in the dark so far, why should he—’

  ‘This time Z.4 is coming out into the open,’ reiterated van Draper. ‘He’s got to.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Very soon, we hope,’ replied Mrs Moffat.

  ‘How do you know this?’ asked Iris quickly.

  ‘Mrs Moffat had a letter almost two weeks ago,’ said Guest. ‘He’s got four syndicates interested in the screen, and they are all willing to pay over five million. The price may rise even higher – stimulated by competition. A million is neither here nor there to a government in this crazy armaments race.’

  ‘And how shall we know Z.4 when he arrives?’ Iris was anxious to discover.

  ‘I shall know him,’ slowly announced Mrs Moffat, ‘by a quotation.’

  She closed her lips firmly, and did not seem inclined for any further confidences. Iris rather shakily powdered her nose, and the men lit cigarettes.

  ‘Iris,’ said Guest after a while, ‘there’s a man staying at the inn called Richmond. John Richmond. Have you seen him?’

  ‘Why, no. Who is he?’


  ‘We have reason to suspect he’s a British Agent. Lindsay sent him a letter, and we’ve got to know what was in it.’

  The stress on the last sentence was unmistakable, and Iris nodded thoughtfully.

  She changed her mind about smoking, and took a small cigarette from a dainty shagreen case.

  ‘A British Agent,’ she ruminated.

  ‘What are you thinking of?’ asked van Draper.

  ‘I was just wondering if Paul Temple happened to be John Richmond.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ agreed Guest eagerly.

  Van Draper frowned thoughtfully for some moments. Then he appeared to come to a decision. Abruptly he stubbed out his cigarette and addressed Iris.

  ‘Get hold of Temple tonight,’ he ordered. ‘If necessary, go through his room.’

  ‘It might be a good idea to get Temple out of the way,’ Guest murmured tentatively. ‘Even if he doesn’t happen to be Richmond, he’s probably even more dangerous. I can’t think he is merely up here for the good of his health.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed van Draper after some thought. ‘Yes, I think you’re right.’

  ‘You mean…tonight?’ demanded Iris in a surprised tone.

  ‘Tonight,’ insisted van Draper, quietly but firmly. ‘As to the exact method, I leave that to you. Probably the situation will suggest something.’

  He lit another cigarette, and the three of them smoked for some seconds without speaking.

  ‘Mrs Moffat,’ called Iris at length, and the dour woman came forward. Iris regarded her curiously, wondering why Z.4 should choose to take her into his confidence.

  ‘Mrs Moffat, you said that you would recognise Z.4 by a quotation,’ she began.

  ‘I did,’ said Mrs Moffat decisively.

  ‘And the quotation?’ persisted Iris.

  Mrs Moffat smiled.

  ‘What was it Shakespeare said – about travellers?’

  4

  Paul Temple and Steve had no complaints to make about dinner. The salmon trout in particular had been excellent and Paul Temple had even gone so far as to compliment his hostess upon it. The coffee had also been to their taste – creamy and not too strong, quite unlike the muddy mixture that goes by this name in most provincial hotels. And now Temple had been persuaded to smoke one of Sir Graham’s favourite cigars, which was not proving so overpowering as he had anticipated.

  The novelist had just completely surprised Forbes by announcing that he and his wife proposed to continue their journey the next morning.

  ‘Steve has already been through quite enough for me in the past,’ argued Temple.

  ‘I can quite see your point of view,’ nodded Sir Graham, ‘but I don’t think you realise the seriousness of the situation.’

  ‘I promised Steve we should leave here first thing in the morning,’ declared Temple firmly, ‘and I intend to keep my promise, Sir Graham.’

  There was a pause. Then Sir Graham leaned forward and spoke distinctly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Temple, but I’m afraid it’s out of the question.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ cried Steve in some alarm.

  Forbes settled himself in his chair again.

  ‘Perhaps it might simplify matters if I told you something about this business,’ he suggested. ‘I can’t tell you everything, Temple, for obvious reasons, but…well, I suppose I’d better start at the beginning, although where the devil the beginning is exactly, it’s difficult to say.’ He puffed hard at his cigar for some moments. ‘About two years ago a man named John Hardwick got in touch with the War Office concerning an invention of his which he called the Hardwick Screen. Hardwick himself was a chemist who had inherited a large sum of money from some aunt or other.’

  ‘What was this invention, exactly?’ asked Temple.

  ‘The Hardwick Screen was a system of camouflage for use on land, its chief advantage being—’

  ‘You mean a smoke screen, similar to the sort of thing used at sea?’

  ‘Well, in a way, yes. But Hardwick’s Screen differed from the kind of thing used by the Admiralty in several rather important details. However, that doesn’t concern us at the moment.’

  ‘Had Hardwick invented a lamp or beam of some sort that could penetrate the screen?’ asked Temple.

  Forbes nodded eagerly.

  ‘He had, Temple. And that is more or less where our story starts. The War Office gave the screen a try-out, and, to be brief, it was a terrible flop. The screen itself was all right, but the beam was a dismal failure. Without the beam, of course, the whole bag of tricks was a washout. Hardwick had the devil of a row with the War Office, and came back to Scotland.’

  He paused to relight his cigar, which had gone out.

  ‘After Hardwick had returned to Scotland,’ he continued at length, ‘the Intelligence people began taking an interest in the matter.’

  ‘You mean the Secret Service?’ queried Steve, who had had some experience of that department in her reporting days.

  ‘If you prefer the term, Steve. Yes, the Secret Service.’

  ‘But why should the Intelligence people be interested in the screen if the War Office had already turned it down?’

  ‘I’m glad you asked that question, Temple,’ said Sir Graham weightily, ‘because it’s the crux of the whole matter. Do you mind if I have another cup of coffee, Steve?’

  Steve poured out the coffee.

  ‘Go on, Sir Graham,’ urged Temple.

  ‘For many years now,’ continued Sir Graham, ‘the British Intelligence Department, and Scotland Yard, too, for that matter, have realised that there existed in Europe one of the greatest independent espionage organisations of all time. An organisation under the direct control of one man – or woman.’ He paused then added dramatically: ‘Someone under the pseudonym of Z.4.’

  ‘Z.4?’ said Temple softly.

  ‘But what country do these people represent?’ It was Steve who asked the question.

  ‘They represent no country – and any country,’ replied Sir Graham somewhat enigmatically.

  ‘You mean these people trade in official secrets, irrespective of their origin?’ queried Temple.

  ‘Exactly. Now, after Hardwick had returned to Scotland, the British Intelligence had a hunch that Z.4 or one of his organisation would contact Hardwick.’

  ‘I can’t see why,’ said Temple, wrinkling his forehead. ‘If the Hardwick screen had already proved a failure, why should it interest Z.4?’

  ‘I’ve got it!’ cried Steve suddenly. ‘You circulated a report that the test had been successful, knowing that under those circumstances Z.4 was almost bound to contact Hardwick.’

  ‘Roughly, that was the idea,’ conceded Sir Graham.

  ‘And a damned good idea, too,’ approved Temple.

  ‘But we didn’t let it rest there,’ continued the Chief Commissioner. ‘A young fellow named Hammond, a brilliant research chemist and also a member of the British Intelligence, had been interested in the Hardwick Screen from the very first. He was also interested – like everyone else in the Secret Service – in the identity of Z.4. Being a clever young devil, Hammond, or David Lindsay as he called himself, discovered that Iris Archer, your friend the actress, was a member of Z.4’s organisation.’

  Steve looked at the Chief Commissioner in complete amazement.

  ‘He played up to her like blazes,’ pursued Sir Graham, ‘and before very long he found himself working side by side with her, and also directly in touch with Hardwick.’

  During his last few words there had appeared to be a faint tap at the door. As he paused, it was repeated, gently but clearly.

  Temple motioned to Steve to remain where she was, went silently across the room and swiftly opened the door.

  There was no one to be seen.

  Temple turned in some perplexity.

  ‘There’s a note on the floor,’ Forbes pointed out, and Temple stooped to pick it up.

  ‘My God!’ he ejaculated, turning the letter over and examining it.
‘It’s the letter that Lindsay gave me. I recognise the envelope.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem to have been opened either,’ said Forbes excitedly, almost snatching it out of Temple’s hand, and tearing open the envelope.

  ‘It seems strange that it should be returned like this – unopened,’ mused Steve, while Sir Graham was rapidly scanning the contents.

  ‘Listen to this!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Identity of Z.4 unknown, even by important members of the organisation. Believe Z.4 to be in Scotland and likely to contact headquarters within the next three weeks. Have been compelled to work with Hardwick on behalf of Z.4. John Hardwick now prisoner at Skerry Lodge.’

  ‘Looks like double-crossing,’ commented Temple.

  ‘My God, Temple! Listen to this,’ continued Sir Graham.

  ‘Screen of definite value and importance. Beam almost perfected. Imperative Hardwick rescued. Contact Major Foster at once – N.H.’

  ‘Screen of definite value – beam almost perfected,’ repeated Temple with unconscious dramatic effect.

  ‘I must get to a telephone,’ decided Forbes at once, but before he could move there was a knock at the door, which was gingerly opened. Mrs Weston stood there.

  ‘Mrs Temple is wanted on the ’phone – from London,’ she announced.

  ‘Wanted on the telephone?’ repeated Steve, completely surprised.

  ‘That’s right,’ nodded Mrs Weston. ‘They didn’t say who it was.’

  ‘But no one knows you’re here, Steve,’ Temple pointed out.

  ‘No—no, of course not,’ she agreed.

  ‘That’s damned funny, if you like,’ muttered Sir Graham. ‘I’ll come with you, Steve, then maybe I can get my call when you’ve finished.’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ agreed Steve. ‘Shan’t be a minute, darling.’

  After they had gone, Temple paced steadily up and down the room, digesting the events of the past few hours. Originally, he had looked forward to these few days as an opportunity to work out in full detail the plot of his latest novel. Now he dismissed the idea of even starting to concentrate upon it. The idea of this espionage organisation was completely new, and greatly intrigued him. That Iris Archer should be a member was even more intriguing. But there had always been an element of mystery about Iris, reflected Temple. She disappeared from the stage far too often; and not even the gossip writers were able to discover her whereabouts.