‘’ Is that her — secretary?’’
“Yes.”
“Mr Cross?”
“Who’s that speaking?”
“This is Paul Temple. I’d like a word with Dr Benkaray.”
“I’m sorry, but Dr Benkaray’s got several appointments this morning and can’t be disturbed.”
“I see. Well, do you think I could speak to her later today — possibly this evening?”
“Yes, I should imagine so. You could ring about half past seven.”
“Thank you. Tell Dr Benkaray we now know who murdered Julia Kelburn, but there’s just one small point I’d like to check with the doctor. It won’t take a minute. Good —”
“No, hold on! … Are you still there, Mr Temple? I’ll see if the doctor can spare you a minute.’’
“Thank you very much, that’s very kind of you.”
Temple held the receiver tight against his right ear and stopped the left one with a finger. He could hear a muttered conversation going on at the Wimpole Street end, but was unable to make out the words. It was a full minute before Dr Benkaray came on the line.
“Good morning, Mr Temple. I understand you wish to speak to me?”
“Oh, good morning, Dr Benkaray. How very kind of you. Yes, I wanted to have a word with you, Doctor, before you left, and just check up on —”
“Before I left?”
“Yes. You are going away, aren’t you, Doctor?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am — but how did you know?”
“Oh, I thought it was common knowledge. My wife overheard someone say something about it at a party — one of your patients, I imagine.”
“I see.”
“Where are you going to, Doctor?”
“I’m going to Canada, on a lecture tour.”
“Well, take it easy — those lecture tours can be terribly tiring. I know what I’m talking about, I’ve just returned from one.”
“My secretary tells me you know who murdered Julia Kelburn.”
“Yes, we know, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you who it is. The police have clammed up about it.”
“What do you mean — clammed up? I’m not used to these Americanisms.”
“You’ll have to get used to them, Doctor, if you’re going to Canada. Incidentally, is Mr Cross going with you?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Ah well, he’ll put you right I’m sure.”
“What is it you wanted to ask me, Mr Temple?”
“During your consultations with Julia Kelburn, did she ever mention a friend of hers called Fiona Scott?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“You’ve never heard the name before?”
“No, I haven’t. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Oh, I’m not disappointed. On the contrary, I should have been disappointed if she had mentioned it. Goodbye, Dr Benkaray.”
A few days after the visit to the Kelburns’ house in the Boltons Temple was having breakfast and listening to the eight o’clock news. The main item was still the big robbery in Bond Street the previous afternoon when thieves had robbed a well-known jewellers in broad daylight. The highly efficient and overworked Metropolitan police appeared baffled by this latest crime, though it bore all the hallmarks of the gang that had given them so much trouble in the past year.
Sir Graham arrived before Steve had put in an appearance. Just as he was finishing his coffee Temple heard Charlie usher him into the sitting-room. He was standing staring morosely out of the window when Temple joined him, with his hands clasped behind his back. To judge by the lines on his face he had not slept the previous night.
“Ah, good morning, Temple,” he said, turning. “I hope I’m not too early for you, but you sounded quite anxious when you telephoned last night.’’
“Good of you to come, Sir Graham. Superintendent —”
“Raine’s tied up to his eyes with this Bond Street robbery. We need some lucky break before this afternoon. The Minister has asked me to be at the House of Commons at Question Time.”
“Sit down, Sir Graham. Shall I ask Charlie to bring you a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you.” Forbes had no time for coffee but he accepted the invitation to take a chair.
“I am more than anxious, I was very worried. I still am,” Temple said. “Sir Graham, as you know, we’ve suspected for some time that the murder of Julia Kelburn was linked up with the activities of The Fence.”
“Yes,” Forbes agreed cautiously.
“Well, I’ve good reason to believe that The Fence has made plans to leave the country — getting out while the going’s good. Now, the point is this, Sir Graham. I know who The Fence is, but I haven’t sufficient evidence — not real evidence — for you to get a warrant out. On the other hand, once The Fence leaves the country …”
“That mustn’t be allowed to happen,” Forbes said with quiet emphasis. “In the present circumstances it would create an impossible situation.”
“Well, how do we prevent it, Sir Graham?”
Forbes knew Temple well enough to read his expression. It told him that his old friend was cooking up one of his complicated plans. “Have you a suggestion, Temple?”
“Yes, but I’m afraid it’s a very unorthodox one. I doubt whether you’ll approve of it.”
“I don’t mind how unorthodox it is if it’s going to help us crack this case.”
Temple hesitated, and Forbes waited patiently for him to continue.
“I had a message from the prison Governor yesterday. Midge Harris has asked if he can see me again. An interview has been arranged for three o’clock this afternoon.”
“Midge Harris?” Forbes repeated the name incredulously. “He’s asked to see you! Why on earth? Raine wasn’t able to get a word out of the fellow.”
“Ah.” Temple was smiling. “But Raine never sent him a postcard, Sir Graham!”
Temple’s second interview with Midge Harris took place, as before, in the Chaplain’s room. Nothing about the prison had changed. The sounds, the smells, the impersonality of the room were just the same. But Midge Harris’s manner was completely different. That he was angry was evident from the aggressive thrust of his head and the twist of his mouth. However, he greeted Temple almost like a friend.
“Well, Midge, I came as soon as I could after getting your message.”
“Thanks.” Midge looked over his shoulder, waiting till the warder had closed the door before starting the conversation. “I had to see you, Mr Temple. For one thing, I wanted to say I’m sorry I didn’t believe you last time you were here. You know, when you came out with all that stuff about my girl, Sal.’’
“You’ve heard from her?” Temple proffered the packet of cigarettes which had been untouched since his last visit.
“Yes. I had a postcard. She ain’t in the South of France like I told you, she’s still in her old job, sweating her guts out. I’ve been led up the effing garden, and that’s a fact.”
“I take it your friends have let you down, then?” Temple asked, holding out his lighter.
Midge put his hand round Temple’s to keep the flame steady as he lit his cigarette. It was a symbolic gesture of confidence.
“Let me down! You can say that again! Yes, well, he ain’t bloody well goin’ to get away with it — not this time, he ain’t!”
“I’m glad to hear you say that. After all, apart from the predicament you’re in, it’s not fair on Sally.”
“You’re dead right it ain’t fair on Sally! I don’t know what’s gone wrong. He’s always looked after the other boys, always taken care of them …”
“Well, he hasn’t looked after you, Midge, has he?”
The expletive that escaped from Midge was unprintable and he looked round hurriedly as if afraid that the Chaplain might have materialised behind him. Temple, suppressing a smile of amusement, took a chair and gave Midge a signal to do the same.
“Now, Midge, listen. I want you to tell me about The Fence. I give m
y word that whatever you tell me about yourself will be treated in the strictest confidence. I’m only interested in The Fence and the Kelburn murder.’’
“I didn’t have anything to do with any murder!” At the word murder Midge had stiffened. “You got to believe that, Mr Temple, or you don’t get another word out of me!”
“All right, Midge, I believe you,” Temple assured him, placatingly. “Now tell me how you first got in touch with The Fence.”
Midge drew thoughtfully on his cigarette.
“I’d never heard of him until a few years back when I knocked off a jeweller’s and tried to get rid of the stuff through the usual channels. The boys wouldn’t hear of it — wouldn’t touch the stuff. The Yard had got the heat on just about then — sending scores of their chaps round the pawn shops and places. I tried one or two of the provincial boys but it was the same story — they all said the stuff was too hot.”
“Go on.”
“Well, one day I was in a little caff off the Tottenham Court Road when the man who runs the place said I was wanted on the blower. It was a woman — she didn’t give her name but she ‘ad a bit of a funny accent. Foreigner, I suppose. Anyway, she said she’d heard I was interested in doing a deal and she told me to go to a pet shop in South Dock Road, Shoreditch. I was to ask for Oscar. Well, I went round to this place — it’s next door to a pub called The Greyhound — and spoke to the bloke behind the counter. He was a big, tough-looking chap with a Brummie accent.”
Temple was not taking notes. It would only remind Midge of his interviews with the police. He knew that he would be able to remember the conversation word for word.
“What happened?”
“I showed him a diamond ring I wanted to flog and told him there was plenty more where that came from.”
“Did he buy it?”
“No, ‘course he didn’t,” Midge said. “Not right away. They weren’t takin’ no chances. This Oscar bloke asked me to leave it with him for a couple of days while he had it valued. Well, what’d I got to lose? I couldn’t flog it anywhere else. Two days later I got another ‘phone call, telling me to take all the stuff to a place called Breakwater House, not far from Brighton.”
Not by a flicker of interest did Temple show that this was the break he had been waiting for. “And what happened there?”
“A youngish chap let me in — a slick operator type. He collected the stuff off me and took it into the next room. After a minute or two I heard several voices — there seemed to be a bit of an argument going on. I began to wonder what was happening. I mean to say, I was all on my own, and there were three or four of them, as far as I could tell. Still, in the end this young fellow comes back with a real good offer — and what’s more it was cash down and no messing about.’’
“You didn’t see any of the other people?”
“No, I didn’t.” Midge laid the remains of his cigarette on the floor and flattened it with the sole of his shoe. “But the young bloke asked me if I’d be interested in another little job they’d cased out at Ealing — dead easy it was, too. After that, one thing led to another. They kept me pretty busy …” A look of happy reminiscence came over Midge’s face as he remembered these good times. “Sometimes with one or two other chaps, sometimes on my own.”
“And you never actually saw The Fence?”
“No, never set eyes on ‘im. But he always played fair, Mr Temple — paid a good price and looked after the wife and kids if any of the boys got nabbed. That’s what I don’t understand about this lark. Why didn’t he take care of Sal?”
Midge looked straight at him and Temple would have felt ashamed of his subterfuge if his motive had not been to track down the murderer of Julia Kelburn, Ted Angus and Tony Wyman.
“Yes, well — it’s just one of those things,” he said vaguely, and stood up. “Thank you, Midge, you’ve been a great help. Take care of yourself.’’
Midge took the hint that the interview was over. Satisfied that he had done something to level the score between him and The Fence, he gave Temple a broad grin.
“Well, I won’t overeat, if that’s what you’re worried about!”
For the second day in succession Steve came into the dining-room to find Temple almost finishing his breakfast. She had gone to bed the previous night before he came home and had just got to sleep when the sound of his key in the front door wakened her. Knowing that he was being as quiet as possible she had kept her eyes closed when he came to bed. Ironically, he had fallen asleep before she did and it was a long time before she finally drifted away. In the morning she awoke to find that he had already got up.
She was still sleepy as she came round the table to kiss him on the top of the head.
“You were out very late last night, Paul. What were you up to?”
“I tried not to disturb you coming in. I went down to Fleet Street and had a couple of drinks with Ken Sinclair.”
“That’s the second time you’ve seen Ken within the past week.”
Temple picked up the coffee pot and poured her a cup. In the hall the ‘phone started ringing.
“I’ve asked him to look up an old friend of ours — Wally Stone.”
“Who’s Wally Stone?” Steve asked, without great interest. She knew she needed her coffee before she could make sense.
“Don’t you remember? He used to be one of the best cats in the business.”
“Cats?” It was too early in the day for Steve to grasp underworld slang. “You mean a pantomime cat?”
“No, darling.” When he had finished laughing Temple became serious. He could hear Charlie dealing with the telephone call. “Steve, you know the bracelet I bought you last Christmas — the diamond and ruby one?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to borrow it for a couple of days. I think the clasp needs attention.”
“It doesn’t. The clasp’s perfectly all right.”
“I don’t think so, Steve. I noticed it the other evening when we went to the Kelburns. It needs looking at. It’ll only take a day or two.”
Steve was still looking puzzled when Charlie brought the telephone in. “Sir Graham Forbes for you, sir,” he said, as he plugged it into the socket.
With a slightly apprehensive look at Steve, Temple took the instrument. “Temple here. Good morning, Sir Graham.”
“Temple, we’ve done what you wanted.” Forbes’s resonant voice was clearly audible from Steve’s place across the table. “We’ve included the ruby and diamond bracelet in the list of stolen property. A description has been sent out to all stations, as well as to jewellers, pawnbrokers and, of course, the Press.”
“Thank you, Sir Graham,” Temple said hurriedly, showing no desire to prolong the conversation. But Sir Graham too was in a hurry and rang off with an abrupt, “Right! Goodbye.”
Steve was staring at Paul over the top of her cup. The hot, strong coffee had put life in her.
“Paul, did he say a ruby and diamond bracelet?”
“Yes, I believe he did.”
“But you just asked me to —”
“Just one of those unhappy coincidences, darling.”
The Greyhound in Shoreditch was easy to find. Under new ownership it had been smartened up with a fresh coat of paint and bore the usual signs — Free House, Real Ale and The Inn Place for Good Grub. The same could not be said for the pet shop next door to it. The paint was peeling, the windows needed cleaning and the stock on display in them had been there for a long time. Though the owner had forgotten to reverse the Closed sign the door opened when Temple turned the handle. He found himself in a gloomy shop with tins of dog and cat food round the wall, bags of fodder on the floor, a festoon of dog leads hanging from a coat-hook. A couple of white rabbits peered out from behind the bars of a tiny cage and a bird with brilliant plumage squawked a greeting — or a warning — from a bird-cage hung from the ceiling.
The man behind the counter was not all that pleased to see a customer come in. He was a burly fellow with an
overdeveloped paunch and flabby cheeks. He might have been an all-in wrestler gone to seed. He ran suspicious eyes over Temple’s clothes and features and decided that he represented a type which he spurned.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, or rather demanded. As Midge had said, the accent was Birmingham.
“You’ve got a dog collar in the window. It’s marked ten pounds fifty.”
“That’s right.” Oscar’s eyes dropped to Temple’s well- polished shoes.
“Is it leather?”
“Yes, ‘course it’s leather — genuine leather.”
“Do you think I could have a look at it?”
“I’ve got one here.” Oscar made no attempt to move. “It’s a different colour, but it’s just the same.” He opened a drawer and produced a bright scarlet dog collar. “Very good value for ten fifty. Is it the right size?”
“Yes, it is.” Temple took the collar and examined it cursorily. “But it’s not quite the same as the one in the window, is it?”
“It’s exactly the same.” Behind him the tropical bird squawked a protest. “That’s leather, that is — genuine leather.” Oscar seized the collar and angrily flexed it.
“I’ll take it.”
Oscar reacted almost with resentment, cheated of a good, abrasive row. “Okay,” he said, and began to put the collar in a bag.
Temple put ten pounds and a fifty-pence piece on the counter. “Are you Oscar?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“I think you know a friend of mine — Midge Harris?”
“Don’t know anyone called Harris.” Oscar kept his eyes down.
“A small, rather scruffy little man with a red …”
“Don’t know anyone called Harris,” Oscar repeated, more vehemently.
“No?” Temple had one hand in his jacket pocket. “I’m sorry about that. I thought you might be able to tell me what this was worth.” He brought out his hand and put Steve’s ruby and diamond necklace on the counter.
Oscar reeled back as if he had been struck. “Strewth! Where did you get that from?”
“I‘ll give you one guess.’’
“That’s from the Bond Street job!”
“That’s right.”
Paul Temple and the Margo Mystery Page 17
