Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  With his back to the door, Temple was suddenly conscious that it had opened softly. He swung round.

  Iris Archer stood in the doorway, looking more beautiful than he had ever seen her.

  ‘Why, Iris!’ cried Temple, injecting as much astonishment into his voice as possible.

  ‘Surprised?’ she demanded softly.

  ‘Well, it does seem a long way from the South of France,’ he said flippantly.

  ‘Are you going to ask me to sit down, or do I have to explain standing up?’ she smiled.

  Temple hastened to offer her a chair.

  ‘Where’s Steve?’

  ‘She’s downstairs telephoning. She won’t be long,’ replied Temple. He surveyed her shrewdly. There was something behind this visit. Did she want the letter, or—

  ‘What made you come to Scotland, Iris?’ he asked.

  ‘Darling, I didn’t know what to do. My doctor said I should go to Cornwall, I fancied the Riviera, so naturally—’

  ‘You struck a happy medium and came to Scotland.’

  ‘Exactly,’ laughed Iris, casually producing her shagreen cigarette case. ‘Have you a light?’ He went to the mantelpiece to get a box of matches. ‘I’m so sorry,’ apologised Iris, ‘I never asked you to have a cigarette.’

  She held the case towards him, and he accepted one.

  ‘When did you arrive?’ asked Iris presently, as the smoke from their cigarettes floated gently upwards.

  ‘About seven. And you?’

  ‘I came through yesterday, from Glasgow. Dreadful journey. It’s the first time I’ve been to Scotland. I can’t say I’m fond of it.’

  ‘It’s really the wrong time of year, of course.’

  ‘Yes, darling, but it’s so barren.’

  ‘There are worse places,’ smiled Temple.

  ‘How long are you staying here?’ asked Iris.

  ‘We thought of leaving tomorrow morning.’

  ‘You’re very wise. It’s such awful weather, isn’t it?’

  ‘Frightful,’ agreed Temple politely, wondering if she would ever come to the point.

  ‘Did you write to Seaman about the play?’ she questioned.

  ‘Yes, he was quite decent about it all.’

  ‘Oh, good. The play should stand a much better chance later in the year. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘Probably,’ replied Temple in non-committal tones. He was not paying very much attention to her, for he imagined that he had a headache coming on. And he dreaded these very rare bouts of migraine. Then he realised that Iris’ tone had changed. It was hard and determined…she might almost be playing a part.

  ‘Temple, you know what I’ve come for, don’t you?’ she was saying, though he could not see her very clearly.

  There seemed to be a lot of smoke from the two cigarettes.

  ‘Yes, Iris, I know what you’ve come for.’ His voice sounded rather distant, almost as if he were a ventriloquist and…

  ‘I want that letter, and I want it now,’ snapped Iris.

  ‘Do you, Iris?’ His voice sounded even more faint now. ‘If the letter is of such…such…’ He found he had difficulty in speaking. The smoke was much thicker now, almost like a smoke screen.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ came Iris’ cool voice.

  ‘I—I don’t know. My head—it’s going round!’ gasped Temple. ‘My God, what have you done? There’s a noise throbbing like—like—’ He tottered towards a chair.

  ‘Feeling sleepy?’

  ‘What is it? What have you…done?’

  ‘The cigarette,’ said Iris quietly.

  Those were the last words he heard. He staggered over to the window, but crashed against the table, and measured his length on the floor, bringing the coffee service on top of him.

  In a flash, Iris began examining his pockets. She rapidly sifted through a small pile of letters. Threw aside his driving licence and insurance certificate. Made a brief search of his wallet. Hastily, she looked at the letters again…

  She did not notice that the door had opened, and was badly scared when a polite voice interrupted her.

  ‘You seem to be looking for something, madam. Can I be of any assistance?’

  ‘Who the devil are you!’ she cried in mingled surprise and anger.

  The elderly man who stood in the doorway smiled. ‘Permit me to introduce myself,’ he said. ‘My name is Steiner. Dr Ludwig Steiner.’

  CHAPTER III

  Instructions for a Murder

  1

  For some moments the silence was broken only by the rather abrupt ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece. Then Iris stood up, her little black evening bag in her left hand.

  ‘What do you want?’ she demanded jerkily.

  Steiner hesitated, his hand still on the doorknob.

  ‘I came to see Mr Temple,’ he announced, ‘but it appears my visit was a little—premature.’

  Iris suddenly dived into her handbag and produced the tiny revolver which had belonged to Noel Hammond earlier in the evening.

  ‘Stand away from that door!’ she commanded.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Iris repeated the order in brisk tones.

  ‘I trust that revolver is not loaded, madam,’ murmured Steiner rather nervously.

  ‘Unless you do as I say,’ she threatened, ‘you will have an opportunity of finding out.’

  Steiner moved cautiously into the room, following the beckoning revolver barrel.

  ‘What is the matter with Mr Temple?’ he asked, peering at the novelist’s inert form.

  ‘He’s not feeling so good,’ replied Iris sharply. ‘Now – get over into that corner.’

  ‘But surely you—’ Steiner was beginning to protest, when she cut in again.

  ‘Get—over—in—the—corner!’ she commanded viciously, moving the revolver a few inches towards him.

  ‘All right, if you insist,’ replied Steiner in some alarm.

  At her instruction, he moved into the corner farthest from the door. Iris relaxed for a moment, and thoughtfully surveyed the man on the floor. ‘Nothing in his pockets,’ she reflected in a whisper.

  ‘What is it you are looking for?’ asked Steiner, still obviously overcome with curiosity, in spite of her threatening attitude. The actress looked up and shot a piercing glance at him.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’ she demanded suddenly.

  ‘Steiner. Dr Ludwig Steiner.’

  ‘H’m…Is Temple a friend of yours?’

  ‘Madam, Mr Temple looks rather ill,’ said Steiner anxiously. ‘I beg of you, let us—’

  While he was making this protest Iris had moved swiftly over to the door. ‘He’s all yours, Doctor. He’s all yours!’ she said with a short laugh as she quickly opened the door and vanished along the corridor.

  Steiner hardly waited until the door had closed before crossing to the unconscious novelist.

  ‘Mr Temple…what’s the matter…what’s wrong?’

  He shook Temple’s shoulders vigorously for some time before the novelist showed any sign of returning life. Then Temple stirred a little, half-opened his eyes, and passed a weary hand over his forehead.

  ‘My God…my head’s terrible!’ he gasped.

  ‘Don’t try to get up,’ advised Steiner, as Temple began to struggle to a sitting position. But the events of the past half-hour had now returned to Temple’s memory, and he was obviously restless. When Steiner eventually managed to help him into a chair, Temple looked round the room in a dazed fashion.

  ‘She’s—gone?’ he whispered at length.

  ‘Yes, she’s gone,’ agreed Steiner soothingly. Temple made an effort to get to his feet, but the Austrian forced him back into the chair. ‘Stay where you are,’ he murmured, ‘I’ll get you a cushion.’

  ‘I’ll be all right in a minute,’ said Temple, resting his throbbing head in his hands.

  ‘Perhaps a drink—’ Steiner began to suggest.

  Temple shook his head. ‘I’ll be all r
ight presently,’ he announced. The fumes were already beginning to disperse. Steiner opened the window, and great gusts of air swirled into the room.

  Suddenly there were footsteps outside, and Steve came in, followed by Sir Graham. She saw at a glance that Temple was not well.

  ‘Paul—what’s the matter?’ she cried in alarm.

  Temple forced a smile.

  ‘It’s—it’s nothing, dear.’

  ‘You look done in, Temple,’ said Forbes in some concern. ‘What the devil has happened?’

  ‘After you left, Iris came here…she was looking for the letter,’ he told them. ‘Like a damned fool, I accepted a cigarette from her…and…’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Take it easy, old man,’ advised Forbes anxiously.

  Steve looked round and noticed Steiner, who was standing over by the window. She turned towards the Chief Commissioner.

  ‘This is Dr Steiner…

  Forbes surveyed him shrewdly, as Steiner moved a little in their direction.

  ‘I—I came here just to say “hello”, Mrs Temple,’ began Steiner nervously. ‘I was feeling a little lonely. When I opened the door, I saw that Mr Temple was ill, and that a strange woman—’

  ‘How long ago is this?’ broke in Forbes briskly.

  ‘But…just a moment ago…’

  ‘Wait here,’ Forbes bade the others, as he went to the door.

  ‘It’s no use,’ said Steve quietly, and Forbes halted and half-turned.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Iris has gone,’ Steve told him. ‘Her car was outside before we went downstairs. Now it’s disappeared. Look…you can see from the window,’ she said, pointing. Then she returned to her husband. ‘Are you feeling any better, darling?’

  ‘Yes…I’m not so bad now,’ he smiled up at her.

  ‘You were saying, Dr Steiner…?’ Forbes quietly returned to the subject.

  ‘I found a strange woman searching Mr Temple’s pockets,’ said Steiner eagerly. ‘I did not know what to do – I was perplexed. Suddenly the lady in question produced a revolver, so I am afraid my actions became somewhat restricted, and alas – uninspired.’

  ‘I’m beginning to think it’s a damned good job you turned up,’ put in Temple. ‘That young lady meant business. She might have finished me off.’

  ‘But what was she looking for?’ demanded Steiner, obviously mystified.

  ‘A letter,’ answered Forbes.

  ‘A letter!’ echoed Steiner. ‘It must have been very important.’

  ‘Most important,’ said Forbes softly. As no further information was offered, Steiner shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Mrs Temple, I was hoping that you and your husband might join me in a nightcap…Perhaps under the circumstances, however…’

  Steve smiled.

  ‘Thank you, Doctor. But I think perhaps it would be better if Paul went quietly to bed.’

  ‘Of course, of course!’ Steiner agreed at once. ‘Good night, Mr Temple. I hope we shall meet again before we leave…Good night, sir!’ He bowed politely to Forbes, who nodded curtly, and Steve saw him to the door. When it had closed behind the doctor’s sturdy figure Temple sighed.

  ‘I’m feeling much better now,’ he decided.

  ‘I should take it easy for a little while, dear,’ Steve advised.

  ‘Yes, all right,’ he acquiesced, sinking into his chair. ‘Oh, by the way, who wanted you on the telephone?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Steve doubtfully. ‘There was a woman at the other end…she kept me waiting for ages, and then finally mumbled something about a wrong number. All the same, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a trunk call,’ she added thoughtfully.

  ‘The call was a fake – probably from a local box,’ declared Forbes. ‘They obviously wanted Steve out of the way while Iris did her stuff.’

  ‘Yes, that would be it,’ Temple agreed after a pause. ‘We ought to have guessed that.’ He pondered awhile before asking: ‘Did you get in touch with Major Foster, Sir Graham?’

  ‘Yes, I got in touch with Foster all right,’ said Forbes grimly.

  Temple looked up suspiciously.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded.

  ‘We’re in a spot, Temple,’ said Forbes flatly. ‘A devil of a spot. And we need your help. I’m sorry about Steve, because I know how she feels, but things are serious—damned serious.’

  ‘What did Foster say?’ asked Temple.

  ‘If Hardwick is on the right track – and according to Noel Hammond’s report he most certainly is – then it’s absolutely imperative that we get Hardwick away from Skerry Lodge.’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Temple, ‘I agree with you.’ His brain was beginning to function again.

  ‘But surely Noel Hammond is at Skerry Lodge,’ Steve pointed out.

  ‘Even if Hammond is alive,’ replied Forbes quietly, ‘which I very much doubt, he’s not likely to be at Skerry Lodge.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Steve.

  ‘Sir Graham means that since they know about the letter they must obviously know that Hammond – or David Lindsay as they call him – is a British Agent.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she agreed. ‘I see that. But who exactly were those men who stopped us on the road?’

  ‘One was Laurence van Draper,’ said Forbes, ‘and the other who called himself Lindsay was a gentleman by the name of Major Guest.’

  ‘Then you know these people?’ exclaimed Steve in some surprise.

  ‘Oh yes, we know them all right. The Intelligence people know every member of the organisation, with the unfortunate exception of Z.4…the one person who really matters.’

  ‘But if the Secret Service know these people, why on earth don’t they do something about it?’

  ‘Well, for several reasons, Steve,’ said Forbes. ‘You see, first of all you must realise that we are not up against a criminal organisation. These people are a vastly different proposition from the Front Page Men, for instance. Most of them are well educated, and to all intents and purposes, at any rate, thoroughly respectable. Take Iris Archer, for example – a well-known West End actress…Laurence van Draper – probably the most celebrated philatelist in Europe.’

  ‘I thought his name was familiar,’ said Temple, taking a cigarette from his case and abruptly putting it back again.

  ‘Then there’s Major Guest,’ Forbes pursued. ‘He knows more about the Prenz machine gun than any man living.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve read about that,’ said Steve, ‘but if these people are so respectable, then—’

  ‘Just a minute, Steve,’ interrupted Forbes. ‘I didn’t say they were respectable. I said – to all intents and purposes – they appear respectable. I think you will agree that there is a slight difference.’

  He took a small notebook from his inside pocket.

  ‘All the same,’ Steve persisted, ‘if these people are so well known, there must be some reason why they are willing to risk their reputations and—’

  ‘Yes, that’s true enough, Sir Graham,’ Temple supported her. ‘You said yourself that they represented no particular country, and since that seems automatically to wipe out any political factor—’

  ‘It doesn’t wipe out blackmail,’ Forbes quietly pointed out.

  ‘Blackmail!’ echoed Steve.

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Temple.

  Forbes turned over the pages of his notebook rather impatiently.

  ‘Z.4 – whoever he or she may be – knows something incriminating about each member of the organisation. Of that I am sure,’ he declared confidently.

  ‘What makes you so certain?’

  ‘Do you remember Janet O’Donnell?’

  ‘The Irish poet?’ queried Temple. ‘She committed suicide, didn’t she?’

  Paul Temple recalled meeting Janet O’Donnell at a studio party in Chelsea, where she had recited some of her poems in that rich wailing brogue which had greatly intrigued him at the time. She had very dark, almost bluish tinted hair, brush
ed close to her head, and large luminous eyes that smouldered dimly as she recounted the sorrows of her race. Temple had felt that there was something tragic about her life, some great trouble deep down that surged and throbbed within her, finding occasional relief in her poems. He had always told himself that he would never forget that face. When he saw it on the front page of his newspaper one morning he instinctively knew what had happened. He could never imagine Janet O’Donnell dying a natural death.

  ‘Yes, she preferred suicide to being a member of Z.4’s organisation,’ Forbes was saying.

  Temple shivered slightly. Tragedy had been written in every line of the Irish girl’s face, but all the same…

  ‘You mean that Z.4 was blackmailing—’ Steve was anxious to know.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Forbes. ‘But Z.4 isn’t a fool. Make no mistake about that. The people are paid well. The blackmailing side of the business merely ensures their loyalty.’

  Temple’s mind had been wandering slightly. ‘I can’t quite see why Hammond, or Lindsay, was working with Hardwick,’ he murmured in mystification.

  ‘Hammond was a research chemist,’ expounded Forbes. ‘A very brilliant one, too. Z.4 obviously discovered this, and made use of the fact.’ He returned to his close perusal of the letter from Hammond, which he had taken from between the pages of his notebook.

  ‘My God, I don’t like the sound of this letter, Temple,’ he growled. ‘…Screen of definite value and importance…beam almost perfected…’ He paced restlessly across the room.

  ‘Whatever happens, we must get Hardwick away from Skerry Lodge!’

  ‘Where is this lodge?’ asked Temple.

  ‘About four miles away – it’s on the other side of High Moorford.’

  Temple nodded thoughtfully. He recalled seeing the name on an ordnance map.

  ‘Sir Graham, who do you think stole that letter?’ asked Steve.

  Forbes pursed his lips and frowned slightly.

  ‘Well, quite candidly, I was inclined to think Dr Steiner – he seems a rum sort of bird. But if Steiner is a member of the organisation – or Z.4 himself for that matter – why should he return the letter?’

  He placed the letter in question inside his notebook, just as a knock came at the door. It was Mrs Weston, who wanted to know if she could take away the coffee things.