“Sorry I’m late, Temple. It took me a little longer to get here than I thought.”
“Sit down. Can I get you a drink?”
Langdon sank into a chair and passed a hand over his forehead. “No, I won’t have a drink, if you don’t mind. Mr Temple, I wanted to see you about Kelburn. Quite frankly, I’m baffled. At one time he was quite determined to find out who murdered Julia, but now — I’m very sorry, Temple, but I’m afraid he wants you to withdraw from the case.’’
“Yes, I know. Kelburn’s been here. Why d’you think he’s changed his mind? Has something happened?”
“Well,” Langdon said worriedly, “it all seems to date from a letter he received this morning. I noticed him change colour the moment he read it.”
Temple had not sat down. He was standing in front of the fireplace looking at the American. “Did he tell you what was in the letter?”
“No, he simply sent for me in the middle of the morning and told me he’d changed his mind about your investigating the case. I argued with him of course, but it was no use. It never is, once he’s made up his mind.” Langdon shrugged his shoulders apologetically. “I’m sorry, Temple.”
“That’s all right, don’t worry about me. But tell me, have you noticed anything else about Kelburn?”
“What do you mean?’’
“Has his attitude changed in other directions — towards his wife, for instance?”
Langdon pondered for a few seconds before answering. “Yes, I think it has. Up to a couple of days ago they seemed to get on very well together. Neither of them was very demonstrative but they appeared to enjoy each other’s company. But on Monday night I happened to go downstairs fairly late to collect a book I was reading …” He stopped, hesitating before confiding to someone else what might be regarded as an invasion of privacy.
“Go on.”
“Well, they were in the lounge and shouting at each other as if all hell was let loose. I only heard the tail end of it, but boy, it was a humdinger of a row! I heard Kelburn say: ‘If you go on like this you’ll finish up the same way as Julia.’ “Langdon looked Temple frankly in the eyes, his expression serious.”That kind of shook me. Whether he meant Laura would finish up in the river, or whether he … Well, I don’t know what he meant. But one thing I do know.” He grinned ruefully. “I shall be mighty glad to get away from the Kelburn family and back to New York.”
“Yes, I can imagine that.” Temple smiled in response and then asked casually: “Langdon, tell me, when were you last in England?”
“About six months ago,” Langdon answered easily. “I came over to talk with Kelburn about a printing process.’’
“You didn’t by any chance visit a pub called The Red Hart at Westerton?”
“Westerton?” Langdon repeated the name without blinking. He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Where is that?”
“It’s in Kent, about forty miles from London.”
“No, I’ve never been there. Might have passed through it, but I don’t remember the place. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing. I wondered, that’s all.”
The Hide and Seek was very different from what Paul and Steve expected. The former night club had been converted to a jazz club, with tiered seats in a semi-circle round the residual patch of dance floor. There were small tables in front of the seats on which customers could put their drinks or at a later stage of the evening their plates of food. The Temples had half expected to find the place full of youngsters with dyed hair and kinky outfits, and had taken care to wear informal dress. To their surprise the seats were filled with serious, almost dedicated-looking people, though there was hardly a neck-tie to be seen. If Temple had not made Charlie book seats for them they would never have got in.
The group which had been hired to warm the audience up before Tony Wyman appeared — three blacks, three whites and one Vietnamese — were just finishing as they came in. The applause was muted but an air of expectancy built up as the stage was prepared for Tony Wyman. He was the star attraction of the evening. When he entered with his backing group of one double-bass, a drummer and a synthesiser, he was a totally different person from the nervous and awkward young man Temple had met. He was dressed in a suit of gleaming silver, which fitted him as tightly as a glove, and on stage he was as confident as an impresario.
Without preamble he took the microphone from its stand and gave the slightest of nods to his drummer. From the very first notes, Steve found herself unexpectedly impressed and when Tony Wyman began to sing she was moved in spite of herself. His hoarse, almost damaged voice gave a peculiar poignancy to the songs and when he worked up to a crescendo he seemed to be forcing the words out with a superhuman effort and with acute physical pain. As Raine had rightly remarked, he was putting everything he had got into the performance and soon the perspiration was glistening on his face. For forty-five minutes he held the audience spellbound and when he took his last bow and went off there was a storm of applause, foot-stamping and whistles. But Tony Wyman gave no encore. After a decent interval the loudspeakers began to dispense the latest hit tunes, the multi-coloured lights started to sweep round the room and the first couples went down on to the space cleared for dancing.
Steve declined Temple’s suggestion that they should take to the floor. “I don’t feel like dancing, Paul. This music seems so banal after that. I think what I’d like is a good strong whisky.”
Half an hour after Wyman’s act had ended Temple was beginning to wonder if he had received the note he had sent round to his dressing-room, but at last he appeared. In the dim and distorted light hardly anyone recognised the inconspicuous young man now dressed in jeans and a short leather jacket. He slid into the seat beside Temple.
“Sorry to have kept you, Mr Temple. I had to make two telephone calls and then my agent popped in and I couldn’t get rid of him. He’s still waiting for me, as a matter of fact, so I can only spare you a couple of minutes.”
“That’s all right. Oh, I don’t think you know my wife.”
“No, I don’t.” Wyman nodded perfunctorily at Steve. “Hello.”
“We enjoyed your performance.” She gave him a warm smile.
“Thanks, but it wasn’t so hot tonight. Wasn’t feeling too good.”
“I expect you’re still feeling a bit shaky,” Temple suggested.
“Yes, I am. The doc says I’m okay, but I don’t feel it!”
“I suppose you read about the man who crashed into us — Ted Angus?”
“Yes.” Wyman took a break from biting his nails. “Is that right what they said in the paper — that he was murdered?”
“Yes. He was beaten up and left for dead.”
Wyman’s face was a deathly colour and the green and blue lights flashing across it made him look even more unhealthy. Temple leant towards him so that his voice would be audible against the boom of the loudspeakers.
“Angus smashed into your car quite deliberately. He was out to get one of us. I think it was you, Tony.”
“Thanks.” Wyman made a feeble attempt at a laugh. “You’ve made my night!”
“You were going to tell me something just before the accident happened. What was it?”
“I don’t remember,” Wyman said quickly.
“Please try to remember, because …”
“I’ve told you, I don’t remember!”
“Was it about Dr Benkaray?”
“I’ve never heard of any Dr Benkaray.’’
“Now don’t be stupid, Tony. It was you who told me about her. Incidentally, Ted Angus was found two hundred yards from the doctor’s cottage. Did you know that?”
Shaken, Wyman jerked his eyes towards Temple. “No. No, I didn’t.”
“Well, he was.”
Wyman had half risen, his eyes questing around as if he was not sure where the exit to the dressing-rooms was. “Look, Mr Temple, my manager’s told me to keep my mouth shut. He says I’ve done too much talking and I
think he’s right. I don’t know nothin’ about this bloke Angus or about Dr Benkaray or about Julia Kelburn — I just know nothin’.”
“All right, Tony. But if you get into trouble — the sort of trouble that manager of yours can’t get you out of — give me a ring.”
“I don’t know why you should talk to me like this, Mr Temple. I shan’t get into trouble.”
Wyman had completely forgotten the existence of Steve. Without saying goodbye he quickly snaked between the seats and tables, pushed his way round the dancers on the floor and disappeared through the door at the back of the stage.
“Well, what do you make of him, Steve?”
Steve was staring wistfully at the door which had swung shut behind the singer.
“My word, he’s a frightened young man if ever I saw one.”
Steve had been silent as their taxi dropped them in Eaton Square and she was still thoughtful as they waited for the lift to come down from the fifth floor.
“Paul, that man we saw driving the red car at Hyde Park Corner. What did you say his name was?”
“Larry Cross. Dr Benkaray’s secretary.”
During a momentary hold-up at the western end of Piccadilly, Temple had glanced across as a scarlet Alfa-Romeo had pulled up beside them. He had immediately leant back out of sight. Unless both Mrs Kelburn and Larry Cross had a double they were driving home together at one o’clock in the morning. Steve, following his glance, had made an exclamation of surprise before Temple pulled her back. Then their own taxi had jerked forward.
“I’ve remembered where I saw him before. It was at the airport —”
“The airport?”
“Yes. He was the man in uniform, the airport official I told you about. He had a moustache then, but it was the same man. I’m sure of it.”
“How can you be sure, Steve? You were in a pretty bad state that night.”
“Well, I was still compos mentis when he first spoke to me,” Steve said, stepping into the lift.
Temple checked his watch before he put his latchkey in the lock. It was ten to one.
“I expect Charlie’s in bed,” Steve whispered.
“No, I’m not, Mrs Temple,” said Charlie, emerging from the kitchen with a self-righteous air. “The ‘phone’s been going for the last hour but every time I answered it they rang off. I was just making myself a nice cup of tea. Would you like a cup, sir?”
“No, thank you. I’m more in the mood for a whisky and soda. What about you, Steve?”
But Steve was more interested in a patterned box tied up with coloured ribbon which was standing on the hall table.
“What’s this box, Charlie?” Then her face lit up with anticipation. “Oh, it’s my dress — from Daphne Drake’s!”
”Yes, a young lady delivered it just after you left. Shall I put it in your dressing-room, Mrs Temple?”
“No, Charlie. I’ll take it myself.”
“Are you going to have a nightcap, Steve?” asked Temple.
“Yes, pour me a brandy, darling — just a tiny one. I’m going to try my dress on.”
“What, at this hour of the morning?”
“I’ll be along in a minute. And pour yourself a stiff one, Paul. You’ll need it when I tell you what I paid for the dress.”
Clutching her precious box Steve disappeared along the passage that led to the bedroom and the two dressing-rooms. Charlie cast his eyes to heaven at the unpredictability of women.
Temple laughed and sauntered into the sitting-room. Taking his time he took out the last of the Panatellas he had bought from Mrs Fletcher and lit it. He switched on the radio, but the jazz music it was churning out sounded trite after what he had heard at The Hide and Seek. He went across to the drinks cupboard, took out a couple of brandy glasses and reached for the bottle of Courvoisier. He was just pouring the first glass when the telephone began to ring. Although he knew what time it was he automatically glanced at his watch. Five minutes to one in the morning! He carefully poured a second glass, put the cork back in the bottle and replaced it in the cupboard. Then he went across and picked up the receiver.
When he heard the bleeps and knew that the call was coming from a pay ‘phone he was certain that someone had dialled a wrong number.
“Hello,” he said, as the coins went in. “Hello?”
“Mr Temple?” It was a woman’s voice, one he had heard before.
“Yes, speaking. Who is that?”
“It’s —it’s Margo.”
“Margo?” Temple repeated. He had identified the voice now. It was Mrs Fletcher, the owner of the garage at Westerton.
“Mr Temple,” she said urgently, but still trying to disguise her voice. “Don’t let your wife open that box —”
“Which box? Do you mean the one from the dress shop —?”
“Yes! Don’t let her touch it, Mr Temple. Whatever you do don’t let her open it —”
Temple did not wait to hear any more. He banged the receiver down and dashed for the door. As he reached the hall he was already shouting at the top of his voice: “Steve! Don’t open the box —”
He was almost at the end of the passage and was close to the door of the bedroom when he felt a blast and heard ahead of him a loud explosion. Steve’s scream reached him against a background of crashing china and breaking glass.
4: Bill Fletcher’s Story
“Drink this, Steve.”
“What is it?”
“Brandy. It’ll do you good. You’re sure you’re not hurt, nothing broken?’’
“No. I seem to be all in one piece — thanks to you, darling.”
Temple had rushed into the bedroom to find Steve lying face downwards on the big double bed, perfectly still. But at the sound of his agonised cry she had scrambled up and rushed into his arms. Charlie, who had run into the room a few seconds after Temple, had been despatched to fetch brandy and was now standing watching his master and mistress with concerned eyes. Temple had his arm protectively round his shivering wife’s shoulders.
“Now, tell me what happened, Steve.”
Steve took a sip of brandy and stared into her devastated dressing-room. The dressmaker’s box had vanished and a circle of destruction radiated outwards from the dressing-table where it had stood.
“I took the box into the dressing-room and started to undo the ribbon. I had just lifted the lid when I heard you shouting. I started for the bedroom and had just got to the door when the thing exploded. I felt myself pushed from behind as if by some giant hand and found myself taking a dive on to the bed. Thank goodness you shouted, darling!”
Steve tossed back the brandy and handed the glass to Charlie.
“Shall I fetch you some more, Mrs Temple?”
“Thank you, Charlie. I think it’s doing me good. Oh, Paul! Just look at the dressing-room! Look at the window!”
“Never mind about the dressing-room. As long as you’re all right —”
“What made you shout like that?”
“A woman telephoned. She warned me not to let you open the parcel — ‘’
“A woman? What woman?”
“She said her name was Margo,” Temple said slowly, “but I’m pretty sure it was Mrs Fletcher.”
“Mrs Fletcher who owns the garage? Whoever it was I’m glad she telephoned. Someone was trying to kill me, Paul!”
He felt her shiver. A cold draught was feeling its way in through the shattered window. “Let’s go along to the sitting- room. Charlie and I can clear up this mess later.”
Charlie, on his way along the passage with the brandy bottle, did an about turn and took it into the sitting-room. As Steve and Paul came in he was switching on the electric fire and drawing the curtains.
“Paul,” Steve was saying, “I can’t for the life of me think why anyone at Daphne Drake’s should do a thing like that! After all, they’d be the first to be questioned.”
Temple agreed. He was still shaken by the narrowness of Steve’s escape, and very angry. “Let’s think back a
bit. It was Laura Kelburn who sent us to Daphne Drake’s in the first place. She said that Julia bought most of her clothes there.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Steve turned a pale and startled face towards him. “But surely you don’t think Laura had anything to do with tonight?”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Temple said grimly. “After all, what was she doing with Larry Cross, Dr Benkaray’s so-called secretary? And why did she make two telephone calls to us and then flatly deny that she made them?”
Steve sat down on the sofa and Temple sat beside her. He felt a need to stay very close to her.
“There’s your brandy, Mrs Temple.” Charlie, with his best bedside manner, handed her a replenished glass.
“Thank you, Charlie.”
“If I remember rightly,” Temple said, “you told me you bumped into Laura when I was in America?”
“That’s right. Twice.”
“Twice? I didn’t realise that. What happened?”
“Well, I met her at Harrods on the Saturday morning — the day after you left. We had coffee together. About three weeks later she ‘phoned and said she wanted to see you.”
“And you said I was in the States?”
“That’s right. A few days later I bumped into her again and naturally mentioned the ‘phone call. You know what happened — she said she hadn’t made it.”
“Yes.” Temple reflected for a moment. “Steve, the first time you met her — what did you talk about?”
“Oh — old times. Fleet Street, the usual gossip.”
“And nothing particular happened on that occasion — nothing unusual, I mean?”
“No, nothing, darling.” Steve shook her head, then added as an afterthought, “Oh, she asked me to post a letter for her.”
“Post a letter?”
“Yes.” Steve was surprised at the sharpness of the question. “I happened to mention I was going to a nearby post office to buy some stamps. She said she had a letter she’d forgotten to post and would I post it for her.”
“Who was the letter to?”
“I don’t remember,” Steve said, laughing. “Paul, why are you looking so serious?”
Paul Temple and the Margo Mystery Page 8
