Paul Temple and the Margo Mystery

by Francis Durbridge

  “Can you read what it says, Steve?”

  “Put your headlights up.”

  Temple switched to main beam.

  “Vine —” Steve was leaning forward trying to decipher the sign. “Vine Lane. This is it.”

  “Right. We’ll park here.” Temple pulled the car on to the grass verge where obviously other drivers had stopped to use the call-box. “Do you feel like a little stroll?”

  “Isn’t it rather dark?”

  “Not really. Your eyes will soon adjust. Anyway, I’ve got a torch.”

  “I wish I hadn’t tried to finish that beer,” Steve said, gingerly putting a foot to the ground.

  Vine Lane was a narrow track with occasional passing places. There was a line of grass growing in the middle but the marks of wheels showed that vehicles had recently been up and down. A hundred yards from the road the trees had thickened enough to meet over their heads and all at once it seemed very much darker.

  “Dr Benkaray has certainly chosen a lonely spot. Still no sign of any cottage.’’

  “How much further do you want to go, Paul? If I’d known we were out for a hike I’d have put on walking shoes.”

  “We’ll go as far as that bend ahead.”

  The normal friendly chatter of birds had died down with the coming of darkness; the only sound of life was the persistent hooting of an owl somewhere in the wood, and the grunting of some night creature on the prowl. At the bend Temple stopped and scrambled up the bank for a better view.

  “Can you see anything, Paul?”

  “Yes, I can see a light. About a quarter of a mile, I’d guess.”

  “Do you think it’s the cott —”

  “Sh, Steve! Quiet a minute.”

  “Can you hear —”

  “SH!”

  Straining her ears Steve realised that the sound of the animal grunting had changed in quality. Now it was more like — someone in pain calling for help!

  “Paul —!”

  But Temple was already slithering down the bank. “There’s someone in the wood, badly hurt.”

  Using the torch now, he found a gap in the hedge and with Steve on his heels began to push in through the undergrowth. “Where are you?” he shouted. »

  “Here,” a weak voice gasped. “Over — here.”

  “Hold my hand, Steve,” Temple said, turning half left and playing the torch beam on the ground.

  A kind of gasping groan led them on, and in about fifty yards the beam of the torch picked up a dark form on the ground. As they approached, it turned a bloodied face towards them.

  “By Timothy!” Temple breathed.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Yes.”

  The injured man, dazzled by the torch, cringed away.

  “Don’t hit me. Please don’t hit me again!”

  “It’s all right, Angus. No one’s going to hurt you.”

  “Who are —?” The man choked on the words, spitting blood.

  “It’s Paul Temple. We met at the police station.”

  “Temp —.” Ted Angus slumped back, exhausted by the effort to speak.

  “Don’t try to talk, Ted. Just lie still. We’ll get help to you.”

  “Ted Angus!” exclaimed Steve. “Is that the man who —?”

  “Yes! Ted Angus. The chap who drove the truck into Wyman’s car.”

  “Temple, listen …” The prone figure had raised his head. Temple handed Steve the torch and went down on one knee beside him, with a hand supporting his neck. “This is important —” “YeS, what is it?”

  “Ask — ask Mrs Fletcher about — about —” “Go on, Angus, I’m listening! Ask her about what? Dr Benkaray?”

  “No.” Ted made a great effort and finally managed to deliver his message. “Ask her about the coat.”

  3: A Change of Mind

  Though there were lights in the upstairs rooms at the back of the house and Temple could hear the bell pealing inside, there was still no sound of anyone coming to the door. For the third time he hammered on the knocker.

  Thanks to the isolated light he had spotted before they heard Ted Angus’s cries for help, Temple had been able to locate the two converted cottages a few hundred yards further down the lane. He had sent Steve back to the call-box on the road with instructions to ‘phone the police and arrange for an ambulance to be sent as soon as possible. Angus had lost consciousness after making that cryptic statement about Mrs Fletcher and Temple’s quick examination had convinced him that the little Scotsman stood little chance unless he received expert attention without delay.

  He had his finger on the doorbell again when at last he heard a man’s footsteps thumping across the hall. Instead of opening the door, he shouted from inside: “Who’s there? What do you want?”

  “Open up,” Temple replied. “It’s urgent.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I tell you, it’s urgent. Open the door!”

  “Wait a minute,” the man growled angrily. Temple heard a bolt being drawn and a key turned in the lock.

  The door opened at last to reveal a tall man of about forty with a hatchet face that was devoid of any emotion except suspicion. He was wearing an old woollen cardigan and a shirt buttoned to the neck, but no tie.

  “Is this Dr Benkaray’s house?”

  “Yes,” the man admitted reluctantly. “It is.”

  Temple could tell now from the voice that this was the man he had spoken to on Dr Benkaray’s Wimpole Street number, but he seemed far too dishevelled to be anyone’s secretary.

  “I must see the doctor. It’s urgent.”

  “The doctor isn’t receiving visitors tonight.” The ‘secretary’ added, as an afterthought: “She isn’t very well.”

  Temple heard a door opening at the end of the corridor. “Don’t you understand?” he insisted. “This is an emergency. There’s a man very badly hurt, probably dying. Will you please do as I say and fetch the doctor?”

  “I’ve told you — she’s not well.”

  “Larry, what’s this all about?”

  Larry turned round at the woman’s voice. His expression was that of a man who’s only tried to do his best and been let down for his pains. Through the half-open door Temple could now see a tall, masculine-looking woman with greying hair. The face was intelligent; the features determined. Temple could see what Fred Harcourt had meant when he described her as striking-looking.

  He put a foot in the door. “Dr Benkaray?”

  “Yes, I am Dr Benkaray.” Her voice had a faint mid- European quality, both in tone and pronunciation.

  “My name is Paul Temple —”

  “Temple!” Larry exclaimed. “You never said your name was —”

  “There is something wrong, Mr Temple?” Dr Benkaray cut across her secretary’s protest.

  “Yes, there’s a man in your wood, he’s very badly injured. When I left him he was —”

  “Injured? In what way?”

  “It looks to me as if he’s been systematically beaten up —”

  “Beaten up?” Larry objected. “Are you trying to tell us —”

  “Be quiet, Larry!” Dr Benkaray’s voice was level but as cutting as a whiplash. “I’ll get my bag, Mr Temple. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  “Do you know him, Doctor?”

  “No.” Dr Benkaray straightened up from her crouching position and handed Temple back his torch. “And I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for the poor fellow. He’s dead.”

  Temple took the torch, which was still switched on. He directed it at the ground, slightly away from Ted Angus’s body. “I thought it was hopeless.”

  “But who is he?” Larry was still staring down at the inert and bloody form. “And how the devil did he get here?”

  “Have you heard anything suspicious this evening — any noise, for instance?”

  “No, not a thing, have we, Doctor?”

  “I’ve been resting.” Temple guessed that this was what the doctor had told Larry to say and so
she had to stick to it. “It’s doubtful whether I should have heard anything, anyway. Neither myself nor Mr Cross — who is my secretary, by the way — know this man, Mr Temple. Can you tell us who he is?”

  “His name is Ted Angus.”

  The name apparently meant nothing to either of them.

  “But what was he doing here?” Dr Benkaray asked.

  “I don’t know. That’s something the police will have to find out.”

  “Police?”

  “Yes — I sent my wife to telephone for them as soon as we found him.”

  “I see. And you, Mr Temple. What were you doing here?”

  In the faintly reflected light he could just see her observant eyes quizzing him. “I was on my way to see you, Dr Benkaray,” he said evenly.

  “To see me?”

  “I tried to make an appointment to see you at your Wimpole Street address, but Mr Cross here refused to …”

  “That’s right! Of course!” Larry made a big play of just remembering. “You telephoned …”

  “I telephoned,” Temple confirmed curtly.

  “Why did you wish to see me, Mr Temple?”

  Temple moved the beam of the torch so that it shone on the pale trunk of a birch tree and reflected a little more light upwards on to the doctor’s face.

  “I’m investigating the murder of Julia Kelburn. I think she was a patient of yours?”

  “Yes, she was — for a little while.” Dr Benkaray had taken this question calmly. She shook her head sadly. “She was a very sick girl, very sick.”

  “You mean — mentally?”

  “All the time she lived in great fear — a fear that dominated her.”

  “A fear of what, exactly?”

  “That is what I was trying to find out. I only saw her three times — perhaps four. I tried to get her to talk but always there was a barrier. I tried to break that barrier down, but it was no use.”

  Conscious that she was under scrutiny, the doctor turned, moving a little further away from the corpse. Temple switched his torch off and the darkness of the wood closed round them.

  “And what happened?”

  “What usually happens in a case of that kind? She failed to turn up for an appointment and I never saw her again.”

  “Dr Benkaray, you knew that Julia Kelburn had been murdered?”

  “Yes — it was in the newspapers.”

  “Then why didn’t you inform the police that she had been a patient of yours?”

  She turned towards him again. All he could see was a pale face in the darkness.

  “What was the point? I had nothing to tell the police.”

  “You could have told them about this phobia — about this fear of hers.”

  “Do you think the police would have attached importance to it?”

  “I think they might.” Temple paused, aware that Larry Cross was, somewhere behind him. “Dr Benkaray, tell me, did Julia Kelburn ever come to see you down here?”

  “No. I don’t see patients here — always in London. I bought this house so that I could get away from my patients and relax.”

  Twigs crackled behind Temple. “Which brings us to an interesting question, Mr Temple. How did you know the doctor had a place down here?’’

  The man’s voice, which up till now had been defensive, had taken on an aggressive tone. Now that the spotlight had been taken off the horrifying spectacle of Ted Angus’s body, he was recovering his old form.

  “I made some enquiries.”

  Temple’s reply was met with silence by both doctor and secretary. The hoot of the owl came again but further away now. These human intruders seemed to have frightened all the natural wild life away from the place where a man had been beaten to death. It was with some relief that Temple heard the sound of vehicles slowing down at the end of the lane and several car doors banging.

  “That’ll be the police — probably with the ambulance.”

  While Fred Harcourt stowed the Temples’ suitcases in the boot of the Rover, Temple could hear Mrs Harcourt bidding Steve a fond farewell in the doorway of The Red Hart.

  “I do hope you’ll come and stay with us again, Mrs Temple.”

  “I hope so, too,” Steve agreed tactfully. “We’ve been very comfortable. I’m only sorry it wasn’t for longer.”

  “You want to come in the spring. It’s lovely round here when the orchards are in bloom.”

  Fred Harcourt, smiling at the sound of his wife’s voice, carefully closed the lid of the boot.

  “Mr Temple?”

  “Yes, Fred?”

  Speaking quietly, with an eye on his wife, Fred said: “Do you think I could have a word with you before you leave?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “We’ll go into my office, sir.”

  “Wait in the car, Steve,” Temple told his wife, who had at last managed to part from Mrs Harcourt. “I won’t be a minute.”

  Giving a reassuring nod to Mrs Harcourt, Fred closed the door of his small office then picked a folded newspaper off the desk.

  “I wanted you to take a look at this newspaper, Mr Temple. There’s a piece here about this girl that was murdered. It says you’re taking an interest in the case.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Would you say that’s a good photograph of her, Mr Temple?”

  Temple took the paper and studied the small photograph beside a short news item.

  “Well, I never met Julia Kelburn, but this looks a pretty good photograph, judging from the others I’ve seen. Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve got a good memory for faces, Mr Temple,” Fred said. “You sort of get the knack of it in this business.”

  “You’ve seen this girl?”

  Fred nodded and took the paper back. “She spent the night here. It’d be about six months ago. I remember saying to the missus: ‘There’s something strange about that girl,’ I said, ‘there’s a sad look about her eyes.’ “

  “Have you got her name in the register?”

  Fred had already opened his register and turned back a few pages. He ran his finger down the column of names.

  “That’s another peculiar thing, she signed herself in as Julia Smith.”

  Temple moved round beside him to study the handwriting. “Julia Smith. London. For some reason she didn’t give her real name.”

  “That’s what I said to the Missus when I saw the newspaper this morning. If there’d been a man with her, well, you expect that sort of lark then, but she was on her own — though a man did call for her early next morning.”

  “Did you talk to her at all?”

  “Only when she arrived. She stayed in her room all evening — sent down for four double whiskies — one at a time, of course. When I took ‘em up, she looked to me as if she’d been crying. I’d half a mind to ask her if I could help her, but she didn’t give me any opening.”

  “You say a man called for her next morning?”

  ”Yes, soon after seven it was. I had to get up early to make out the bill, and I remember the Missus was upset because the girl wouldn’t have any breakfast —”

  “Did you see the man?”

  “Yes, but I can’t remember him as well as the girl.” Fred scratched his head. “He was medium height, I think. Dark, curly hair, and spoke with a bit of an American accent.”

  “What sort of terms were they on?”

  Fred turned the corners of his mouth down and shook his head in a disappointed way.

  “You might have thought he was her dad come to fetch her home —”

  The Rover’s petrol tank was nearly empty and according to Fred Harcourt the filling station was at the opposite end of Westerton from The Red Hart. The village street was crowded with the vehicles of farmers and country people who had come in to do their morning shopping. Temple drove slowly, still thinking about the information Fred Harcourt had given him. His description of the man who had come to collect Julia Kelburn had been vague, but it could just have fitted Mike Langdon. />
  “Did the local police say they knew Ted Angus?” Steve asked, busy with her own memories of the previous evening. They’d both been too tired to talk much before going to sleep.

  “Well, the Inspector was inclined to be a bit cagey. I’ve an idea he’s never tackled a murder case before. However, when we were at the station I managed to have a word with him. He’s going to get in touch with Sir Graham, so I imagine Raine or somebody else at the Yard will take over. You said you’d got some information about Mrs Fletcher, Steve?”

  “Yes, I managed to glean a few odds and ends when I went into the kitchen last night to persuade Mrs Harcourt to make us coffee. I felt bound to let her indulge in a bit of gossip, and as it happened it paid off.’’

  “Go on, Steve.”

  “It seems that after she stopped being Dr Benkaray’s daily, Mrs Fletcher bought this garage at the far end of the High Street. She’s a widow but she’s got a son — a boy of about twenty-two or three. They’ve made quite a go of the garage. Her son’s a good mechanic, and Mrs Fletcher helps with the pumps and sells accessories and so on. But what intrigues all the locals is where she got the money to buy the garage in the first place.”

  “Perhaps she borrowed it?” Temple suggested.

  “A daily woman wouldn’t find it easy to raise that sort of money. No, there’s something very odd about it, Paul. According to Mrs Harcourt, the one thing Mrs Fletcher won’t discuss under any circumstances is where she got the money from.”

  “M’m. I expect the locals have some theory or other?”

  “The most popular theory is that Benkaray played fairy godmother and bought the garage for Mrs Fletcher — but no one knows quite why she should.’’

  Half a mile ahead, just beyond the end of the High Street, Temple could see the oil company’s sign hanging outside a service station and garage.

  “Paul, did Dr Benkaray strike you as being the type of woman who would do that sort of thing?”

  “I don’t know, it’s difficult to say. You know, this is very interesting about Mrs Fletcher, Steve — very interesting. Especially when one remembers what Ted Angus said.”