Paul Temple and the Margo Mystery

by Francis Durbridge

  “It’s the police, Mr Temple. They’ve put the wind up me. That Superintendent Raine gave me a proper going over. Practically accused me of doin’ the murder.”

  “You mean Julia Kelburn?”

  “Yes, and I never even knew she’d been killed, straight I didn’t. That chap Raine was at me for the best part of an hour, but all I could tell him was that I finished at the club just after one and went straight home.”

  “Just how friendly were you with Julia Kelburn?”

  “Depends what you mean by friendly.’’

  “How did you meet her?”

  “Some of the gang — the reg’lars — brought her to the club one night. She was dressed all sloppy like with her hair all combed up and dyed. I thought at first she was one of them punks. But we got talkin’ a bit and she seemed to go for me. Next time she come in, I hardly knew her. She looked like a film star.”

  ‘’ Did you know her father was well off?’’

  Down the road the yellow van was taking advantage of a lull in the traffic to make a three-point turn.

  “Well, not at first — she never let on. But later she started throwing the lolly around and I guessed somebody had the dough. She wasn’t a bad kid. I was fond of her in a funny sort of way, but — well, she started getting in my hair. Hanging around the club, meeting me in restaurants, waiting for me at the TV studios — you know how it is.”

  “No, I don’t know how it is. You tell me.”

  “Well, you know — she was a bit of a mixed-up kid. Bit dotty, perhaps, I don’t know. Spent quids with one of those psychiwhatsits.”

  Gathering speed the yellow van was now heading back towards the parked Escort.

  “Oh — who told you that?”

  “She did. She used to visit a shrink in Wimpole Street. Benkaray, I think the name was. Yes, that’s right — Dr Benkaray.”

  “Did you tell the Superintendent about this?”

  “No, I didn’t tell him any more than was necessary.”

  Keeping an eye on the yellow van, Temple had a hand on the door lever.

  “I know the police only too well. When I was a kid in Bermondsey I — “Wyman broke off and his voice rose to a falsetto shriek. “Hi, look at this van!” The truck had suddenly veered left, just as if a steering linkage had broken, but instead of braking the driver was accelerating. “He’s coming straight for us!”

  Temple flung his door open and yelled: “Get out, quick!”

  He dived out through the door, hitting the grass with his shoulder and rolling over. As he went he heard Wyman cursing his sticking door. There came the sickening thud of metal on metal, the tinkling of glass, a hiss of steam, followed by a high-pitched scream of agony.

  A passing taxi driver had seen the accident and had the good sense to drive straight to the nearest call-box and dial 999. A police car, ambulance and fire brigade van were there within minutes. While the ambulance men slid the truck driver into their vehicle and the firemen cut Wyman free of the tangled wreckage of the car, Temple gave the police a preliminary report of the incident.

  “We’ll want you to give us a written statement, sir,” the patrolman said.

  “Yes, I know. But in the meantime I suggest you call Superintendent Raine at Scotland Yard. Tell him someone just damn nearly killed Tony Wyman and Paul Temple.”

  Raine was at Paddington Hospital within ten minutes of Temple arriving there in the police car. Despite the fuss he had made, Tony Wyman was not seriously injured. He had escaped with a couple of broken fingers, some nasty cuts and a mass of bruises. According to the doctor who had attended him he would not be detained in hospital.

  “That must have been quite a spectacular little crash,” Raine said.

  ‘’It was — and a deliberate one too.’’

  “A good thing you managed to get clear.’’

  “I was dead lucky. What have they done with that truck driver?”

  “He’s at Paddington Green police station. Got away with a few bruises and a cut cheek. He was carrying his licence so we know who he is. A Scot, name of Ted Angus.”

  “Ted Angus?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ve been on to Glasgow. They know him but have never been able to pin anything on him. He’s done all sorts of jobs. Barker in a fairground, Wall of Death rider. May have been mixed up in a couple of smash-and-grab jobs but always got clear. You know, I hardly think it was you he was after. It was Wyman’s car.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Are you going to charge him?”

  “We can only hold him for an hour or two but I intend to try and make him talk. You can come along if you feel up to it.”

  “Oh, I’m up to it. Just give me a moment to ‘phone my wife.”

  But even Raine’s and Temple’s questioning failed to extract any admission from the tough little Scot. His story was. that the steering had broken and he was sticking to that, knowing full well the whole front of the truck was smashed.

  “What do you make of him?” Temple asked, as the cell door was closed on Angus. He was still protesting vociferously at being ‘treated like a criminal’?

  “About as straight as the Tower of Pisa, but we’re still going to have to let him go.”

  The Temples were just finishing tea when Charlie came in to announce that a Mrs Kelburn had called.

  “Show her in, Charlie. And take this tray away.”

  “Are you expecting Laura?” Steve asked.

  “No, but I did ask her to find out where Julia bought her clothes.”

  Laura Kelburn was still wearing the same dark suit, but she had added a pair of ear-rings and a gold neck-chain.

  “No, I won’t, thank you, Mr Temple,” she said, in reply to the offer of a drink. “I’m in rather a hurry. I’m dining with some people in Hampstead. Mr Temple, I’ve made one or two enquiries about Julia’s clothes, and I’ve been through her wardrobe. There’s nothing with the name Margo on it, but I’ve discovered that most of her clothes — most of the respectable clothes, at any rate — were bought from a shop in Ogden Street called Daphne Drake Limited. You must have heard of it, Steve.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of it. It’s a very good shop.”

  “Did Julia have many clothes?” Temple asked.

  “Yes, she did, but she was a frightfully erratic sort of person. She’d probably wear nothing but jeans and a sweater for a month or so, and then suddenly buy herself half a dozen dresses and suits. There was no telling what she’d do. Unfortunately, it wasn’t only her clothes that she was erratic about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Laura Kelburn’s mouth twisted with distaste. “Well — she wasn’t exactly careful about her choice of friends, was she? Of course, the trouble was George wouldn’t take her in hand. He wouldn’t hear a word against her. Understandable, I suppose, but rather irritating at times.’’

  “Did you try to take her in hand, Mrs Kelburn?”

  “No,” she said, affronted by the question. “It wasn’t my job.”

  “But you were quite good friends?”

  Laura pondered that for a moment. “Yes — we were, considering. But, the trouble really started when George got a bee in his bonnet about this Tony Wyman person and tried to lay the law down. It was too late — you just couldn’t do that sort of thing with Julia. Tell her she couldn’t have something, and she’d immediately want it.”

  “How is your husband, Laura?” Steve enquired.

  “He’s still very upset, of course — it’s been a terrible shock for him, but the doctor’s given him some dope. He was lying down when I left. I suppose there’s no news, Mr Temple? The police have no idea who did it?”

  “No. At least, I certainly haven’t heard anvthing, Mrs Kelburn.”

  Laura picked her crocodile handbag off the floor and stood up. “Well, I must be going.”

  “I’m very grateful to you for calling. You’ll let me know if you come across anything you think might be
of any importance?”

  “Yes, of course. I certainly will, Mr Temple.”

  “I hope she enjoys her dinner,” Temple remarked, when Steve came back from showing the visitor out.

  “You don’t like her, do you, Paul?”

  “No — but I’m glad she called. I wonder if this Daphne Drake place is worth investigating.”

  “Well, I can tell you one thing, the coat that was left in my car at the airport wasn’t bought from Daphne Drake’s.”

  ‘’ How do you know?’’

  “The weight of the material. And it wasn’t their style. They have much more expensive stuff than that. They have some really lovely things.” Steve put her head on one side and gave Paul a look. “You know, I think I ought to go along there tomorrow morning, and make a few enquiries.”

  “I know the sort of enquiries you’d make!” Temple laughed. “Still, it’s not a bad idea.”

  “Thank you, darling.”

  “But, Steve —”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “One dress — one only, remember …”

  Dr M.C. Benkaray was in the telephone book with an address in Wimpole Street.

  “I hope he doesn’t shut up shop at five o’clock.”

  Steve broke off playing the piano while Temple dialled the number. “Why are you so anxious to talk to this Dr Benkaray, Paul?”

  “Tony Wyman told me that Julia Kelburn recently consulted a psychiatrist. I thought it might be a good idea to find out what her trouble was — ‘’ Temple broke off and took his hand away from, the mouthpiece as the ringing tone stopped.

  “Dr Benkaray’s practice.”

  Temple hesitated, puzzled by the man’s accent. “May I speak to the doctor, please?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Temple. Paul Temple.”

  “Just hold on a minute, please.”

  Watching him, Steve saw two lines appear between his brow, always a sign that he was adding two and two and making five. “What is it, Paul?”

  “I could swear that the man on the other end — Hello! Is that Dr Benkaray?”

  “No, this is Dr Benkaray’s secretary.” The voice was masculine but more like that of a car salesman than a doctor’s secretary. “The doctor is out of town.’’

  “My name is Temple. I’d like to make an appointment —”

  “Then I suggest you ‘phone again towards the end of the month.”

  “But surely —”

  “Any time after the twenty-fifth. I shall be pleased to make an appointment for you then.’’

  “But I’m afraid that’s too —”

  “Goodbye, Mr Temple.”

  Slowly Temple put the receiver down.

  “Well, I’m damned! He cut me short and rang off. By Timothy, if that’s the secretary I wonder what the doctor’s like.”

  “Did you think you recognised the person who answered first?”

  Temple nodded. “He sounded exactly like that truck driver who nearly wrote me off. Ted Angus.’’

  Steve was only forty minutes late for her rendezvous with Temple. They had arranged to meet in the cocktail bar of a small club near Ebury Street.

  “Hello, Steve! I thought you were never coming! Did you buy up the whole shop?”

  “No, darling, I didn’t.”

  She sat down on the button-leather bench beside him. One of the club waiters, in a short green jacket, came over to the table.

  “Can I get you anything, madam?”

  “I’d like a dry sherry.”

  Temple pointed to his own glass. “I’ll have the same again.”

  “Yes, sir. A Tio Pepe and a dry martini.”

  “Well, Steve?” Temple knew from the way she kept glancing at him with a faint smile on her lips that she’d had a successful morning. He hoped the bill would not be too high.

  “I’ve got some news for you, Mr Temple!”

  “About Margo?”

  “No, they’ve never heard of the name — at least, they said they haven’t. But I’ll tell you who they have heard of, Paul. Dr Benkaray.”

  “Dr Benkaray?”

  “Yes, she’s a customer of theirs.”

  “She’s a — are you serious, Steve?”

  “I’m quite serious, darling.”

  “I took it for granted Benkaray was a man, I never thought — By Timothy, I must watch my step. I’m slipping, Steve! Go on, tell me what happened.”

  “Dr Benkaray bought a coat from Daphne Drake’s and they were asked to post it to her — she’s living in the country somewhere.”

  “Where, do you know?”

  “At a place called Westerton. I don’t know the address. Where is Westerton — the name seemed familiar?”

  “It’s in Kent, about forty miles from here. Rather a nice little place. There’s a very good pub there called The Red Hart. We stayed at it one weekend, about six or seven years ago.”

  “Oh, I remember The Red Hart. The landlord was a wizened little man with a bald head. It’s rather an odd place for a psychiatrist to live, isn’t it? I should have thought she’d have lived in Town.”

  “She has a place in Town, in Wimpole Street.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.”

  “Your sherry, madam.” The waiter had arrived with their drinks. “And a dry martini for you, sir.”

  Temple paid the waiter and raised his glass to his wife.

  “Steve, I’m very interested in this Dr Benkaray, for several reasons. One: Julia Kelburn consulted her, and two: I still think it was that chap Angus who answered the telephone.”

  “Which means, I suppose, we’re going to spend the weekend at Westerton?”

  “Yes, darling.”

  It was hard to believe that such a remote and unspoilt village as Westerton was less than fifty miles from London. It was in the middle of a hop-growing area and the characteristic cones of the oast-houses jutted up from the farms in the countryside around. The Red Hart was a traditional pub which had changed little since the Temples had stayed there seven years earlier. Their visit must have been quite an event in the village, for Fred Harcourt recognised them immediately and gave them a warm welcome. He showed them up to his best double bedroom, the same one they’d occupied on the previous occasion. Temple took care to stoop as he crossed the raised lintel. He had painful memories of bumping his head on the beams of the low roof.

  In the bar down below some of the evening regulars had already come in. Temple exchanged nods and smiles with a couple of rustic characters who appeared to recognise him. They made way respectfully for Steve when they saw she intended to sit on a bar stool and kept glancing at her with covert admiration.

  “Still brewing your own beer, Mr Harcourt?”

  “Oh, yes, Mr Temple. We get people from miles away, even London, just to see what real beer tastes like.”

  “Draw us two pints, please.”

  Fred fetched a couple of tankards and began to pull on his decorated levers. The passing years had shrunk him, his features were more wizened and his head balder, but he still had the same bright, humorous eyes.

  “There you are, sir. Two nice foaming tankards.”

  “Paul, am I supposed to —”

  “Talking of people from London,” Temple said, pretending not to hear Steve’s protest. “Have you come across a Dr Benkaray in these parts?”

  “You mean the lady doctor — who took Miller’s croft in Vine Lane?”

  “Yes, I should imagine that’s the same person.”

  “She doesn’t practise down here, does she?” Steve asked, brushing a wisp of foam from her upper lip.

  “No, Mrs Temple — at least, not with the locals. She’s a specialist. Nervous diseases, I think — or something like that. Got a very nice place, they tell me, two cottages knocked into one. Everybody says how nice it is. Mrs Fletcher, one of my regulars, used to be the daily. Lovely place, she says it is.”

  “You haven’t met the doctor?” Temple asked.

  “No. Just seen her a
round in the village.” Fred was wiping the counter with a cloth. He added ambiguously: “Striking- looking woman.”

  “Has she many friends — locally, I mean?”

  “No, I reckon Mrs Fletcher knows her as well as most — although she doesn’t work for her now. Hasn’t been up there for almost a year. Always speaks well of the doctor, though, does Mrs Fletcher. Says she’s a real lady.”

  “Where is Vine Lane?” Steve had taken a good pull of her ale and appeared to be enjoying it.

  “It’s about four miles from here. The cottages stand on their own. Wouldn’t be another house for about quarter of a mile. But it’s very pretty. There’s a nice little wood and a stream running right across the end of the lane.’’

  “Mr Harcourt!” The chubby girl who was helping behind the bar had received an order for a Campari and found that the bottle standing upside down on its dispenser was empty.

  “Coming, Maisie!” said Fred, feeling for his keys. “Excuse me, Mr Temple.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Oh.” Fred paused. “I meant to ask you. Would you like John to put your car away, sir? We’ve got a private lock-up if you’d like one.”

  “No thanks, Mr Harcourt, we shall probably go for a drive later on.”

  “Are you going to see this Mrs Fletcher?” Steve asked, as the landlord bustled away.

  “I might do later, darling, but it’s a bit tricky. I don’t want to attract too much attention. What do you think of this beer?”

  Steve chuckled and peered into her tankard, which was still three-quarters full. “If I finish this I’ll certainly attract attention — I’ll be sparked out!”

  They had driven down from London in Temple’s car, the 3500 Rover Vanden Plas EFI. It gave him the performance of a BMW and the comfort of a Rolls without being too ostentatious. Steve was humming happily as the village fell behind them and the countryside, still luminous in the afterglow of the sun, spread out on either side of them. As far as they could see there were ranks upon ranks of hops in the early stages of growth. A Land Rover coming in the opposite direction had already switched its lights on and as he passed Temple did the same.

  About three miles from the village they came to a narrow lane which emerged from a wood to meet the road just short of a sharp bend. A telephone call-box stood at the junction beside a signpost.