Paul Temple and the Margo Mystery

by Francis Durbridge

  “Good afternoon, Mr Cross,” Temple said, polite but cool.

  “They gave you the VIP treatment, I see — big welcome in the manager’s office. Now I wonder what that means?” Cross managed to put both resentment and sarcasm into his question. Temple turned the insinuation aside with a laugh.

  “It could mean that I have a large overdraft.”

  In spite of himself Cross smiled. “You’re right there.”

  “I expect you find that Alfa Romeo of yours expensive to run.”

  “Alfa Romeo?” Cross echoed, swinging the wallet like a pendulum on its strap.

  “The red job I saw you in the other night with Laura Kelburn.”

  Cross’s face was blank. “Who’s Laura Kelburn?”

  “She’s George Kelburn’s wife. Julia’s stepmother.”

  “You saw me with Mrs Kelburn? Where?”

  “In Leicester Square.”

  Cross laughed unpleasantly. “You certainly didn’t. I don’t know Mrs Kelburn. I don’t know any of the Kelburns.”

  “Didn’t you know Julia — the dead girl?”

  “No, why should I?” Cross demanded, with a touch of truculence.

  “She was a patient of Dr Benkaray’s”

  “So what?”

  “You’re the doctor’s secretary. Surely you know her patients?”

  “Not all of them.”

  “I see,” Temple said, with hardly concealed disbelief.

  A clerk had come out through a door that led through to the area behind the counter. “You left your cheque book behind, sir.”

  Cross took the book and muttered perfunctory thanks. The interruption gave him the cue he needed to escape from Temple’s bland interrogation.

  “Goodbye, Temple,” he flung over his shoulder before he dived out through the half-open street door. “And if you see me in that sports car again, stop me. I’d like to take a look at it!”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, Mr Cross.”

  Temple was usually lucky in finding parking places and as he drove up to The Pier Hotel on the front at Brighton a car reversed away from one of the four-hour parking meters outside it.

  “Why are we stopping here, Paul?” Steve asked, as he slid the Rover into the vacated space. “We usually stay at Hove.”

  “This time we’re staying at The Pier,” he told her and she knew from his tone of voice that it was no good questioning him further. He had been reticent about his reasons for coming down to Brighton and when she had asked if it was to look for Fiona Scott he had answered: “Yes — amongst other things.”

  The receptionist was wary as she saw two prospective guests walk in without any luggage, but she changed her attitude when she heard Temple’s voice and had a closer look at Steve. Yes, it so happened that a room with bathroom was available, an ‘Executive Double’ facing the sea. Temple filled in the requisite form and received in reply a card with the room number written on it.

  “Your room is number 288, Mr Temple. I’ll call the porter to take your baggage up.”

  “I’m afraid we haven’t any at the moment.”

  “Oh.” The receptionist looked disappointed, as if her judgement of character had been found lacking. “In that case, sir, I’m afraid we must ask you to pay in —”

  “My man’s bringing our things down by train from London,” Temple reassured her. “Would you send him up to our room as soon as he arrives?”

  “Yes, of course, Mr Temple.” The girl smiled, relieved. “Don’t forget your key.”

  Steve, doing a little exploration in the background, had discovered a lounge where tea was being served and as it was the hour for the ritual that was sacred in the Temple household she steered Paul in there before going up to their room. Charlie was coming down on the 16.02 train and so could not be expected for another three-quarters of an hour.

  Temple chose a chair from which he could see the people moving to and from the reception desk and as Steve harked back to the unpleasant shock she had received seeing Larry Cross at Westerton — it had brought back the suffocating memory of that pad being pushed over her face at Heathrow — she was not at all sure that he was even listening to her. Fortunately, she had finished her second cup of tea when he suddenly stood up and said: “Come on, Steve.” He was well ahead of her as he strode out into the entrance lobby just as a man in a check jacket and fawn trousers with a raincoat over his arm finished his conversation with the receptionist. As he turned away from the counter he almost bumped into Temple.

  “Oh, I beg your — “Temple began, then broke into a surprised smile. “Well, hello, Langdon. This is a surprise!”

  “Temple! Well, what do you know?” He took Temple’s hand and pumped it warmly, then turned and saw Steve. His raincoat fell to the ground as he grabbed his hat off. “Hello, Mrs Temple! Good to see you again!”

  “Good afternoon, Mr Langdon.” Steve smiled as she rescued her hand from the American’s warm clasp and flexed her fingers.

  “Well, this really is a pleasure,” Langdon enthused. “I’d no idea you’d be down here.”

  “We felt we needed a breath of sea air,” Temple said, avoiding Steve’s eye.

  “You’re not the only ones,” Langdon said, picking his raincoat off the floor. “Kelburn’s got the same idea. That’s why I’m here. He has a suite on the first floor.”

  Steve said: “I thought you were going back to the States, Mr Langdon?”

  “I was, Mrs Temple. I was due to leave this morning but Kelburn made me cancel. I guess he’s got too accustomed to having me around, that’s about it.”

  “I’m sure you’ve been a great help, Langdon.”

  “Yeah, I know, but he expects me to interfere in affairs which don’t really concern me. He keeps asking my advice about — well, about his wife for one thing. They seem to have drifted apart these last few weeks.” Langdon lowered his voice. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t split up. Only the other day Kelburn was asking my advice about getting a divorce.’’

  “Don’t tell me he’ll expect you to handle that for him!”

  Langdon laughed. “You’d be surprised what he expects me to handle, Mrs Temple.”

  “Maybe he’s interested in some other woman,” Temple suggested.

  “Gee, no! The boot’s on the other foot, if anything.” Langdon glanced round to make sure the receptionist was not listening, but he need not have worried. The girl was answering the telephone. “I’ve seen Laura out twice recently with another man.”

  “A tall, dark-haired hatchet-faced man of about forty?”

  “Yes —could be.”

  “I think you’ll find he is Dr Benkaray’s secretary,” Temple told him. “That’s the doctor Julia consulted.’’

  Langdon digested this piece of information, his expression puzzled. “D’you know this character, then?”

  “I’ve met him during the course of my investigations. But how did Mrs Kelburn become involved with him? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “Maybe she went with Julia one day — to the doctor’s, I mean …” Langdon broke off as the receptionist put the telephone down and came to the counter.

  “Excuse me, sir. Mr Kelburn says you may go up now. It’s Suite 119 —first floor.”

  “Will you be staying on in London, Langdon?” Temple asked, as Langdon started towards the lift.

  “That’s up to Kelburn. But I can tell you this, the moment he gives the word I shall be heading back to New York.’’

  “Paul, how did you know?” Steve asked as soon as the couple were in the privacy of their own room.

  “Know what?” Temple replied innocently.

  “That George Kelburn was here and that we were going to meet Langdon. That’s who you were looking out for when we were having tea, wasn’t it?”

  “I was hoping to see someone, but I was not sure who. I backed a hunch based on something Bill Fletcher said and it paid off.”

  Their room on the second floor looked out over the promenade
and the beach. On either side the two piers prodded fingers out into a sparkling sea. Steve opened the window and breathed in the tangy air. Behind her Temple was leafing through the pages of the local telephone directory.

  “Langdon tried to persuade Mrs Fletcher to bring a coat down to Brighton and deliver it to Margo,” he explained.

  “Do you think Margo and this girl Fiona Scott are the same person?”

  “You asked me that before, Steve,” Temple reminded her, laughing. “According to Kelburn she’s a highly respectable young lady who disapproved of Julia’s more sensational friends.” He threw the telephone directory on to a chair. “All the same, she’s not in the ‘phone book. That would have been expecting too much.’’

  The wind was fresh enough to blow the curtains into the room. Steve closed the window and checked her watch.

  “I wonder what time Charlie will get here. Isn’t it strange to be in a hotel bedroom without any luggage?”

  She was moving towards him with arms outstretched when the telephone started to ring.

  “Damn!” Steve said, glaring at the instrument with dislike. “Do you have to answer it?”

  But Temple had already reached the telephone and was picking it up.

  “Is that you, Temple?”

  Even from the other side of the room Steve recognised the distinctive accent on the other end of the line. Sir Graham Forbes’s voice was so strong that she was able to hear every word of the ensuing conversation.

  “Hello, Sir Graham! Are you speaking from London?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you know we were down here?”

  “Charlie told me. What are you doing in Brighton anyway?”

  “Oh — we just thought we’d pop down here for a breath of sea air.’’ Temple smiled at Steve.

  “I see.” Forbes paused before playing the card he had up his sleeve. “I thought perhaps you might be looking for a girl named Fiona Scott.”

  “How did you find out the name?” Temple asked with some surprise.

  “What’s more to the point — how did you find it?”

  “I had a talk with Tony Wyman. He apparently met her some little time ago.”

  “I see. Well, listen, Temple — we’ve got her ‘phone number. Have you a pen?”

  Temple pulled out a pen and signalled Steve to bring him something to write on. She ran to the writing-table and picked up a sheet of the hotel’s notepaper. Temple nodded his thanks as he wrote the number down.

  “We haven’t contacted her yet because we don’t want to scare the girl,” Forbes went on. “I thought you might ‘phone her — unofficially, as it were — and get the lie of the land.’’

  “Yes, all right, Sir Graham,” Temple agreed with some amusement. “How did you get the number?”

  “We do find things out for ourselves occasionally,” Forbes said drily. “Keep in touch, Temple. Love to Steve.”

  Temple was still laughing when he put the ‘phone down.

  “What’s the joke?” Steve enquired.

  “That was Sir Graham, as I expect you guessed. Charlie told him we were down here. He’s given me Fiona Scott’s ‘phone number.”

  “I’ll bet Raine found it. He’d make sure you weren’t going to put one over on him.” Steve had adopted an expression which Temple knew well. It meant that she had her thinking cap on. “You know what I would do, Paul, if I were investigating this case?”

  “What would you do, darling?”

  “I should forget all about Fiona Scott and concentrate on Mike Langdon. There’s something about him —”

  “And what about all the other suspects?” Temple objected, laughing. “Larry Cross, Tony Wyman, Mrs Fletcher, Dr Benkaray — even Edgar Northampton.”

  “The bank manager? You don’t think he had anything to do with the murder?”

  “No, I don’t.” Temple had started to dial the number Forbes had given him. “But Bill Fletcher implied that he had some sort of hold over Dr Benkaray. Hello! Could I speak to Miss Fiona Scott, please?”

  The voice of the woman who answered was so low that Steve did not even try to follow the conversation. She went to the window to watch the evening traffic on the road below. People who had been at work all day had come out to stroll along the promenade. A few fresh-air fiends were striding along briskly, taking deep breaths as they put their best foot forward. Out on the water a windsurfer was struggling to right his capsized board. As always at Brighton there was plenty to entertain the interested observer.

  “Well, I finally got through to Fiona Scott,” Temple said, putting the ‘phone down.

  “Did you get anything from her?”

  “She was evasive at first; didn’t want to have anything more to do with the affair of Julia. But she relented when I told her that she was probably fonder of Julia than anyone else and could almost certainly tell me a few things that would be useful.”

  “Are you going to see her?”

  “Apparently I only just caught her. She’s going away to stay with some friends of hers who live at a place called Seadale —‘’

  “That’s further along the coast, about fifteen miles from here.”

  “Yes. She said that if I drive over there this evening she would talk to me.”

  “What time?”

  “Eight o’clock. A place called Breakwater House, a mile or two beyond the village.”

  “We’ll need to have an early — Come in!”

  Steve had stopped at the sound of knuckles rapping on the door. She knew it was not locked, but as there was no response she went over and opened it. The figure standing in the corridor outside had a suitcase in each hand. He was wearing a check shower-proof overcoat, which had once belonged to Temple, and a jaunty tweed hat perched incongruously on his head.

  “Hello, Mrs Temple!”

  “Oh, hello, Charlie.” The spectacle of Charlie in a hat was so unusual that Steve just stood there staring at him.

  “You haven’t wasted much time!” Temple exclaimed.

  “No, wonderful train service!” As Steve stood aside Charlie proceeded into the room and put the case down in the middle of the carpet. “Just caught the four o’clock as it was pulling out. Here’s your case, Mrs Temple — and here’s yours, sir.”

  “Thank you, Charlie. What’s that small case?”

  “Oh, this.” Charlie removed the hat and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “I brought the recorder down, Mr Temple. I thought I’d tape the ‘phone calls while you were away, so you could hear them for yourself. Better than writing a message down.”

  “Much better, Charlie,” Temple agreed solemnly. “Put it down on that table. There’s a socket in the wall underneath. Have there been many calls?”

  “Only two important ones. Sir Graham rang, but he only wanted to know where you were. The first call was from a woman — wouldn’t give her name or anything.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Oh, about half past ten this morning.”

  While Charlie took his overcoat off, carefully folded it and placed it on a chair near the door, with the hat on top, Temple plugged the telephone monitoring machine in. Steve sat down in the chair beside the window, waiting expectantly. Charlie, looking around for somewhere suitable to sit, decided against the bed and perched uncomfortably astride the suitcases.

  Temple made sure that the tape had been wound back, switched the machine on and sat down in the chair by the table. The hum of the machine filled the room and then the brr-brr of the ‘phone ringing followed by Charlie picking up the receiver.

  “Mr Temple’s residence,” came the voice of Charlie.

  “Can I speak to Mr Temple, please?”

  “I’m afraid he’s away at the moment. Who is that?”

  “Can you tell me where I can get in touch with him?”

  “Who is that speaking?”

  The woman hesitated, obviously reluctant to give her name, but Temple had already recognised the voice as Mrs Fletcher’s.


  “You wouldn’t know my name … Where is Mr Temple?”

  “He’s gone down to Brighton for a few days with Mrs Temple.”

  “Why has he gone to Brighton?” Mrs Fletcher sounded alarmed at mention of Brighton. “Do you know?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

  “Is he — Is he going to the fun fair?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Charlie chuckled. “Shouldn’t think so. Not Mr Temple’s cup of tea. Look — if you leave your name…”

  “Where is Mr Temple staying?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

  “All right, I’ll ring back later!”

  As the amplified clicks and rattles started again Temple switched off the machine.

  “Did you recognise the voice, Paul?”

  “Yes — it was Mrs Fletcher.”

  “Made me laugh when she mentioned the fun fair…” Charlie was chuckling again as he remembered Mrs Fletcher’s improbable question. Steve too was smiling at the idea. “I can’t imagine you and Mr Temple on the dodgems.”

  Charlie was trying to bring Temple in on the joke, but Temple’s face was serious.

  “Can’t you, Charlie?” he said thoughtfully. “All right, let’s hear the next one.”

  The second conversation was both shorter and more to the point. The caller was Laura Kelburn and when she heard that the Temples were away she had no hesitation in asking Charlie to give Temple a message. “Mr Temple saw me in a friend’s car the other night near Hyde Park Corner. I’m very anxious that he shouldn’t mention the fact to anyone — particularly my husband.”

  Temple switched the machine off and unplugged it. “Well done, Charlie. It’s a great help to hear people’s tone of voice. You can take this back to London with you.”

  “Well,” Steve said, “that ties up with what Mike Langdon said, doesn’t it, Paul?”

  “You mean another man and the possibility of Kelburn getting a divorce? I find it hard to believe Laura Kelburn’s fallen for someone like Larry Cross.”

  “You never can tell,” Steve reminded him with a smile. “Women are peculiar creatures.”

  “You can say that …” Charlie began with feeling, then clapped his hand over his mouth. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs Temple.”