Paul Temple 3-Book Collection

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘That car’s familiar,’ muttered Guest thoughtfully. Suddenly he clutched van Draper’s arm. ‘Don’t pass them, Van!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s Temple – and his wife!’

  Van Draper peered at the car in front.

  ‘So it is.’

  ‘Don’t pass them,’ repeated Guest. ‘We don’t want to run up against Temple just now.’

  Van Draper nodded, and the car slowed down to a steady thirty miles an hour.

  4

  In spite of the fact that she was not feeling very much like a drive, Temple had persuaded Steve to go out with him. In the first place, he found that driving a car often helped him to solve little problems, and the constant change of scene frequently gave him new ideas. Also, he had some vague notion of keeping a sharp lookout for a likely hideout where Hardwick might be kept a prisoner. Finally, he decided that he must get away from the ‘Royal Gate Inn’, where even his very thoughts seemed to be divined by some mysterious means.

  As they approached the village of Skellyfore, Temple felt the urgent need for a cigarette, only to find he had left his case in another coat.

  ‘Got any cigarettes, Steve?’ he asked. She opened her bag and produced an empty case. He laughed, and took his foot off the accelerator preparatory to slowing down.

  ‘Shan’t be a second,’ he told her, jumping out and slamming the door. Then, rather to Steve’s surprise, he reopened it and jumped into the car again. ‘I’ll move forward a bit. Not a very safe place to park at the foot of this hill,’ he murmured. As he released the handbrake, Steve asked: ‘What time did you arrange to meet Sir Graham?’

  ‘I said about two. We’re rather early, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘What on earth made you suggest meeting at the café at High Moorford? Surely it would have been much easier to have waited at the inn?’

  ‘No,’ answered Temple quietly. ‘I wanted to have a talk with Forbes away from the inn. I’ve got a funny sort of feeling about the “Royal Gate”…’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Everything that happens at the inn – every conversation that takes place there, seems by some means or other to be known to Z.4.’

  Steve thought for a moment. ‘Yes, that’s true,’ she conceded at length. ‘They knew, for instance, that we were starting for Aberdeen and—’

  She broke off sharply as she saw her husband’s attention had wandered.

  ‘Look at that car coming down the hill,’ he said quickly. ‘By Timothy, it’s lurching all over the place!’

  Steve followed his glance and saw a smart little sports car careering giddily from one side of the narrow road to the other. Fortunately there was very little traffic in this quiet village, but the car narrowly missed a baker’s cart and appeared to be about to mount the kerb. Temple saw the girl driver wrench vigorously at the wheel, and the car slid back into the roadway to continue its crazy course.

  ‘There must be something wrong with it, Paul,’ cried Steve. ‘The steering or—’

  ‘Good God!’ ejaculated Temple. ‘Look – it’s Iris!’

  The car was less than fifty yards away from them now. Iris was plainly visible.

  ‘She’ll never get that car straight – she’ll never do it, Steve!’

  ‘But it can’t be Iris,’ Steve heard herself stammering incredulously. ‘She couldn’t have got away from the detective and—’

  ‘There’s something wrong with the steering!’ gasped Temple. ‘My God – she’s going for the pavement!’

  Iris suddenly abandoned her unequal struggle with the steering and flung her arms in front of her as the car leapt over the gutter and crashed into the window of a general store.

  People appeared on the scene with magic celerity, and in less than two minutes well over half the population of the little village were clustered round the car. Steve had seen the figure in bright green flung violently forward at the moment of impact; then she had instinctively turned her head away.

  Temple jumped out of the car.

  ‘Wait here, Steve,’ he ordered, and rushed off towards the wrecked car.

  He managed to push his way through the group of onlookers, some of whom obviously mistook him for a doctor.

  Iris was huddled in a corner of the front seat. Blood was trickling from a cut on her cheek, and her left arm hung limply over the steering wheel. Her eyes were half closed, but she was not unconscious. A man came rushing from a public house opposite and thrust a small glass of brandy into Temple’s hand. Temple put the glass to her over-red lips and managed to force a few drops into her mouth. There was a smear of lipstick on the glass. Her eyelids fluttered the merest trifle.

  ‘Are you all right, Iris?’ he demanded urgently.

  She ran her tongue over the red lips and blinked at him rather uncertainly.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she gasped, and made as if to straighten herself. But the well-moulded features were suddenly distorted with a violent spasm of pain, and she relapsed into her former position.

  ‘It’s…all right,’ she murmured shakily. ‘It’s only my shoulder…a bit of a sprain, I think…’

  ‘By Timothy, you’re lucky to be alive!’ Temple told her.

  ‘Something went wrong with the steering,’ she muttered in bewildered tones. ‘I could feel it as soon as—’ Her voice drifted into an incoherent murmur. Suddenly her eyes opened fully and her features tightened. ‘The swine! The damned swine!’ She spat out the words as viciously as her position permitted.

  By this time the village policeman had arrived on the scene. Temple immediately took him aside, and after a minute’s confidential talk the officer dispersed the crowd, leaving Temple free to look after Iris.

  ‘How did you get off the train?’ he asked her.

  ‘The train stopped at High Moorford. Van Draper and Guest were waiting,’ she explained with a twisted grin. ‘Hell! This shoulder’s worse than I thought.’

  Temple surveyed her with a puzzled frown for some moments. She was gingerly moving the fingers of her uninjured hand over the hurt shoulder. She was very badly shaken, and very unlike the old assured Iris. Temple decided that this was a very opportune moment. He began to speak rapidly, in soft, urgent tones.

  ‘Iris, they got you off that train for a very definite purpose. They wanted to make quite certain that you wouldn’t talk!’

  ‘Yes! Yes! I know!’ cried Iris furiously. ‘But, by God, I’ll talk now all right!’

  Her nerves were obviously keyed to breaking point.

  Somewhere in the distance the bell of an oncoming ambulance echoed mournfully.

  ‘Listen, Iris,’ said Temple suddenly. ‘I’m going to take a chance. Get that shoulder attended to, then meet me at the Shepley Hotel, High Moorford.’

  ‘The Shepley?’ repeated Iris rather vaguely. ‘What time?’

  ‘Let’s see,’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘I’m seeing Sir Graham at two…better make it five o’clock.’

  ‘Five o’clock. All right!’

  He looked at her a little doubtfully.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she grimly assured him. ‘I’ll be there.’

  With its bell clanging, the ambulance came alongside. Two men in white coats sprang onto the pavement.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ she repeated as the door closed.

  ‘I hope so, Iris,’ murmured Temple, as the ambulance drove off. ‘By Timothy, I hope so…’

  5

  ‘Was she badly hurt?’ demanded Steve anxiously, when Temple rejoined her.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Nothing very serious. She had a very lucky escape.’

  He glanced at the clock on the dashboard.

  ‘By jove, we’ll have to move, or we’ll be late!’

  ‘The cigarettes…’ Steve reminded him.

  ‘No time now – we’ll get them in High Moorford.’

  ‘What was the matter with Iris’ car?’ Steve was eager to know.

  ‘She seemed to think it
had been “fixed”,’ he replied noncommittally.

  ‘But, Paul, who would do that?’

  ‘Ah,’ grinned Temple enigmatically. ‘Perhaps she’ll enlighten us when we see her later on.’

  ‘Later on?’ said Steve in some surprise.

  He guided the car dexterously round a sharp bend.

  ‘Yes, we’re meeting at the Shepley Hotel.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll be well enough?’

  ‘I have every reason to believe so,’ he said.

  A few seconds later Temple heaved a sigh of relief; they were on the outskirts of High Moorford.

  The Purple Heather Café was the only prepossessing restaurant in the town, and they found Forbes sitting at a table at the far end of a long room, rather impatiently awaiting their arrival. As soon as he saw Temple he pulled a wry face.

  ‘No luck,’ he said. ‘I’m damned if we can find the chalet.’

  ‘Didn’t you say that you were going to put Inspector Sandford on the case?’ asked Steve, who had come across Sandford in the days when she was a reporter.

  Forbes nodded. ‘Sandford’s been on the lake since ten this morning. He knows this district like the palm of his hand, but I’m damned if he can drop on their hideout.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve got someone up at Skerry Lodge?’ queried Temple.

  ‘Good lord, yes! The house is practically surrounded – though I’m afraid it’s a case of shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted. I’ve got a man watching Mrs Moffat’s shop too, though I’ve given him strict instructions to keep well in the background. I thought it might be quite a good idea to allow the old girl plenty of rope – if she really is mixed up with this gang – then there’s just a possibility that she might lead us to the chalet.’

  Temple smiled. ‘There’s an old saying that if you give a Scotsman enough rope he’ll start making cigars! And you can rely on Mrs Moffat to be pretty canny. She’s mixed up in this all right, and I have a hunch that when Z.4 does contact the gang, it will be through Mrs Moffat.’

  ‘But how the devil will she recognise Z.4 if they have never met?’

  ‘Quite simple, Sir Graham. Z.4 has obviously supplied Mrs Moffat with some sort of password.’

  ‘I know,’ interrupted Forbes irritably. ‘But somehow I can’t bring myself to believe that the gang are still ignorant of Z.4’s identity. Surely by now van Draper must know it – or possibly Guest.’

  Temple shook his head.

  ‘No, I don’t believe any of them know who Z.4 really is,’ he answered decisively.

  Forbes shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

  ‘Well, if that’s the case, how the devil can Z.4 be absolutely certain that he isn’t going to be double-crossed?’

  ‘They can’t very well double-cross Z.4 if they don’t know who Z.4 really is,’ Steve pointed out, with a flicker of amusement.

  ‘I don’t mean it in that sense, Steve. What I mean is, that they could refuse to take the slightest notice of Z.4’s instructions if—’

  ‘And so they would,’ interposed Temple, ‘if it wasn’t for that one little factor you seem to be overlooking – blackmail!’

  Steve stirred her coffee reflectively.

  ‘You said yourself, Sir Graham, that Z.4 knew something about each member of the organisation,’ she reminded him.

  ‘That was only a theory, Steve,’ said Forbes. ‘And I’m beginning to doubt if it was a very sound one.’

  ‘On the contrary, Sir Graham,’ put in Temple calmly, ‘the theory was excellent.’

  Forbes sat up abruptly.

  ‘What makes you so certain?’ he demanded curiously.

  ‘Merely the fact that I happened to discover the little something that Iris was hoping to conceal and that she felt sure only Z.4 knew about.’

  He looked round as if to make sure there was no possibility of their being overheard. Then he leaned across the small table.

  ‘You remember the telegram I received?’

  Forbes pursed his lips and nodded.

  ‘“Hotel Martinez…Nice…April 14th, 1932”,’ he quoted. The Chief Commissioner still retained the habit of committing data of potential importance to memory.

  ‘Well, that telegram proved to Iris beyond a shadow of doubt that Z.4 was not the only person who knew her secret.’

  ‘All the same, she didn’t talk – in spite of the telegram.’

  ‘No,’ said Temple, ‘she didn’t talk – then. But I think she will.’

  ‘Well, we shall hear all about that when we get Iris to Glasgow,’ replied Forbes sceptically.

  ‘Paul, you’re being very mysterious about your precious telegram,’ said Steve. ‘What exactly did it mean?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been wondering about that, Temple,’ said Forbes. Temple beckoned to the waitress and asked her to get him some cigarettes.

  ‘Yes, Sir Graham, when you told me that, in your opinion, Z.4 had some sort of hold over each member of the organisation, I made up my mind to discover just what it was that Iris was anxious to conceal.’

  ‘And did you?’ asked Forbes rather eagerly.

  Temple smiled.

  ‘In nineteen thirty-two Iris married a young stockbroker by the name of Forrester. They spent their honeymoon – or part of it – at the Martinez Hotel in Nice. On April the fourteenth, two days after they had arrived at the hotel, Forrester was found dead. To all intents and purposes it was suicide. But—’

  Forbes leaned forward expectantly.

  ‘Yes, Sir Graham, there was a “but”, and a rather unpleasant one, I’m afraid, so far as Iris was concerned.’

  ‘But, damn it all, Temple,’ said Forbes, ‘surely we’d have heard about this. Iris Archer isn’t exactly a nonentity.’

  ‘Not at the present time,’ Temple admitted. ‘But in nineteen thirty-two Iris was known by the somewhat more fanciful name of “Rosie Shiner”.’

  ‘Rosie Shiner?’ repeated Forbes, thoughtfully probing his memory.

  ‘But what happened about Forrester?’ asked Steve.

  Temple took several press cuttings from his wallet and scanned them casually.

  ‘The whole business as far as I can gather from the French authorities – and also from these clippings – is a bit of a mix-up,’ said Temple. ‘Iris wasn’t actually accused of the murder, but the authorities had a nasty sort of suspicion that she was mixed up in it. The most important witness, however – an English chambermaid who happened to be working at the hotel – suddenly disappeared, and after a short while the matter was more or less dropped.’

  ‘M’m…’ grunted Forbes. ‘Well, all this certainly seems to do away with the suspicion that Iris might be Z.4.’

  ‘Iris isn’t Z.4, Sir Graham,’ Temple quietly assured him. ‘I’m certain on that point.’

  ‘Then who the devil is?’ queried Forbes irritably. ‘D’you reckon it’s Steiner?’

  ‘But we know who Steiner is, don’t we, Sir Graham?’ asked Temple innocently. ‘He’s a Professor of Philosophy at the University of Philadelphia.’

  ‘M’m…’ murmured Forbes sceptically.

  He had to admit that he had made no progress with the mildly pleasant Austrian, though he had engaged him in conversation on several occasions. These talks had consisted mainly in endless inquiries from Steiner on the subject of the criminal mind. Forbes had done his best to answer the pertinent questions, but his many efforts to sidetrack the conversation to such subjects as Steiner’s private life had met with almost conspicuous failure. Doctor Steiner had proved himself adept at the delicate art of begging the question.

  The Chief Commissioner abruptly stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray.

  ‘Of course, there’s Rex Bryant,’ he said. ‘I’m damned if I can make Bryant out, Temple.’

  ‘Yes, after all, we did find his watch chain on Ernie Weston,’ said Steve. Nevertheless, she was reluctant to throw any suspicion on the colleague of her reporting days.

  ‘That isn’t necessarily an indication
that Bryant was implicated – in Weston’s murder, I mean,’ put in Temple quickly.

  ‘Good heavens, Temple, he must be mixed up in this business somehow or other!’ snapped Forbes. ‘Otherwise how the devil did Weston get hold of the watch chain in the first place?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about that,’ replied Temple imperturbably. ‘He helped himself to it. Just as he helped himself to Steiner’s cufflinks and Lady Retford’s ring.’

  ‘Lady Retford’s ring?’ echoed Forbes in bewilderment.

  ‘How do you know the ring belonged to Lady Retford, darling?’ asked Steve.

  ‘I made inquiries at the local police station. Quite an obvious procedure, eh, Sir Graham?’ Temple grinned mischievously. ‘They told me that Lady Retford stayed at the “Royal Gate” about a fortnight ago. She was only there for a week, but Ernie managed to get hold of the ring all right. Poor old Ernie was an opportunist, if nothing else.’

  Forbes took out his pipe and began to fill it.

  ‘Yes, but what the devil does all this prove?’ he demanded. ‘Merely that Ernie Weston was a sort of common pickpocket.’

  ‘It certainly doesn’t explain the identity of Z.4,’ said Steve.

  ‘And another thing, Temple,’ Forbes persisted, ‘if Weston was just an ordinary little kleptomaniac and didn’t have a row with Rex Bryant, and wasn’t mixed up with all this other business – who the devil killed him?’

  ‘Z.4,’ answered Temple, carelessly dropping his cigarette end into his coffee cup.

  ‘But why? In heaven’s name…why?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Sir Graham,’ said Temple calmly. He deftly extracted another cigarette from the packet.

  ‘But what is your guess, Temple?’

  Temple picked up a match, surveying it intently for a moment, then lit it by scratching it with his fingernail.

  ‘My guess is this,’ he proceeded rather more seriously. ‘The moment I arrived at the inn, Weston went through my pockets and found the letter that Lindsay – or Hammond if you like – had given me. Later, realising that the letter might be of some personal value to me, he returned it. You may remember that the letter was pushed under the door.’

  Forbes was nervously cramming the charge of tobacco into his pipe.