‘Yes, but that doesn’t explain why he was murdered,’ he pointed out.
‘Doesn’t it?’ smiled Temple. ‘Well, this is my theory, Sir Graham. After he had returned the letter, the poor devil must have mentioned the fact to someone, and unfortunately for him that someone happened to be Z.4. Naturally, Z.4 wanted the letter before it got into your hands. It was, in fact, absolutely imperative that Hammond’s message shouldn’t reach you. And yet Ernie Weston, after having had possession of the letter, had calmly returned it. By Timothy, you can imagine how Z.4 felt about it!’
‘My God, yes! It’s certainly a motive,’ admitted Forbes with some emphasis.
‘But Weston couldn’t have known anything at all about Z.4, or he’d have understood the message,’ Steve interjected.
‘Exactly,’ nodded Temple.
Forbes was obviously intrigued.
‘Look here, Temple! Supposing Bryant started questioning Weston about the watch chain. Weston got a bit nervous, began to suspect Bryant was some sort of police officer, and without thinking started telling him about the letter. Bryant would naturally put two and two together and—’
‘The same thing applies to Doctor Steiner, Sir Graham,’ Steve interrupted excitedly. ‘He may have questioned Weston about his cufflinks. Weston may have broken down as you suggest, and then, without realising its significance, mentioned the letter. Incidentally, Steiner could have been responsible for Bryant’s watch chain disappearing; planting it on Weston in order to throw suspicion on to Bryant.’
‘By Timothy, we’ll make a detective of you yet, Steve!’ smiled Temple.
‘Thank you, darling,’ she replied demurely.
‘Seriously, Temple, don’t you think Steiner is Z.4?’ asked Forbes.
Temple, who had been listening to the others’ theories with just the merest flicker of a smile round the corners of his mobile mouth, pushed back his chair.
‘I think it’s about time we got back to the “Royal Gate”, Sir Graham,’ he answered pleasantly. ‘Perhaps Sandford has some news by now.’
Forbes looked at him shrewdly for a moment, then gathered up the check which lay on the table, produced some loose change and beckoned to the waitress. They rose and began to put on their coats. Adjusting his scarf to his satisfaction, Forbes suddenly remarked: ‘I see the Golden Clipper had a pretty rough trip the other day. What was it like when you came across?’
‘Perfect,’ said Steve. ‘We enjoyed every minute of it, didn’t we, Paul?’
‘Every minute,’ the novelist corroborated.
Forbes sighed.
‘I wish to God I could get away for a month or so. Never been to the States.’
‘You’d love it,’ enthused Steve, extracting her gloves from her husband’s overcoat pocket.
‘Oh well, we might think of it in about a couple of years,’ said Forbes, as they came out of the café and stood in the pleasant afternoon sunshine. ‘I’ve always wanted to travel. As our friend Mrs Moffat would say, “What was it Shakespeare said about travellers?” Is that your car over there, Temple?’
But Temple did not seem to hear him. He stood staring quite vacantly away beyond the roofs of High Moorford to the purple-blue mountains in the distance.
‘What is it, darling?’ asked Steve, gripping his arm.
‘Did Mrs Moffat use those actual words, Sir Graham – “What was it Shakespeare said about travellers?”’
‘Why, yes…’ answered Forbes a little uncertainly.
‘When? When did she say it?’ insisted Temple, more urgent now than he had been in the restaurant.
‘Why, the first time I went into the shop,’ replied Forbes. ‘But I can’t for the life of me see what you’re driving at.’
‘By Timothy, what a fool! What an utter fool!’
‘Darling, what is it?’ asked Steve anxiously.
‘Don’t you see?’ Temple brought his gloved fist into the palm of the other hand. ‘Mrs Moffat said exactly the same thing to me. “What was it Shakespeare said about travellers?” If I had given the right answer – or if you’d have given it, Sir Graham – she’d have thought we were Z.4!’
‘My God!’ ejaculated Forbes, patently staggered. ‘You mean that’s the password?’
But Temple was once more busy with another train of thought.
‘Travellers…’ he was muttering to himself. ‘What is the quotation? Do you remember it, Steve?’
She shook her head. He turned to Sir Graham, but found no assistance. Then Steve pointed to a bookshop a little farther down the street, and Paul Temple smiled.
A very polite elderly gentleman came to meet them.
‘Have you such a thing as a book of Shakespearian quotations?’ asked Temple.
The elderly gentleman shook his head.
‘I’m afraid there’s not much call for it, sir,’ he murmured regretfully. ‘Now we’ve several Burns’ quotations…’
‘I’m afraid it must be Shakespeare,’ replied Temple firmly. ‘Unless you happen to have a book of classical quotations…?’
‘Why, yes, I believe we have,’ said the shopkeeper with the vagueness common to most keepers of bookshops. He switched on the light in a dark corner of the shop, and after a short interval emerged with a bulky volume.
‘This is the only one we have, sir. I’m afraid it’s ten and six—’
‘Might I just look through it?’ asked Temple.
‘With pleasure, sir.’
Temple turned the pages eagerly. Suddenly he stopped, thrust the money into the rather bewildered shopkeeper’s hand, and seized Steve’s arm. A few seconds later they were on the pavement with Sir Graham.
Temple reopened the book at the place he had marked and read:
‘“Travellers ne’er did lie – though fools at home condemn ’em”.’
Forbes looked at Steve and shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
But Temple seemed to have forgotten their very existence.
‘“Though fools at home condemn”,’ he murmured to himself. ‘If only I’d thought of it! By Timothy, if only I’d thought of it!’
6
The plain-clothes man who had been detailed to keep an eye on Mrs Moffat’s shop was feeling more than a trifle bored. So far, he had seen nobody go into the shop but the villagers. At least, he could not imagine them as anything but honest-to-goodness homely Scots. Women in shawls mostly. He was surprised that they never seemed to remain very long in the little shop; just time enough to conduct some humble transaction. Either they were very busy folk in the village, he reflected, or Mrs Moffat did not encourage them to gossip. This was the only unusual feature of the plain-clothes man’s vigil up-to-date.
It wasn’t too easy watching any particular objective in this tiny village, particularly in broad daylight. Strangers were naturally conspicuous amongst such a small population, and the plain-clothes man felt he was already attracting far too much attention. He was thankful when the small public house almost opposite Mrs Moffat’s opened its doors, and he was able to continue watching from the comparative comfort of its bar parlour. Having imbibed three glasses of extra strong Highland Ale, he was feeling rather more pleased with the world and rather less conscientious about his duties, when he heard a car stop outside. This was something of an event in the quiet little hamlet, and he felt bound to investigate.
The plain-clothes man saw two men leave the car and enter the shop. He did not know them, but took a mental note of their appearance. He also went to some trouble to commit the number of the car to memory.
Mrs Moffat seemed to be expecting them, for she at once beckoned them into the room at the back of the shop.
‘Ye mustn’t stay many minutes,’ she informed them. ‘There’s a man watching the place.’
Guest recoiled in some alarm.
‘It’s all right,’ she smiled. ‘The nearest telephone is half a mile away from here, so it’d be quite a while before he could get a message through.’ She indicated two vacant chairs.
&
nbsp; ‘What happened about Iris?’ she inquired.
‘It came off all right,’ Guest told her. ‘We’ve just passed her car halfway through a shop window. Must have been a hell of a smash…they told us she’d been taken to hospital nearly dead.’
Mrs Moffat shook her head almost sorrowfully. ‘She was a bonnie lass – and useful, too. But Z.4 can take no chances.’
‘Have you heard from Z.4?’ asked Guest, a note of eagerness creeping into his voice.
‘Not yet.’
Van Draper pushed his chair back so that it grated disagreeably on the stone flags. ‘The screen is completed,’ he growled. ‘Hardwick’s ready for him. Why the devil doesn’t he come out into the open?’
‘Don’t worry – he will,’ Mrs Moffat calmly assured him.
‘He?’ Guest took her up at once. ‘Has it occurred to you that Z.4 might be a woman?’
Both men looked at her keenly, but she betrayed no sign.
‘Perhaps,’ she murmured, without a trace of emotion in her voice.
‘Well,’ said Guest, rising and nervously pacing up and down the kitchen, ‘the sooner this business is all wound up, the better I’ll like it. The police have been searching for the damned chalet all day long. It’s getting too warm to be pleasant.’
‘Don’t worry, they won’t find the chalet very easily,’ said Mrs Moffat.
‘I know that. But Hardwick is getting disagreeable again.’
Mrs Moffat shrugged her shoulders. ‘Can’t two of ye keep a wee man like that quiet?’
Van Draper spread his hands over the small fire that burned in the grate. ‘There’s one thing we do know,’ he murmured reflectively. ‘Once Z.4 does come out into the open, the financial side of the business must be pretty well cleared up. He isn’t making a move until he’s absolutely certain there’s a market for the screen – that’s obvious.’
‘There’s no lack of markets,’ said Mrs Moffat. ‘Practically every country in Europe has been bitten by the rearmament bug.’
No one spoke for a few moments.
‘You seem pretty well informed, Mrs Moffat,’ commented van Draper, eyeing her curiously.
‘Of course I’m well informed,’ she retorted. ‘I use my own common sense.’
‘I see,’ said van Draper. He could not quite make up his mind whether to confront Mrs Moffat openly with being Z.4. But eventually he thought better of it.
‘Come along, Guest. We’d better get back to the chalet,’ he declared abruptly, picking up his gloves.
Guest nodded. At the door he turned towards Mrs Moffat.
‘The moment Z.4 arrives—’ he began, rather nervously.
‘The moment Z.4 arrives, we shall both come down to the chalet,’ she calmly informed him.
The door closed on the visitors. From the public house opposite the plain-clothes man watched them go. They had been there eleven minutes by the bar parlour clock. He felt he had earned another glass of extra strong Highland Ale, but instead of ordering the drink he left the inn and made his way towards the two-seater Morris that was waiting for him at the back of Mrs Moffat’s shop. As he passed the public house and made for the open road he caught a glimpse of Rex Bryant on the verge of entering the shop.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Rex pleasantly, as Mrs Moffat came out of the kitchen.
‘Good afternoon, what can I get you?’ she demanded almost in one breath.
Rex looked round the shop, taking in its varied stock. Little escaped him, for it was almost second nature for him to observe these things. He could have written a bright half-column on this village emporium straight onto his typewriter without even pausing to cogitate. Sometimes he despised this sixth sense of his, calling it a “photographic mind”, but he had to admit that it had frequently been useful to him.
‘I want some razor blades,’ he said, smiling disarmingly. ‘Got any “Pride of the Regiment”?’
‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t,’ Mrs Moffat replied almost mechanically, for she was studying Rex closely rather than paying any attention to what he was saying.
‘Good lord, you should always keep a stock of “Pride of the Regiment”,’ Rex told her. ‘Wouldn’t shave with anything else. Makes your face as smooth as a baby’s—’ He broke off suddenly from this light bantering to observe. ‘I say, old girl, you’ll know me the second time and no mistake.’
‘You’ve been here before, haven’t ye?’ she said slowly.
‘Yes, once or twice. I always patronise the small trader,’ smiled Rex.
‘Where do ye come from now?’ asked Mrs Moffat.
‘Where do I come from now?’ grinned Rex, sketchily mimicking her dialect. ‘I come from Chelsea, Mrs Moffat. Gay old Chelsea. Where girls are girls and men are…well, that’s a moot point.’
‘Chelsea?’ she repeated. ‘That’d be a long way I’m thinkin’.’
‘You think quite rightly,’ he laughed. ‘It’s fairly near a place called London.’
‘I’ve a married sister in London. Peckham, I think it is. Is there a place called Peckham?’
‘Yes,’ said Rex, ‘there is a place called Peckham.’
Mrs Moffat sighed.
‘It must be a wonderful thing to travel,’ she said. ‘Often wish I had the time. And the money, of course. What was it Shakespeare said about travellers?’
Rex Bryant picked up a packet of cheap razor blades from off the counter.
‘I think the exact words were: “Travellers ne’er did lie, though fools at home condemn ’em”.’
He looked at the packet, then placed sixpence on the small rubber mat. ‘Travellers…ne’er…did lie…!’ he murmured, almost to himself. He looked up to find Mrs Moffat staring full into his eyes.
‘Z.4!’ she breathed in mingled tones of awe and reverence.
CHAPTER VI
Introducing Z.4
1
With Guest at the wheel, the car shot away from Mrs Moffat’s shop, and was soon bumping over the rough Highland road, with moorland sweeping away to the horizon on either side. For quite a while neither man spoke, each being busy with his thoughts. In situations like this van Draper was far more ruthless than Guest, whose nerves had suffered badly in the war.
Laurence van Draper betrayed not the slightest trace of nerves as he lit a cigarette and asked: ‘How far would it be now, Guest?’
‘We haven’t reached Aberford yet,’ replied Guest irritably.
‘All right,’ grinned van Draper, ‘I never know my whereabouts in these damned moors and mountains. Give me the cities every time.’
Guest made no reply.
Van Draper lowered the window to throw out the match.
‘I shall be interested to know what’s happened to Iris,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘I shouldn’t imagine Iris would get very far – after the way her car was fixed,’ said Guest, looking straight ahead.
‘We must buy a paper in Aberford. That might tell us something.’
‘H’m,’ muttered Guest sceptically, for he didn’t see how the papers could print the story as quickly as all that. Of course, the fact that Iris was a famous actress might speed things up, particularly if she had been killed. Some local correspondent would probably be making a small fortune out of ‘linage’.
‘I hope to God everything is all right at the chalet,’ said Guest in rather a worried tone.
Van Draper looked surprised. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘Hardwick was pretty furious when we left,’ Guest reminded him. ‘He was beginning to realise—’
‘Don’t worry, he’ll be there all right,’ replied van Draper with a chuckle. ‘Houdini himself couldn’t have wriggled out of that position.’
He laughed again at the recollection of the scene, but this laugh suddenly stopped short.
‘What is it?’ asked Guest, sensing that something was wrong.
Glancing into the driving mirror, van Draper had caught a glimpse of a black saloon car which he had noticed on the main road some dista
nce back. They were on a side road now, and one that was very little frequented. Could the black saloon be following them?
‘That car behind,’ said van Draper rather abruptly.
‘What about it?’ asked Guest, looking into the mirror.
‘I saw it before on the main road. I didn’t think they’d follow along here…’
He turned in his seat and for two or three minutes gazed intently at the road behind. ‘Yes, he’s on our tail all right,’ he decided at last.
‘What are we going to do?’ asked Guest, nervously licking his lips.
‘Keep your head,’ snapped van Draper, looking round again. ‘There only seems to be one man inside, and we can deal with him all right.’ He looked back again as the pursuing car came a little nearer.
‘Van, we can’t do much more on this road,’ said Guest, as they bumped along at nearly fifty miles an hour.
‘Very well – slow down,’ ordered van Draper. ‘When he gets level with you, force him over to the side.’
‘But, Van, we can’t possibly—’
‘Do as I say!’ shouted van Draper, suddenly very angry. In situations like this he was used to taking command.
Guest gritted his teeth. ‘All right – you’ve asked for it!’ he replied, as he took his foot off the accelerator. During the next hundred yards the approaching car drew level. Guest drew well into the side of the road. When the bonnet of the second car was right at their side van Draper suddenly called out: ‘Let him have it…NOW!’
Guest wrenched at the wheel, and the pursuing car bounced away from them as a rugby footballer hands off an opponent. But they had forgotten that their pursuer’s speed was greater than theirs, and they suffered even more from the impact.
‘Look out!’ cried van Draper. ‘He’s skidding.’
‘My God!’
The cars collided with far greater force than they anticipated, and the shock sent each of them into the ditch on opposite sides of the road. Guest heard the windscreen splinter, felt the driving wheel smite him in the chest, then remembered nothing else.
When he recovered consciousness some time later he could see that the driving wheel had saved him from the fate of van Draper, who had been flung towards the windscreen.
Paul Temple 3-Book Collection Page 58
