Send for Paul Temple
Francis Durbridge
In the dead of night, a watchman is brutally attacked and with his dying breath cries out, “The Green Finger!” It is the latest in a series of robberies to take place that have left Scotland Yard mystified, and with no other choice but to call upon the expertise of Detective Paul Temple.Aided by the beautiful journalist Louise Harvey – affectionately known as Steve – the duo discover that this is not the first victim to warn of the dangerous and elusive ‘Green Finger’… who or what is it? The pair must work together to solve the deepening mystery.
FRANCIS DURBRIDGE
Send for Paul Temple
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First published in Great Britain by
LONG 1938
Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1938
All rights reserved
Francis Durbridge has asserted his right under the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015
Cover image © Shutterstock.com
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008125523
Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008125530
Version: 2015-06-01
Contents
Cover (#u8eb67763-2a83-5951-ac32-6d158fa6cfe0)
Title Page (#u6570cfd8-76d7-5c42-af6c-e19adf1510c0)
Copyright (#u1ab19932-b0de-5c63-9bc5-e4fd9ed52ccc)
CHAPTER I: Conference at Scotland Yard (#u8f486496-65df-5b4b-a4f3-85ce2005cefa)
CHAPTER II: Paul Temple (#u33c5e410-3a52-5bac-8768-6e035cb9bb15)
CHAPTER III: Death of a Detective (#u2da365bb-ddd3-5219-950d-a1aec38365bf)
CHAPTER IV: Again the Green Finger (#uc92ed491-f80f-5db5-b2ee-57640ff6bb9d)
CHAPTER V: Room 7 (#u30ae7f45-133a-52d7-95aa-841cd8278351)
CHAPTER VI: The Knave of Diamonds (#u421e7653-02d9-5ab9-a7ac-1a4329cc5ddb)
CHAPTER VII: The Shaping of a Mystery (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER VIII: A Message From Scotland Yard! (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER IX: Smash-and-Grab! (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER X: Comparing Notes (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XI: Murder at Scotland Yard (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XII: The Plan (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XIII: A Present From the Knave! (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XIV: Behind the Scenes (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XV: The Wristlet Watch (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XVI: Going Down! (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XVII: The Secret of the Lift (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XVIII: The Commissioner’s Orders (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XIX: Steve Vanishes! (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XX: At the Inn (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XXI: The First Penguin (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XXII: Ludmilla (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XXIII: A Surprise for Temple (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XXIV: Recovery and Escape (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XXV: Amelia Victoria Bellman (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XXVI: Horace and the Bridge (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XXVII: Conspiracy (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XXVIII: The Message (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XXIX: The Meeting Is Adjourned (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XXX: Even If It’s the Commissioner! (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XXXI: Enter the Knave! (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER XXXII: And Exit the Knave! (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also in This Series (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER I (#u05eab5b0-84fc-5c0c-977f-f3ad5a12ac4b)
Conference at Scotland Yard (#u05eab5b0-84fc-5c0c-977f-f3ad5a12ac4b)
‘Superintendent Harvey and Inspector Dale, sir!’
‘All right, Sergeant, you can go. Let me have the map some time before noon.’
Sir Graham Forbes, the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, stood up to greet the new arrivals. He was a tall man with iron-grey hair and a sparse figure. Even the black coat and striped trousers, which gave him the appearance of a City stockbroker, could not conceal that his early career had been spent with the Army. He contrasted strangely with the two men who now came into his office at Scotland Yard.
Dale was a man of medium height and build who always seemed unhappy and helpless without his bowler hat, and the umbrella which nobody ever remembered seeing unfurled.
The superintendent was a full head taller. He was a man of mighty frame whose bronzed face might have made the casual stranger mistake him for the more successful type of farmer. But he possessed a fund of wisdom and mellow humour, coupled with an astuteness that he would reveal in some urbane remark, that few farmers possessed.
Superintendent Harvey and Chief Inspector Dale had been placed in charge of the mysterious robberies, the size and scope of which had literally staggered the country. It was now their unpleasant task to give the Commissioner an account of yet another mysterious robbery which had occurred in Birmingham only a few hours before.
‘It’s the same gang, sir!’ Chief Inspector Dale was saying. He spoke quietly, but the calm, clear note of efficiency sounded in his voice. ‘There’s no question of it. £8,000 worth of diamonds.’
The Commissioner looked worried. Monocle in hand, he strode backwards and forwards across the heavily carpeted room.
‘The night watchman is dead, sir!’ Superintendent Harvey added.
‘Dead?’ There was no mistaking the surprise in Sir Graham’s’ voice.
‘Yes.’
‘The poor devil was chloroformed,’ Dale explained. ‘I don’t think they meant to kill him. According to the doctor, he was gassed during the War, and his lungs were pretty groggy.’
The news had not put Sir Graham in the best of tempers. ‘This is bad, Dale!’ he said irritably. ‘Bad!’ he repeated with emphasis.
‘He was a new man,’ said Harvey. ‘He’d only been with Stirling’s a month or so.’
‘Did you check up on him?’
‘Yes. His name was Rogers. “Lefty” Rogers. He was working at Stirling’s under the name of Dixon.’
The hint in the superintendent’s words, and the inflexion of his voice was not lost on the Commissioner.
‘Had he a record?’ he asked.
‘He’d a record all right! Everything from petty larceny to blackmail,’ Chief Inspector Dale informed him.
The Commissioner grunted.
‘Inspector Merritt was already on the job when we arrived, sir,’ said Harvey.
‘Inspector Merritt? Oh, yes.’ The Commissioner paused. ‘Who discovered the robbery in the first place?’
‘One of the constables on night duty,’ answered Inspector Dale. ‘A man called Finley. He noticed the side door had been forced open. At least, that’s his story!’ he added, with a queer note in his voice.
‘You don’t believe him?’
‘No,’ Dale replied decisively. ‘I think he was in the habit of having a chat with Rogers, or Dixon—whichever you like to call him. In fact, he almost admitted as much. The night watchman used to make coffee, and I rather think P.C. Finley has—er—a liking for coffee.’
The Commissioner appeared to think over the significance of what Dale had told him. ‘Do you think he knew Dixon was an ex-convict?’ he asked at last.
Dale hesitated a fraction before he answered. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘This is the fourth robbery in two months, Dale!’ the Commissioner said impatiently, and took a cigarette from the small ivory box on his desk.
‘There wasn’t a mark on the safe,’ Inspector Dale said quietly. ‘If it hadn’t been for the other robberies, I’d have sworn this was an inside job.’
‘What did Merritt have to say?’ asked Forbes.
Dale seemed amused. ‘He’s in a complete daze, poor devil. He’d got some fancy sort of theory about a huge criminal organization. I think Inspector Merritt has a rather theatrical imagination!’ he added, with a smile which had some slight measure of contempt behind it.
‘You don’t think we’re up against a criminal organization, then?’ the Commissioner asked.
‘Good heavens, no! Criminal organizations are all very well between the pages of a novel, sir, but when it comes to real life, well, they just don’t exist!’
Sir Graham Forbes grunted. ‘Is that your opinion too, Harvey?’ he asked, turning to where Harvey was sitting on the other side of his desk.
‘To be perfectly honest, Sir Graham, I’m rather inclined to agree with Merritt.’ Dale looked at him with obvious surprise, but Harvey continued: ‘At first I thought we were up against the usual crowd who were having an uncanny run of good luck,’ he said, ‘but now I’m rather inclined to think otherwise. You see, in the first place, there are certain aspects of this business which, to my way of thinking, indicate the existence of a really super mind. A man with an unusual flair for criminal organization. I know it sounds fantastic, and all that, sir! I feel rather reluctant to believe it myself, but we must face the facts, and the facts are pretty grim!’
He paused, but Sir Graham nodded, as a sign for him to continue.
‘First there was the case of Smithson’s of Gloucester. £17,000 worth of stuff. Then there was the Leicester business, £9,000 worth. Then there was the Derby affair, £4,000. And mark you, we had the Derby shop covered. We were, in fact, prepared for the raid. But that didn’t stop it from happening. Then, on top of everything else, there’s this affair in Birmingham, £8,000 worth of diamonds.
‘No, Sir Graham, if we were up against the usual crowd, Benny Lever, “Dopey” Crowman, “Spilly” Stetson, we’d have had ’em under lock and key ages ago. I firmly believe, Sir Graham, that we are up against one of the greatest criminal organizations in Europe!’
Harvey had been carried away by his rising excitement as he recalled the details of the mysterious robberies. Sir Graham had been listening intently, making an occasional note on a pad on his desk. A slight smile of amusement on Dale’s face had given place to the utmost seriousness as Harvey continued with his dramatic recital.
‘Where was the night watchman when this fellow—er— Finley, discovered him?’ the Commissioner asked at last.
‘In his usual spot, sir,’ Dale answered. ‘He had a tiny office at the back of the shop.’
‘I suppose you questioned Finley?’
‘Good Lord, yes, sir!’ replied Harvey emphatically. ‘I was with him almost an hour.’
‘Did you see the night watchman, Dale, before he died?’
‘No, sir, but Harvey did.’
‘Well, Harvey?’
‘He was pretty groggy when I saw him,’ the Superintendent said. ‘The doctor wouldn’t let me stay above a couple of minutes.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Yes,’ said Harvey quietly, ‘as a matter of fact, he did.’
Superintendent Harvey spoke strangely, and both the Commissioner and Chief Inspector Dale directed puzzled looks at him.
‘Well, what did he say?’ the Commissioner demanded.
‘It was just as I was on the verge of leaving.… He turned over on his side and mumbled a few words. They sounded almost incoherent at the time. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t until a minute or so later that I realized what he’d said—’
As he broke off, the Commissioner became more and more impatient.
‘Well, what did he say, Harvey?’
Quietly the superintendent replied. ‘He said: “The Green Finger”!’
‘The Green Finger…’ said Dale.
‘Yes.’
‘But—but that doesn’t make sense.’
‘Just a minute, Dale,’ said the Commissioner, deep in thought. ‘You remember that man we fished out of the river about a month ago. We thought he might have had something to do with that job at Leicester. I think you found his print on part of—’
Dale interrupted him. ‘Oh, yes! “Snipey” Jackson. I was with Lawrence at the time we found him. The poor devil was floating down the river like an empty sack.’ He paused, then suddenly exclaimed: ‘I say…don’t you remember? Don’t you remember what he said just before he died? I’m sure I’m right! Why—’
‘He said, “The Green Finger”!’ The Commissioner spoke slowly, emphasizing each syllable.
‘Yes,’ repeated Dale, ‘“The Green Finger”.’
‘The—the same as the night watchman,’ added Harvey. ‘But—what is this Green Finger? What does it mean?’
‘That, my dear Superintendent,’ replied the Commissioner with dry humour, ‘is one of the many things we are here to find out.’
‘I don’t think there’s any doubt that “Snipey” Jackson was tied up with that Leicester job,’ said Dale. ‘Henderson found two of his fingerprints on one of the show-cases.’
‘Yes,’ replied Sir Graham. ‘I reckon that was the reason why you and Lawrence had the pleasure of fishing him out of the Thames. The people we are up against know how to deal with incompetence; that’s one thing I’ll say for them!’
‘Sir Graham,’ asked Dale slowly, ‘do you believe the same as Harvey and Inspector Merritt, that we are up against a definite criminal organization?’
Sir Graham got up and walked to the fireplace. There he stood with his back to the glowing flames while Dale and Harvey swung round in their chairs until they faced him again. For some time he said nothing. Then at last, he seemed to have made up his mind.
‘Yes, I do, Dale!’ he said quietly.
‘I suppose you’ve seen the newspapers, Sir Graham?’ It was Harvey who asked the question.
A faint flush spread over the Commissioner’s cheeks. The subject seemed to irritate him. ‘Yes!’ he snapped impatiently. ‘Yes, I’ve seen them. “Send for Paul Temple”! “Why doesn’t Scotland Yard send for Paul Temple?” They even had placards out about the fellow. The Press have been very irritating over this affair. Very irritating!’
‘Paul Temple,’ said Dale thoughtfully. ‘Isn’t he the novelist chap who helped us over the Tenworthy murder?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he caught old Tenworthy!’ Dale went on. ‘I’ll say that for him.’ Suddenly he turned towards the superintendent. ‘He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he, Harvey?’
‘I know him,’ said Harvey.
‘Temple is just an ordinary amateur criminologist,’ said Sir Graham Forbes, with a vast amount of scorn in his voice. ‘He had a great deal of luck over the Tenworthy affair and a great deal of excellent publicity for his novels.’
Superintendent Harvey was inclined to doubt this. ‘I don’t think Paul Temple exactly courted publicity, Sir Graham,’ he said quietly.
‘Don’t be a fool, Harvey, of course he did! All these amateurs thrive on publicity!’
‘Well, you must admit, Sir Graham,’ laughed Dale, ‘we were a little relieved to see the last of the illusive Mr. Tenworthy!’
‘Yes!’ exclaimed Sir Graham. ‘And just at the moment, I should be considerably relieved to hear the last of Mr. Paul Temple. Ever since this confounded business started, people have been bombarding us with letters— “Send for Paul Temple!”’ His tones, impatient and bitter to start with, had gradually worked up into a fury. But he was prevented from going any further. As he finished his sentence, the door opened and Sergeant Leopold, his personal attendant, appeared. The Commissioner looked round, angry at being disturbed.
‘What is it, sergeant?’ he asked.
‘The map, sir,’ Sergeant Leopold replied. ‘Remember you asked me to—’
‘Oh, yes,’ the Commissioner interrupted him.
‘Put it on the desk, sergeant.’
Sergeant Leopold cleared a space on the fully loaded desk, and left the room. Instead of continuing his heated discussion the Commissioner opened the map and spread it flat over the top of his desk.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said, as the two officers stood up and bent over it. ‘This is a map covering the exact area in which, so far, the criminals have confined their activities.’ He pointed to the circles, and other marks, which had been neatly inscribed in the Map Room at Scotland Yard. ‘You will see the towns which have already been affected. Gloucester, Leicester, Derby, and Birmingham.’ He pointed to each of the four places in turn. ‘The map, as you see, starts at Nottingham and comes as far south as Gloucester…covering, in fact, the entire Midlands.’
The Commissioner stood back from the table. He flourished his hand with all the emphasis he might have used in addressing a large and important gathering.
‘Gentlemen, somewhere in that area are the headquarters of the greatest criminal organization in Europe. That organization must be smashed!’
CHAPTER II (#u05eab5b0-84fc-5c0c-977f-f3ad5a12ac4b)
Paul Temple (#u05eab5b0-84fc-5c0c-977f-f3ad5a12ac4b)
The press of the country had seized on the idea of a mysterious gang holding the Midlands in its grasp, and were making the most of it. Both Spanish and Chinese War news had begun to grow wearisome. Moreover, news editors found it both difficult and tedious to try to follow the latest moves. Only an occasional heavy bombardment, the capture of a big city, or the sinking of a British ship could now be sure of reaching the front pages.
The mere killing of hundreds of men a day had long ceased to be news. There had not even been a really good murder story for months, and editors were falling back on such hardy annuals as Gretna Green and the ‘cat’ for their very large and strident headlines.
Then suddenly, out of the blue, the ‘Midland Mysteries’ arrived. The circulations of the evening papers immediately reached heights no national or international crisis could produce. Special investigators made their special investigations and produced lengthy summaries of what they had not been able to find out. Articles appeared by well-known psychologists, judges, the Chairman of the Howard League for Penal Reform, and Mr. George Bernard Shaw.
Every newspaper produced different theories and suggested different methods of apprehending the criminals. One ran a competition for readers’ solutions. It was won by Mr. Ronald Garth, a Battersea bricklayer, who was convinced, in no very certain grammar or spelling, that the crimes were a put-up job and part of a new attempt to foster interest in A.R.P. He received a cheque for 10s. 6d.
On one point, however, all the newspapers were agreed. The urgent necessity of sending for Mr. Paul Temple. ‘Send for Paul Temple’ became almost a national slogan.
His name appeared on almost every poster in the city. His photograph was blazoned from the fronts of buses.
Scotland Yard remained quiet and merely writhed in exquisite agony. They did not enjoy the ‘Send for Paul Temple’ campaign. Nor did they enjoy reading the letters which reached them by the hundred every day instructing them, in the public’s interest, to—Send for Paul Temple!
All this publicity, however, was not without its value, for booksellers very quickly reported high sales for Paul Temple’s detective stories, and one of the more lurid of Sunday newspapers, hoping to scoop the rest, commissioned an article by Mr. Temple on the growing rat menace in Britain and paid him the record sum of £1,000 for it. Unhappily for them, on the day it appeared, another equally lurid Sunday newspaper published an article by Mr. Temple on the growing spy menace in Britain, which he had written five years before and for which he received £4 14s. 6d. after his agent, overjoyed at selling the ancient manuscript, had deducted his usual 25 per cent commission.
It had taken Paul Temple six years to rise from the dark obscurity of an unknown author to the limelight of a popular novelist. On coming down from Oxford he applied for a newspaper job and eventually became a reporter on one of the great London dailies. After twelve months of writing everything from gossip paragraphs to sports reports he became interested in criminology, and eventually started to specialise in ‘crime’ stories.
While still in Fleet Street, he tried his hand at the drama, and in 1929 his play, Dance, Little Lady, was produced at the Ambassadors Theatre. It ran for seven performances. In a fit of irritation, caused through the unexpected failure of his play, Paul Temple started his first thriller.
Death In The Theatre! appeared early the following year. It achieved a phenomenal success, and Paul Temple promptly left Fleet Street.
Oddly enough, Temple very quickly acquired a reputation as a criminologist. From time to time he had been asked by popular papers to investigate some sensational crime on their behalf. Thus, although it is not generally known, it was Paul Temple who was really responsible for the arrest of such notorious criminals as Toni Silepi, Guy Grinzman, and Tessa Jute.
On the subject of the present crimes, however, Paul Temple refused to be drawn. To the reporters who called to see him, he was invariably out of town. No telephone number or address could possibly be given. He was thought to be travelling in the Ukraine.
Several energetic reporters, however, went so far as to set up camp stools outside the big block of service flats in Golder’s Green where he stayed when in London. The only vacant flat in the building had already been engaged on a year’s lease at a rental of £460 (inclusive) by the Queen Newspaper Syndicate of America!
Meanwhile other reporters and photographers patrolled the grounds of Bramley Lodge, Paul Temple’s country house not far from Evesham.
Bramley Lodge was an extensive old Elizabethan house which Paul Temple had secured at a very low figure owing to its poor condition. He had managed to have it partially rebuilt without completely ruining the beautiful façade, the old oak beams and other ancient features of the building. In addition, central heating had been installed, tennis courts laid, and a rather delightful rockery planned. Altogether, Paul Temple had contrived to make Bramley Lodge a very comfortable place.
All these alterations had done nothing to spoil it, and Paul Temple was often asked by artist friends (and strangers) as well as photographers, for permission to make some permanent record of the lovely old mansion. Only to Surrealists did he refuse.
The house was set in the middle of a large park with a drive fringed by luxurious old beech trees to the main Warwick Road below. About the exact size of his grounds, Temple felt rather dubious. He had bought a half-inch Ordnance Survey map only a few weeks before and by dint of laborious calculation and lengthy use of compasses and dividers, discovered that he possessed eighty-five acres of very pleasant land. But his confidence in his own mathematical knowledge was not exactly great. (‘When I was at Rugby, my marks for mathematics used to be 8 per cent with the most monotonous regularity,’ he used to tell his friends.) He had not yet remembered to pass the problem on to more mathematically minded friends and as in addition, all the papers concerning the estate were ‘locked away somewhere’, he had only very vague ideas about his own property.
On the Monday, two days after the conference at Scotland Yard, Dr. Milton and his niece, Diana Thornley, neighbours of the novelist, had succeeded in penetrating the cordon of newspapermen and were now sitting in the comfortable drawing-room of Bramley Lodge.
They had just enjoyed an excellent dinner prepared under the very personal supervision of Temple himself, for he quite rightly prided himself on his culinary knowledge. In fact, he used to boast that his knowledge of West End restaurants was second to none. Certainly he knew almost every chef in London well enough to spend many a half-hour in wistful contemplation of the mysterious processes to which they subjected the raw materials of the meal he was later to enjoy.
The knowledge he thus gained would go to benefit his guests. This evening Dr. Milton and Diana Thornley had certainly appreciated the meal that had been set before them.
Now they were sipping their coffee before a great fire of coal and holly, the men in deep brown leather armchairs, Miss Thornley on a stool by the inglenook. A heavy Turkish carpet softened the room, and the comfortable old furniture seemed to impart an intimate, sociable atmosphere.
The vivacious, dark-haired and dark-eyed girl of twenty- seven who looked as if she had Spanish blood in her, contrasted strangely with the two men. Yet she bore them many similarities in temperament. Impetuous, yet firm-lipped, she was a girl of hard character who looked as if she enjoyed life to the full. That she was not married was a continual source of wonder, and even anxiety, to the country people in the district.
Her uncle showed little family likeness to Diana Thornley. But then, as Dr. Milton explained, she took after her mother, not her father, who was Milton’s brother. He had a wiry figure, which looked as if it had seen hardship and could easily face more. He rarely seemed completely at his ease.
He told Temple he had had an extensive practice in Sydney and that he had done some exploration into the great deserts of Western Australia. Now he had come back to the home country to retire. He seemed very little over fifty and was probably younger, very young to retire, reflected Temple. But he seemed to have enough money to spend, and always enough to do to obviate boredom.
Temple himself was a modern embodiment of Sir Philip Sydney. Courtly in manners, a dominant character without ever giving the impression of dominating. He was equally at home in the double-breasted dinner-jacket he was now wearing, the perfect host entertaining his guests, or in coarse, loose tweeds striding along the country lanes.
Nobody was surprised to learn that he preferred rugby football to cricket, although he had played both. Now at the age of forty, he was past the violence of the game but still rarely missed an international match. He had done well in the pack for his college team at Oxford but, strangely enough, he had never got past the selection committee for the varsity side. The fact that he had never secured his blue was a constant source of regret.
He had a habit of leisurely movement and retained traces of what, in his younger days, had been a very pronounced Oxford drawl. On the other hand, you felt that here was a man whose bulk would be no great hindrance to action, and that in a fight it was as well to have him on your side.
Conversation had turned gradually to crime as it often did in that drawing-room. They were discussing the notorious Tenworthy case and Temple’s personal contacts as distinguished from his abstract interest in crime.
‘A man called Tenworthy murdered his wife by gently pushing her over Leaton Cliffs in Cornwall,’ the novelist reminded Dr. Milton. ‘That was two years ago, the beginning of my active interest in criminology.’
‘You must have taken an interest in the case from the very beginning,’ said Diana Thornley. ‘Surely you just didn’t make a lot of Charlie Chan observations?’
Her uncle looked at her with a kindly and tolerant, yet none the less broad, amusement. ‘Don’t be silly!’ he admonished her. ‘Mr. Temple is far too modest. I remember reading about the Tenworthy affair. He made several startling discoveries which the police had entirely overlooked. As a matter of fact, they arrested a young man called Roberts, who had nothing to do with the case, if I remember rightly.’
The details of the case were coming back to the two men now. It had caused a tremendous stir at the time. The newspapers had started a ‘Release Roberts!’ campaign. Indignation meetings had been held over the country and questions had been asked in the House of Commons. Young Roberts was finally set free and awarded £1,000 as compensation.
‘Yes, Len Roberts,’ said Paul Temple in a soft voice. ‘By Timothy, that boy had a near shave!’
‘Well, no wonder all the newspapers are saying, “Send for Paul Temple!”’ smiled Diana Thornley, with an excitement that sent a glow of colour into her cheeks.
Her host laughed. ‘The newspapers, like your uncle, are inclined to exaggerate my ability, Miss Thornley!’ he said. ‘I am afraid they see in me what is technically described as “good copy”!’
‘I’ve been reading a great deal about these robberies,’ said Dr. Milton. ‘They really are remarkable, you know. Four robberies in six months, and all within the same area. I’m not one for grumbling, but I do really think it’s about time the police started to show some results.
‘Now look at that business in Birmingham only this week. The police haven’t even got a single clue!’
‘Yes,’ said Diana softly. ‘The night watchman was murdered too.’
‘Murdered?’ asked her uncle, with surprise in his voice. ‘I didn’t know that!’
‘Apparently he was chloroformed and didn’t recover from it,’ explained his host. ‘I have a sort of feeling that was an accident.’
‘Yes,’ said Milton after a moment’s thought, his face set in a deep frown, ‘perhaps you’re right. We shall soon start thinking we’ve settled down in the wrong country, Diana!’ he added, laughing.
They discussed the ‘Midland Mysteries’ just as in a hundred thousand other homes in the country they were being discussed. Whilst jewellers and diamond merchants tested their safes and burglar alarms, taking the latest precautions of every kind, before nervously rubbing their hands and hoping the insurance companies wouldn’t be too argumentative when the disaster inevitably arrived.
‘Mr. Temple—’ started Diana suddenly.
‘Yes?’
‘What do you really think about these robberies? Do you think it’s the work of an organized sort of gang, or do you think…’
‘Oh, come, Diana!’ interrupted her uncle, with what was probably intended to be an indulgent smile, ‘don’t start troubling Mr. Temple with a lot of newspaper nonsense!’
Both men began to laugh. To Temple, at least, it was amusing to see this lovely girl displaying so sudden and rather startling an interest in the Midland Mysteries. And Diana was so very serious as well as persistent.
‘You know, Mr. Temple,’ she said, ‘I should really like to know what you think about it all?’
‘Well, Miss Thornley, if I were Scotland Yard—’ and Paul Temple paused.
‘Yes?’ she exclaimed eagerly.
‘If I were Scotland Yard…’ he repeated with dramatic emphasis, then with an amused twinkle in his eye he added, ‘I should send for Paul Temple!’
They were still laughing when the door opened and Pryce, Paul Temple’s manservant, came in. ‘Superintendent Harvey of Scotland Yard would like to see you, sir,’ he said.
CHAPTER III (#u05eab5b0-84fc-5c0c-977f-f3ad5a12ac4b)
Death of a Detective (#u05eab5b0-84fc-5c0c-977f-f3ad5a12ac4b)
His words cut off the laughter in that drawing-room with strange abruptness. For a moment no one spoke. The coincidence was too striking. All three sensed drama in the air.
Yet Temple and Harvey were old acquaintances, if not friends. Harvey had often called on the novelist to discuss some complicated case or other over a tankard or two of beer. And often enough, Harvey was brought nearer a solution while Temple was provided with material for yet another of his detective stories.
Their acquaintance dated from Temple’s newspaper days when he had once been called on to interview the detective. After that, they had often pooled their knowledge on some case both were investigating and discussed possibilities together. Temple’s own peculiar logic, if logic it could be called, often saw the short cut to a solution while Harvey was still lost in side paths.
Whenever Temple was in town, the two would explore Soho together, both its better places of eating and its less reputable clubs, Harvey not caring for the recondite forms of Continental cooking and infinitely preferring ‘a good, bloody steak,’ but sacrificing himself to Temple’s tastes for the sake of his company. Then they would sit through a show or go into Hoxton or the Elephant and Castle areas to hear the latest gossip among the criminal fraternity.
Nevertheless, this visit was unexpected and almost unprecedented.
‘Superintendent Harvey—’ said Temple softly. ‘All right, Pryce, show him in.’
General introductions were effected, and Harvey very soon found himself a deep armchair into which he sank with a sigh of relief. He lit one of his host’s cigars, before explaining that, feeling in urgent need of a break, he was taking a fortnight’s holiday. He was staying near Evesham, and had taken the first opportunity of calling on his old friend.
The doctor laughed. ‘So glad this isn’t a professional visit, Superintendent!’
Milton and Temple lit fresh pipes and talked aimlessly for half an hour or so, until Diana Thomley suddenly suggested it was time to leave.
‘No, really, Mr. Temple!’ exclaimed Dr. Milton when his host started to protest, ‘Diana’s right. I never like to be later than ten-thirty if I can possibly help it. And it’ll take us at least a quarter of an hour.’
‘Very well, doctor,’ replied his host. ‘But don’t let the inspector frighten you away!’
Diana Thornley began to laugh. ‘It does look rather like a guilty conscience, doesn’t it?’ she exclaimed.
As the door of the drawing-room closed, Superintendent Harvey walked slowly over to the sideboard, thoughtfully poured himself out a whisky, touched the lever of a soda water siphon, then returned to his seat.
‘I say,’ he started, as Temple came back into the comfortably warm drawing-room, ‘who did you say that fellow was?’
‘Which fellow?’ pondered his host. ‘Oh, Dr. Milton? He’s a retired medico. He bought Ashdown House about six months ago. You probably remember the place – used to belong to Lord Snaresdon.’
The detective frowned. ‘Thought I’d seen him before somewhere,’ he said uneasily.
‘You’ve probably seen his photograph,’ the novelist explained. ‘He’s only been in this country since last September. He was a specialist in Sydney, I believe, or somewhere like that.’
Rather abruptly Temple changed the topic of conversation. ‘Well, what brings Superintendent Harvey to Bramley Lodge?’ he asked.
It did not need much of the acumen Temple normally kept so carefully hidden to realize that the real reason was the disturbing series of jewel robberies which Harvey was investigating.
‘During the last six months, nearly £50,000 worth of diamonds have been spirited away from under our very noses,’ said Harvey quietly. ‘And you can take it from me, Temple, this is only the beginning. We’re up against something we’ve never even experienced before in this country. A cleverly planned, well-directed, criminal organization.’
Temple smiled at his earnestness.
‘Oh, I know it sounds fantastic,’ the detective rejoined. ‘I know just what you’re thinking, but it’s the truth, Temple. You can take it from me – it’s the truth!’
‘Does Sir Graham know that you’ve come to see me?’ Temple asked.
Harvey was slightly embarrassed by the question. Sir Graham did not like outsiders. Least of all the outsiders did he like the man the newspapers and their readers were advising him to consult.
‘I thought that with you being in the actual district,’ Harvey was saying apologetically, ‘we might—er—well, sort of—er—’
Temple came to his rescue.
‘Sort of have an unofficial chat about that matter, is that it?’
Harvey apologized. After all, a dilettante or connoisseur in criminology could hardly be expected to be officially asked for help by the Chief Commissioner! Nevertheless, Harvey’s mind had begun to whirl slightly, and he had decided to benefit by a little of his friend’s – unofficial – clear thinking!
True, he possessed some scattered facts and a few suspicions, but there was as yet no path for him to follow. He had ploughed his way through trees and bracken to find one, and had only succeeded in entangling himself the more. There was just a chance that Temple, with that uncanny foresight of his, might spot the way. He began to outline in detail what he knew of the Midland Mysteries, concluding with the recent Birmingham robbery.
‘Tell me, Harvey,’ asked Temple, ‘did you see the night watchman on the Birmingham job, the fellow who died?’
‘Yes,’ Harvey replied. ‘His name was Rogers. He was an ex-con.’
‘Did he say anything before—’
‘I only saw him for a few seconds,’ the detective interrupted; ‘the doctor wouldn’t let me stay any longer. But whilst I was there, he said very quietly, “The Green Finger.”…At the time, I thought the poor devil was delirious and talking nonsense. Now, however, I’m not so sure.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well, about a month ago, Dale fished a fellow out of the Thames. A man by the name of Snipey Jackson. He was wanted in connection with the Leicester job. The poor devil was practically gone when they dragged him into the boat – but Dale is absolutely certain he said exactly the same words as the night watchman.’
‘The Green Finger—’ repeated Temple quietly; then suddenly he looked up. ‘Where are you staying, Harvey?’
Harvey explained that he had booked a room at ‘The Little General’, a small inn about two miles from Bramley Lodge.
‘Don’t be silly, old boy!’ laughed Temple. ‘You must stay here. We’ll pop round to the inn for your luggage.’
Pryce was sent to start the car, and ten minutes later the two men were swinging their way down the drive, the brilliant headlamps of Temple’s long black coupé cleaving a passage between the great beeches that flanked the drive.
There was no great hurry and Temple did not drive fast. It was fairly cold and he kept the roof of the car closed, although both men had opened their windows and were savouring the keen night air. An exhilarating experience after the warm confinement of the drawing-room. Although the inn was only some two miles away, it was almost ten minutes before they arrived. Neither said very much beyond a non-committal word or so about the rabbits which scurried out, drawn by the car’s headlamps, or about the smooth, fast running of Temple’s car and the easy way she crested the long slope leading up to ‘The Little General’.
Harvey got out of the car alone, explaining that he would only be absent long enough for him to collect his bags and break the news of his sudden departure to the innkeeper. Temple remained in the car, drawing away at his great briar. He heard the door of the inn close, and fancied he heard Harvey talking.
Two or three minutes passed by. Then Temple heard footsteps crunching in the gravel by the roadside. Somebody was approaching the car from the back. Through the driving mirror he could see a man gradually coming nearer. He turned round and recognized the burly figure of Ben Stewart, owner of Battington Farm, and a near neighbour of Temple’s. He stopped at the window of the car.
‘’Ello, Mr. Temple. What be you doing ’ere this time o’ night?’
‘Hello, Ben!’ replied Temple. ‘I’m just waiting for a friend of mine. How’s the farm?’
The two chatted for a little while about the farm, market prices, and foot-and-mouth disease. Although Temple lived in the country, he knew little more about farming than the average townsman, but he was genuinely interested in it, as he was in almost everything else, and Ben Stewart was one of many who appreciated an attentive audience.
Finally the farmer accepted one of Temple’s best cigars. ‘Sure make the house smell proper Christmassy, this will!’ he chuckled, and vanished into the night.
Temple had switched the car lights off and for a moment or two sat peering ahead into the darkness, vainly endeavouring to follow the farmer’s path. He wondered vaguely why Harvey should be so long. It was actually getting a little colder, he thought, and closed the windows of the car.
The only light came from the inn. Two of the windows were lit up. One that was evidently the window of the bar parlour, next to the door, and one upstairs. The crescent of the moon just revealed through the mist the existence of the poplars by the side of the road.
Certainly time Harvey was down with those bags, thought Temple.
A sudden piercing shriek cut into his thoughts. A moment later, the inn door was flung open and the excited figure of little Horace Daley, the innkeeper, appeared. For an instant he stood still, silhouetted against the brilliant light from within. Then, with a second cry of astonishment, he darted forward.
‘I say, Mister!’ he started, his voice almost unintelligible in the sudden pitch of overwhelming emotion, ‘is that fellow a friend of yours, the chap who came into the inn about…’
‘Yes,’ Temple cut him short. ‘What’s happened?’
‘My Gawd, it’s awful. It’s awful!’
‘What’s happened?’ repeated Temple, a sudden note of apprehension in his voice.
‘He’s shot himself!’
Temple looked at the innkeeper through the darkness. There was a queer look in his eyes.
‘Shot—himself.’ he repeated slowly. ‘No! No! That can’t be true!’
The innkeeper began to wave his arms in a frenzy of excitement.
‘I tell you, he’s shot ’imself. I was—’
Abruptly Temple cut short his flow of words.
‘We’d better go inside,’ he said quietly.
CHAPTER IV (#ulink_629b5250-e460-5426-bfff-467b2c2fd3ca)
Again the Green Finger (#ulink_629b5250-e460-5426-bfff-467b2c2fd3ca)
Temple closed the door of the bar parlour softly behind him and looked down at the lifeless body of Superintendent Harvey. A trickle of blood flowed from the back of his head. In his left hand he still clasped the revolver. For a few seconds Temple stood there in silence. Then he knelt down to make a more hopeful examination.
It was obviously too late to do anything, however, and after a little while he stood up and began to look around.
The door he had just entered was in the corner of a room about twenty feet long and fifteen or so deep. Just to the right of the door was the window from which had come the light Temple had seen from the car.
Along the far end was the bar counter, with a number of glasses, two siphons, an ashtray, a bowl of potato crisps, and an advertisement for Devonshire cider. Behind the bar counter were stacked a number of beer barrels. There were also shelves for the usual bottles of spirits and a table for the till. The whole comprised a scene typical of a little country estaminet. At the end of the counter, away from the road, was a flap. Behind it was a door leading to an inner room, apparently the Daleys’ living-room. Another door in the wall behind the counter opened on to a little courtyard behind the house.
Ancient high-backed oak benches and tables provided seating accommodation in the little parlour. On the floor between them lay two or three spittoons, clean and well-filled with sand. A thin layer of sawdust coated the floor. There was indeed nothing in the parlour to distinguish ‘The Little General’ from a thousand other inn parlours in the country, save the quietness and lack of custom of which the Cockney innkeeper continually complained.
Daley watched nervously as Temple took in the various details. Eventually he could restrain himself no longer, and exclaimed: ‘Whatever made him do it? He came in ’ere as large as life. Walked across to—’
‘Please!’ said Temple quietly; then, after a pause: ‘Are you on the telephone?’
Daley led the way into the little hall, then upstairs to a coin instrument, seemingly intended for the occupants of the three spare rooms.
Temple lifted the receiver. The urgency in his voice impressed itself on the operator, and he was through to the police almost at once.
‘Hello! Sergeant Morrison? This is Paul Temple speaking. Sergeant, you’d better come along to “The Little General”. There’s been an accident…Well, it might be suicide…Yes, straight away. Oh, and bring Dr. Thome if you can get him.… Oh, I see. Well, in that case, give Dr. Milton a ring and tell him I’ve been in touch with you.… Yes, yes, naturally.’
Temple hung up the receiver and turned away to find the little innkeeper immediately behind him. Temple looked at him with distaste clear on his face. Daley was a bumptious little man, no more than five feet tall, but well-built and clearly tough. A small black toothbrush moustache completed a very ordinary face. His dark-brown, almost black hair was well plastered down with cream. His friends would have called him vivacious if they had known what the word meant. A peculiar twist to his upper lip provided him with a continual leer.
It was clear that there was very little the man would miss. It was equally clear that there was very little of Temple’s telephone conversation he had not overheard.
‘What did you mean – might be suicide? You can see for—’
With superb indifference, Temple ignored the question. Then very firmly, setting out to establish his own authority, he asked the innkeeper what he was doing when Harvey arrived.
‘What was I doing?’ Daley repeated, obviously gaining an extra moment to collect his thoughts together. ‘I was doing a crossword puzzle.’
‘Where were you? Behind the bar?’
‘Yes!’
Inexorably, Temple continued, determined to express and establish his authority.
‘Would you mind telling me exactly what happened?’
Daley looked at him, resistance still showing in his beady eyes. Then after a pause: ‘No. No, of course not. This fellow comes in and says ’e’s changed his mind about staying ’ere the night. ’E pops upstairs and brings ’is suitcase down. There it is,’ he added, pointing to one of the oak benches in the corner of the room.
‘Then—’e arsks me if I could change a quid. I says “yes”, and goes into the back parlour to get the money. When I gets back I sees ’im just like ’e is now, laying all twisted up like, with the gun in ’is ’and. Strewth, I didn’t ’alf turn queer!’
‘Was there anyone else here, when he arrived?’
‘No, course not. The plice ’as been deserted since ’alf-past eight.’
Temple looked thoughtful for a moment, then went on with his questions.
‘Are you the landlord?’
‘Yes, that’s me. Horace Daley’s the name.’
‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’
‘Been ’ere about six months. I bought the plice from a chap called Sharpe. Blimey, ’e was sharp all right. This plice is a proper white elephant!’
Temple paced up and down the room slowly and deliberately. Then, still without speaking, he took a penknife from his pocket, cleaned out the burnt tobacco from his pipe and refilled it. Before lighting it, he suddenly turned to Daley.
‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘could anyone else have come in here whilst you were in the parlour?’
‘Yes,’ was the reply. ‘They could ’ave come from outside or from upstairs.’
But no one had entered from the road, reflected Temple as he put a belated match to his pipe. He had been keeping watch there himself from the car.
‘I say,’ exclaimed the innkeeper, ‘why didn’t I hear the shot – that’s what I can’t understand?’
‘The gun was fitted with a silencer,’ answered the novelist quietly.
‘Coo—’e did ’imself in in style like, didn’t ’e?’
For a few minutes Temple stared fixedly at Harvey’s body. Then he resumed his steady walk up and down the room.
‘Is there anyone staying here at the moment?’ he asked at length.
‘Yes, an old dame who calls herself Miss Parchment,’ was the answer. ‘She arrived yesterday afternoon. Says she’s on a walking tour of the Vale of Evesham. Don’t look much like a hiker to me, though.’
‘Have you seen her tonight?’
‘Yes, she popped in here about half-past nine.’
‘What about the servants?’ Temple asked next.
‘There’s two maids, that’s all. The rest sleep out.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Daley looked at the corpse with very clear distaste.
‘Phew!’ he exclaimed. ‘He looks terrible, don’t ’e? This business ’as made me proper nervy.’
Temple turned towards him. ‘I think you’d better fetch Miss Parchment down,’ he said at length. ‘I’d like to have a word with her.’
‘Miss Parchment!’ Daley looked surprised. ‘What do we want ’er for?’
‘The sergeant will insist on seeing her, so there’s no reason why she shouldn’t be brought down right away.’
‘All right,’ said Daley after a moment’s pause. ‘If you say so, Guv’nor.’
‘And you’d better tell her what’s happened. We don’t want her fainting, or anything like that.’
‘If you asks me, she’ll pass right out!’ said Daley, walking towards the hall. Temple watched him close the door, and listened to his footsteps as he started to mount the stairs.
Then very swiftly he passed over to the flap in the counter, raised it, and let himself through. A few strides brought him to the till. He opened it and briefly examined its contents. Then he closed it as footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs, and in a very short while he was back in the middle of the room again, sitting down on one of the old oak benches.
‘You’ve been quick!’ he said, as Daley appeared, slightly out of breath.
‘Yes!’ was the brief answer.
‘Where’s Miss Parchment?’
‘She’ll be down in a minute.’
‘Have you told her about…?’
‘Yes,’ interrupted Daley. ‘And would you believe it, she was as cool as a cucumber. Talk about some of us men being ’ardboiled! Why, if you…’ He broke off as a faint rustle came from outside.
Both men turned to look at the door. It opened, and a tall, elderly lady appeared. In spite of her grey hair she carried her sixty years well. There was almost a touch of gaiety in the way she advanced to meet them. She was wearing a nondescript dress of grey tweed, but the flashes from her diamond brooch and earrings immediately drew Temple’s attention.
‘Miss Parchment?’ he asked, as he rose to greet her.
‘Yes.’ But it was a question rather than a form of assent that came from her lips.
Temple introduced himself. He could exercise almost a spell when he wished, and with a few sentences and a smile, he had put Miss Parchment at her ease and won her sympathy.
The novelist pulled out one of the less uncomfortable- looking of the chairs for her and turned it away from the body. She thanked him with a friendly smile and sat down.
‘What time was it when you went to your room, Miss Parchment?’ asked Paul Temple, after a time.
‘Now let me see,’ she replied. ‘It would be about—er—ten o’clock. I sat for a short while – reading. I prefer to read in bed as a rule, but the book I’m reading at the moment is so very interesting that—’
‘Yes, I’m sure it is.’ Temple headed her skilfully off what might too easily have developed into a long digression. Time was short, and Temple had a number of questions to ask before the police arrived.
‘I trust you’ve sent for the police, Mr. Temple?’ the old lady asked. ‘I do feel—’
‘Yes. The sergeant is on his way here now.’
‘What a dreadful shock it must have been for you. Personally, I can never understand the mentality of anyone who commits suicide. It always seems to me that—’
Temple looked up at her in quiet surprise. ‘What makes you so certain that this is suicide?’ he said softly.
‘What makes me so certain?’ she repeated. ‘But surely it must be suicide! Unless, of course, Mr. Daley shot him!’
Mr. Daley had been standing nearby as though mounting guard over the body. He had not taken any part in the conversation, but his head had moved from Paul Temple to Miss Parchment and back again with rapid, sparrow-like, movements. Now his eyes seemed to pop out of his head in sudden surprise.
‘’Ere! None of them insinuations!’ he started, and crossed toward Miss Parchment as if nearness would lend emphasis to his words. ‘I couldn’t kill anyone, see. Not even if I wanted to. Can’t stand the sight of blood. Makes me proper queer-like.’ Then, as though exhausted by this sudden effort, he stepped back and sat down on a bench about two yards from Temple.
‘But there doesn’t seem to be much blood, Mr. Daley.’
‘There’s enough to give me the jitters!’ he exclaimed, almost savagely. He walked up to the window and peered out into the darkness. A thought seemed to occur to him and he half-turned.
‘And if it comes to that, why wasn’t you in bed when I knocks on your door?’
‘Because, my dear Mr. Daley,’ replied Miss Parchment calmly, ‘I was reading.’
‘Like to bet it was a murder story!’ The innkeeper’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.
‘You’ll lose your bet, Mr. Daley,’ she replied sweetly, ‘It was a book on old English inns. I’m very interested in old English inns.’
Temple decided to interrupt them. There was still much that he might be able to ascertain before the police arrived. He turned to Miss Parchment to ask how long she had intended staying at the inn.
‘I hadn’t quite made up my mind,’ she replied. ‘Most probably till the end of the week.’
The innkeeper promptly took her up again. ‘You didn’t say that when you signed the register! You said it was only for one night!’
Miss Parchment was not disconcerted. She seemed to find pleasure in treating the irrepressible little Cockney with quiet dignity and endowing him with certain powers of understanding and reasoning.
Almost patronizingly, she replied: ‘It was my original intention to stay merely for the one night, but I found this inn so very, very interesting.’
Daley looked at her with astonishment. This was a new phase in a person’s character and completely beyond his comprehension.
‘Interesting?’ he asked. ‘What the ’ell’s interesting about it?’
It was Miss Parchment’s turn to appear astonished.
‘Why, so many things, my dear Mr. Daley!’ she explained patiently. ‘Do you realize the actual inn itself is over five hundred years old? Think of it. Five hundred years!’
But the innkeeper was no antiquarian. ‘Well, I’ve been ’ere the last six months,’ he grumbled, ‘and that’s long enough for me. The blinking place is dead after ’alf-past eight.’
Miss Parchment turned towards Paul Temple who was, oddly enough, thoughtfully considering her statement. ‘Five hundred years,’ he said. ‘By Timothy, that’s certainly a long time. But I was under the impression it was built about 1800?’
‘Oh, no,’ replied Miss Parchment. ‘Oh, dear, no! It goes back much farther than that.’
‘Then why should it be called “The Little General”?’ asked Temple. ‘Surely the—’
But Miss Parchment was now thoroughly at home on what appeared to be her favourite topic, and she interrupted the novelist to explain.
‘It was renamed “The Little General” about 1805,’ she said. ‘Before that it had a much more interesting name.’
Daley was looking up at her in wonderment. ‘You seem to know a dickens of a lot about this place.’
‘It’s all in the book I’m reading, Mr. Daley,’ said Miss Parchment patiently. ‘It’s all in the book.’
Horace Daley had for some little while been paying as much attention to the body as he had to Miss Parchment. Horace Daley had a peculiar aversion to dead bodies. And he told them so. He thought it was high time the police came to remove it. Then another idea occurred to him.
‘Can’t—can’t we cover him up or something till the sergeant arrives? ’E looks ’orrible just laid there staring up at the ceiling.’
‘Yes, yes, all right,’ agreed Temple.
‘I’ll get a sheet from the linen cupboard,’ said Daley. ‘Won’t be a minute.’
They heard him going upstairs and presently moving about in one of the bedrooms.
For perhaps two minutes they sat in silence.
‘Was he a very great friend of yours, Mr. Temple?’ asked Miss Parchment suddenly.
‘Not exactly what one would call a great friend. He was more a sort of business acquaintance.’
‘I see.’ Miss Parchment hesitated. ‘You know, when I first saw him, I had a vague sort of suspicion that I’d seen him before. Of course, one meets so—’
Temple interrupted her. ‘His name’s Harvey. Superintendent Harvey, of Scotland Yard.’
Miss Parchment looked up.
‘Scotland Yard!’ she said softly. ‘Oh, dear! Oh, dear!’
There was another long pause. Then Temple said: ‘You say this inn wasn’t always called “The Little General”?’
‘No.’
‘Then what was it called?’
Miss Parchment looked at him and there was a peculiar look in her eyes.
‘A most intriguing title, Mr. Temple,’ she replied at length. ‘I’m sure you’ll like it.’
Temple waited.
‘Well?’
‘It was called “The Green Finger”,’ said Miss Parchment quietly. And she smiled.
CHAPTER V (#ulink_163e953a-b34e-5182-af50-c6c64ce58df9)
Room 7 (#ulink_163e953a-b34e-5182-af50-c6c64ce58df9)
‘“The Green Finger”!’ echoed Paul Temple, intense astonishment showing on his face.
He paused.
‘Are you sure of this?’ he said suddenly.
‘Oh, quite sure,’ replied Miss Parchment brightly. ‘It’s all in the book I’m reading, Mr. Temple. A most interesting book.’
Again Temple started pacing up and down the room, thinking over this new surprise. The coincidence was far too striking. Yet where was the connection? He decided that events must show for themselves exactly where this quaint old inn fitted in with these widespread robberies. He took a cigarette from his case and thoughtfully fitted it into his cigarette holder.
Suddenly the door to the little hall opened and Daley reappeared. Over his arm he carried the sheet for which he had been searching the linen cupboards upstairs.
‘’Ere’s the sheet, Guv’nor!’ he started. ‘Now we can cover him up a bit.’
He unfolded the sheet carefully, displaying two large holes, several smaller ones, and a number of rust stains, which showed that he had no intention of wasting one of the inn’s best sheets. He knelt down beside the body of the superintendent, at the same time keeping up a running commentary on his own feelings.
‘If there’s anything I ’ates the sight of,’ he was saying, ‘it’s a fellow that’s gone an’—’ He broke off with sudden alarm in his voice as the sound of footsteps came through the window, and men could be heard talking. ‘’Ello, what’s that?’ he exclaimed.
‘It sounds to me like the sergeant and Dr. Milton,’ replied the novelist.
The voices and the footsteps grew louder, and presently feet could be heard brushing against the mat in the hall, while Temple recognized the suave tones of Dr. Milton, in a litany with the harsher country voice of Sergeant Morrison. Then the door opened and the two men came in, followed by the stolid form of Police Constable Hodges, in every way typical of the village constabulary.
‘Good evening, Mr. Temple.’ There was a clear, impressive note of authority in the sergeant’s voice. ‘Evening, Daley!’
He looked round the room and at the recumbent figure of Superintendent Harvey, his legs now covered with the innkeeper’s sheet, while his trunk, arms and head projected incongruously, almost as if the dead man were just getting out of some strange bed. The worthy sergeant bristled with pride and self-importance as he made it plain that he was in full command of the situation. It is not an everyday occurrence for one of the big Chiefs of Scotland Yard to meet his death under strange circumstances, and Sergeant Morrison felt that here, at last, was the long awaited personal appearance of opportunity.
‘Thank heavens you’ve come,’ the innkeeper said, with a sigh of relief. ‘I was just about to—’
A gasp of astonishment broke from Dr. Milton’s lips. He had been looking at the tragic scene before him, but only now had he suddenly become aware of the victim’s identity.
‘It’s Superintendent Harvey!’ he exclaimed. ‘Good gracious, why—’
Sergeant Morrison cut him short. ‘If you please, Doctor,’ he said, and his voice clearly indicated that there was work to be done.
The doctor accepted the rebuff. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant.’
He knelt down by the side of the body. With deft fingers he loosened the clothing and started his examination. After a few moments, he looked up.
‘Could we have another light on, please,’ he asked curtly. ‘I can’t see very clearly.’
Daley hastened to the switch. The benefits of the electric grid had extended out even as far as “The Little General”. Swiftly, yet carefully, the doctor carried out his examination.
Meanwhile, Sergeant Morrison was taking stock of his surroundings. He made notes of the exact positions of the chairs, the benches and tables, and of the general layout of the room. Already the sergeant was beginning to picture a better uniform than the one he was wearing, indeed, he was actually throwing increased authority into his voice and bearing. Fortunately, this did not detract from his efficiency. He was leaving nothing to chance.
‘Hodges!’ he commanded, indicating with a wave of his hand one of the doors behind the counter. ‘Take a look at the back of this place. I think there must be some sort of courtyard.’
‘Very good, sergeant,’ replied Police Constable Hodges, and disappeared into the outer darkness.
For a while there was silence in the room. Temple was sitting patiently on one of the old forms. Sergeant Morrison remained standing, watching Dr. Milton as though fascinated by him.
‘Well, Doctor?’ he asked, as the latter started rearranging the clothing on the superintendent’s body.
Dr. Milton replaced the instruments in his black leather attaché case and stood up.
‘He’s been dead about a quarter of an hour, I should say,’ was the doctor’s verdict. ‘He must have died almost instantly.’ Certainly it was far too late for the doctor to be of any assistance.
Sergeant Morrison grunted. Then he pulled out his notebook and made a laborious note.
‘Now I’d like a few details, if you don’t mind,’ he said, his writing finished. He turned towards the novelist. ‘Was the deceased a friend of yours, Mr. Temple?’ he asked.
‘Well, not exactly what one would call a friend, Sergeant. But I knew him fairly well.’
Again the sergeant laboriously copied the words into his notebook. Then he turned towards Horace Daley.
‘Was he staying the night here?’ he asked.
‘Well, ’e was an’ ’e wasn’t, as yer might say, Sergeant.’
‘Answer the question!’
Mr. Daley looked alarmingly as if he might splutter forth something even more unintelligible, but the novelist intercepted him.
‘Perhaps it would be better if you allowed me to explain, Sergeant,’ he said, as he rose from his bench and joined the little group.
‘Well?’
‘Superintendent Harvey was on holiday,’ said Temple quietly. ‘He called in to see me about ten-fifteen this evening. Dr. Milton and his niece had been dining with me and were on the point of leaving. Harvey gave me to understand that he was staying the night here at “The Little General”. Unfortunately, I persuaded the poor devil to change his mind and stay the night with me. We came down here to get his luggage and—’
‘What time would that be?’ interrupted the sergeant.
‘Oh, about eleven-fifteen, I should say. Certainly no later.’
‘Go on,’ commanded Sergeant Morrison, preparing to make a note of the details.
‘Well,’ continued Temple, ‘I waited outside for him in my car. After about five minutes or so, Mr. Daley came running out. He was very excited and obviously upset. He told me that Harvey had shot himself.’
The sergeant finished scribbling the sentence down, drew a heavy line across the page, then turned back to the innkeeper.
‘Now let’s hear your side of the story, Daley,’ he asked.
Horace was determined to stand on his dignity. ‘Mr. Daley, if you don’t mind,’ he said, by way of prefix. ‘Well, I was standin’ behind the bar doin’ me crossword puzzle when this fellow comes in and says ’e’s changed ’is mind about staying ’ere the night. ’E pops upstairs and brings down ’is suitcase. Then ’e asks me if I could change ’im a quid. I says “yes!” and goes into the back parlour to get the money. When I gets back, I sees ’im just like ’e is now. Coo, it wasn’t ’alf a nasty shock, I can tell you!’
Sergeant Morrison knew very little shorthand, but he could write quickly and with fair legibility, and rarely had to ask anybody to repeat something they had said.
He finished writing what Daley had just told him, before asking: ‘Had you seen him before?’
‘Yes, of course I had,’ replied the innkeeper impatiently. ‘I was ’ere when ’e first arrived.’
‘What time would that be?’
‘Oh, I dunno. About five perhaps.’
‘Was there anyone in here tonight, when he returned for his luggage?’
Perhaps the question was a little obvious, at any rate it certainly seemed to annoy the little Cockney.
‘Yes, dozens o’ people,’ he retorted, with a wealth of broad sarcasm in his voice. ‘About fifteen platinum blondes and a couple o’ film stars. We had our gala night, Sergeant. You must join in the fun some time.’
The cheeks of Sergeant Morrison gradually suffused to a delicate hue of pink. From pink they changed as gradually to carmine and then, more rapidly, to a perilously deep purple.
For a moment a serious explosion seemed imminent. Then the danger passed.
‘Don’t try an’ be funny!’ was all he could growl at the innkeeper. ‘And answer the questions!’ he suddenly snapped out.
‘Anyone ’ere at a quarter past eleven,’ the little Cockney replied unperturbed. ‘Coo! Why, the perishin’ place is dead after ’alf-past eight.’
‘Is there anyone else staying here at the moment?’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ answered Temple. ‘This lady, Miss Parchment.’
Miss Parchment had been sitting quietly on the chair Paul Temple had offered her some time before. She had not moved. Nor had she spoken. But with her bright blue eyes she had been following everything very intently. There could have been little that she had missed. Nobody had noticed her in the excitement of the moment, and it was with a start of quite real surprise that Sergeant Morrison became aware of her existence.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, taking in the fact that here was possibly a source of much-needed information, and corroboration. ‘Well, Madam, can—er—you throw any light on this matter?’
‘I’m afraid not, Sergeant,’ replied Miss Parchment calmly. ‘I was in my room reading when Mr. Daley arrived with the news that this gentleman had shot himself and that a Mr. Temple wished to see me. Naturally, I was dreadfully upset about the matter and so of course—’
This was more than Horace Daley could stand. ‘You didn’t look very upset to me,’ he interrupted.
‘I have learnt to control my emotions,’ answered Miss Parchment sweetly.
For once, the innkeeper had nothing to say in return. Miss Parchment, when she chose, could silence him very effectively with a few polite words, whereas all Sergeant Morrison’s abuse, and for that matter anybody else’s, only served to stimulate him the more.
Nothing seemed to ruffle Miss Parchment. Even the present tragedy had affected her less than some queer discovery she might have made about one of the old English inns that interested her so much. She had been sitting there in her chair, regarding the scene with a completely dispassionate interest. Now and then a slight smile flickered across her face. Then it vanished again. She clearly had a delicate, almost evanescent sense of humour. Cruder sallies left her unmoved. As unmoved as did the corpse on the bar parlour floor in front of her. The harsher realities of life, and death, appeared to have no part in her scheme of things. From the police point of view, she made an admirable witness in that she was so calm and collected, an advantage even if she had little of any value to tell him.
‘Well, Miss Parchment, how long have you been staying here?’
‘I arrived yesterday afternoon, Sergeant,’ she replied. ‘I’m on a walking tour of the Vale of Evesham. I’m interested in old English inns,’ she explained with a smile. ‘Very old English inns.’
‘Yes—er—yes, just so,’ replied the sergeant, not too intelligently. He felt perplexed and, for some strange reason, Miss Parchment embarrassed him.
‘Could I have your full name and permanent address?’ he asked gruffly, trying to make his voice as formal and official as possible, but with little success.
‘Amelia Victoria Parchment,’ said Miss Parchment, as the sergeant commenced to write, ‘47B, Brook Street, London, W.1.’ With a word of thanks, that was more a sigh of gratitude that this part was all over, he turned back to Horace Daley. There was still the point to be cleared up of how the murderer, if any, could have made good his escape.
Temple had been sitting in his car immediately outside the inn during the actual tragedy, and he was certain that nobody had left or entered from the front of the inn. And the back was apparently impossible. Was it, after all then, a question of suicide?
‘Now, Mr. Daley,’ the sergeant said, this time with slightly more respect in his voice, ‘could anyone have come in here whilst you were in the back parlour?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘They could ’ave come from either upstairs or from the street.’
‘What about from the back,’ the sergeant persisted; ‘there’s an open courtyard, isn’t there?’
‘Yes, but there’s no way o’ gettin’ into the inn except through the back parlour, an’ I was in there all the time.’
Sergeant Morrison grunted heavily. The mystery was too much for him.
At that moment the door behind the bar counter opened, and Police Constable Hodges reappeared. He pushed open the flap, waddled through rather than walked, and finally came to rest in front of his superior officer.
‘There’s nothing in the courtyard, sir,’ he reported, ‘except a lot of blessed pigeons.’
Horace Daley suppressed a smile.
The sergeant again started an examination of the room. He peered out of the window and went into Daley’s sitting-room next door. He stayed about five minutes, not knowing what he expected to find, but nevertheless diligently searching every corner. Close on his heels followed Horace Daley, while the rest of the party stayed in the parlour, talking quietly of the tragedy that had suddenly enveloped them.
It seemed clear that the murderer, whoever he was, could not have entered by the sitting-room. Next, the sergeant opened the door to the hall and slowly mounted the stairs. There was little the sergeant did not examine. He inspected every room, opened every window, looked into every cupboard, almost as if the murderer might still be hidden on the premises somewhere.
At length he returned downstairs, feeling that it was all far more than he could tackle by himself and that the inspector ought to be consulted before anything further was done. He was, at any rate, sure that the murderer – if murder it was – was no longer on the premises, and for the moment there seemed little else to be done. Fingerprints might be taken as a matter of routine, but the bar parlour was used by many different people every day, including chance motorists who felt attracted by the inn’s inviting old exterior, and stopped for some refreshment. They could therefore expect to find only a confused medley of fingerprints which it was unlikely would help them very far. The fingerprints on the revolver itself he felt certain would prove to be exclusively Harvey’s.
‘I wonder if you’d mind running me back to the station, Mr. Temple?’ he asked. ‘I feel that I ought to have a word with Inspector Merritt about this.’
The novelist agreed. He walked over to the bench in the corner of the room where he had flung down his overcoat, and prepared to face the outer coldness of the night. Then, taking his leave of the others, he left the room to start up the car and warm the engine for the run down to the police station. Meanwhile, the sergeant was apologizing to Dr. Milton.
‘The police “doc.” is down with the “flu”,’ he explained, ‘and Mr. Temple suggested that you might—’
The doctor cut short his apologies. ‘Only too glad to be of service, Sergeant. Think nothing of it.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ the sergeant replied courteously. Then he turned to where Miss Parchment was still sitting with quiet self-effacement.
‘You can go to your room, Miss Parchment. I doubt whether the inspector will want to see you tonight.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ she replied. ‘Good night, Sergeant. Good night,’ she added, turning to the others. She wrapped her lace shawl around her neck, and with a parting smile for everyone, she opened the door and was gone.
Throughout the whole trying period, she had remained completely calm and collected. The sight of the body, and the blood now congealing on the back of the head, had not in the least upset her. Not so Horace Daley. Even now, when he might be expected to have grown accustomed to the sight of the body, he was still feeling singularly repelled.
‘I say,’ he burst out at last, addressing the sergeant, ‘what the ’ell’s goin’ to happen to this fellow? We just can’t leave ’im ’ere all night!’
‘I’ll attend to that, Daley,’ said the sergeant, turning his back on the innkeeper and addressing the constable. ‘Hodges, I think you’d better wait at the front – and don’t let anyone enter.’
‘Very good, sir.’ The constable buttoned up his greatcoat, and went outside to take up his station.
The sergeant took one last look round the room to make certain there was nothing he had omitted. He felt he had done all he could, and turned to Dr. Milton.
‘We’ll be as quick as we can, Doctor,’ he said.
‘That’s all right, Sergeant.’
He let himself out and hurried to the car where Temple sat waiting, the engine of the car purring, ready to leap away. He nodded to Hodges in passing, and even as he shut the door of the car, Temple was lifting his foot from the clutch pedal and pressing down the accelerator. The brilliant headlamps threw into light the wide sweep of road ahead, and the great car disappeared into the night.
Inside the bar parlour, Dr. Milton and Horace Daley were left alone. For perhaps five minutes neither of them spoke. Both sat on the hard benches of the bar parlour, now gazing at the body, now turning away to stare idly into space.
It was Horace Daley who broke the silence.
‘They’ve gone!’ he said in a low voice, far too low for Constable Hodges to hear.
The doctor nodded.
‘I don’t like it,’ said Horace suddenly, with a note of alarm in his voice. ‘I don’t like it.’
There was an expression of contempt on Milton’s face. ‘Don’t be a damned fool,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘Everything’s turned out perfectly.’
They relapsed into the same tense silence. Daley got up and walked across to the window. After a pause he turned.
‘Have you had any more information about the Leamington job?’
‘Yes,’ said the doctor. ‘It came through this morning.’
‘Well?’
‘We meet on—Thursday.’
Horace Daley whistled his surprise. ‘Thursday,’ he said. ‘Here – or at your place?’
Dr. Milton smiled.
‘We meet here,’ he said at length, ‘in Room 7!’
CHAPTER VI (#ulink_44b8007b-4c7d-5933-8367-87b90c974b02)
The Knave of Diamonds (#ulink_44b8007b-4c7d-5933-8367-87b90c974b02)
Paul Temple picked up his last fragment of toast and proceeded to double its size with butter. Then he carefully scraped up the marmalade left on his plate and lowered it gradually on to the precarious foundation. As the butter began to ooze on to his thumb and forefinger, he inserted it in his mouth and began to chew contentedly. Then he swilled it down with strong black coffee.
Paul Temple had finished his breakfast.
It was a little after nine on the Thursday morning after the death of Superintendent Harvey. Much had taken place during those two days, but little towards helping the police in elucidating the mystery. Nevertheless, his death and the subsequent police investigations were making admirable breakfast-time reading for some millions of honest, hardworking Britons. The case helped to stimulate their minds gently back to the realities they would have to face during the coming day.
Pryce, Paul Temple’s manservant, was regaling his master by reading out to him the accounts in the morning papers. Papers of various political hue and of various degrees of sensation were propped up on the table, against the marmalade jar, against the coffee pot, in fact, against every convenient object against which they could be propped. Nevertheless, Temple found it easier, conducive to good digestion, and infinitely preferable to have the accounts read aloud to him.
He had a vast desire for the better things of life, and preferred to give his concentration to his bacon, toast and marmalade, and to gaze out of the French windows of his breakfast-room at Bramley Lodge on to the great trees and lovely undulating country outside. While Pryce was reading, he did not therefore have to yield him his full, undivided attention, but could take in the main essentials more or less subconsciously.
Pryce picked up one of the more sober of the morning papers, circulating only in the Midlands, and started reading.
‘In a locked room at the police station here tonight, Chief Inspector Dale discussed with Mr. Paul Temple, the celebrated novelist, the incidents leading up to the tragic suicide of Superintendent Harvey of Scotland Yard. It is believed that, shortly before his death, Superintendent Harvey discussed with Mr. Temple the mysterious—’
But Temple had had enough. ‘Righto, Pryce!’
‘Shall I read you what the Daily Page says, sir?’ asked Pryce.
‘No. I think we’ll leave that to the imagination.’ Temple poured himself out a little more coffee.
‘Did anyone call yesterday while I was at the station with Inspector Dale?’ he asked.
‘Several reporters, sir. Oh, and a rather elderly lady by the name of Miss Parchment.’
Temple looked up in surprise. ‘Miss Parchment!’ he echoed, almost to himself. ‘Now what the devil does she want?’
‘The lady didn’t leave a message, sir.’
Paul Temple extracted a cigarette from a nearby box, finished off his coffee, and strolled towards the open window. Below him, worn stone steps descended to a carefully planned garden where early flowers were already adding colour to a picturesque setting. The velvet lawn, its grass thick and smooth with the careful cutting, rolling and general tending of centuries, attracted him. Temple looked at a world far removed from the world of robbery and sudden death. But he was not allowed to digress for long. Pryce’s voice was recalling him back to reality.
‘I’m afraid several of the reporters will be returning this morning, sir. They seemed quite determined to have a word with you.’
‘I don’t want to see any of them,’ said Temple impatiently. The Press men had one by one been giving up their quest. They had found it far too unprofitable lying in wait for Paul Temple. Nor could they even obtain any pointers from his movements. Nevertheless, the bigger, sensational papers and the agencies had kept their men on in the hope that they might suddenly get a lead towards really big news. Most of the men were fairly certain that Harvey’s death was no suicide, and that it was closely bound up with the ‘Midland Mysteries’.
Suddenly, a memory of something that seemed to belong to a bygone age came to Temple and he changed the topic.
‘By Timothy, I must get down to that serial, Pryce. I promised to let “Malpur’s” have the first instalment by the end of May.’
But Pryce was not so easily led astray from the reports he had to make to his master. He had a very high idea, and ideal, of his duties as a manservant. Temple, he felt, needed a little guidance from time to time, especially with that section of his affairs over which Pryce held charge. The serial could wait. There were still weeks to go, not merely days. A long session with a dictaphone would very quickly see the end of the first instalment.
‘There was one reporter who seemed very insistent, sir,’ said Pryce. ‘She simply wouldn’t take “No!” for an answer.’
Temple smiled. ‘Wouldn’t she, Pryce?’
‘A very pretty girl, too, sir,’ added Pryce. ‘If—er—I may say so?’
‘By all means say so, Pryce. A very pretty girl who wouldn’t take “No” for an answer. Sounds interesting.’
Pryce was endeavouring to remember the young lady’s name. He had made a particular note of it at the time because he thought it had sounded a rather peculiar name for a member of the opposite sex.
‘Ah, I remember, sir,’ he said suddenly, ‘it was Trent. Miss Steve Trent.’
Temple was not greatly interested but he forced himself to reply.
‘Well, if Miss Steve Trent calls round again you can tell her—’
He did not complete the sentence. An electric bell started ringing. It was the bell to the front door.
‘It’ll be Inspector Dale,’ said Temple, as Pryce moved towards the hall.
Temple stretched forth his arms in a mighty, luxurious yawn, tossed the cigarette he was smoking into the hearth, and proceeded to fill his pipe. One or other of his big briars was his constant companion. He went through an ounce and a half of tobacco every day although a doctor had warned him long before that two ounces a week should be his limit if he wished to keep his heart sound. The warning, like most other warnings he had received during his life, had not frightened him.
His cultured manners and his breeding formed the best disguise and mask he could desire. There was nothing blunt about Paul Temple. To the casual acquaintance, he even seemed soft-hearted. But behind that smooth exterior was a forceful character and a courage that few even suspected the existence of. It showed only in his strange calmness which nothing could upset.
He sat down on the slope which led down to the garden and savoured the fresh warm air of the new day. His dreams were cut short by the sound of excited voices in the hall. He listened and distinguished Pryce’s voice raised in loud expostulations while a woman’s voice alternated in more subdued tones.
‘I’m very sorry, madam,’ he heard Pryce saying, evidently trying to preserve his normal dignified bearing while at the same time forcibly trying to carry out his master’s bidding. ‘Mr. Temple is out.’
Once again came the lower undertones of a woman’s voice, but Temple could not catch what she said. His curiosity was aroused, however, and he strode to the door and opened it to find Pryce barring the way to a pretty girl who did not look as if she were much more than twenty. Pryce was clearly not above using force. In fact, as Temple appeared, he was actually trying to push her out of the hall.
But she had the advantage of youth and agility against Pryce’s age and bulk, and she had managed to make considerable progress through the hall when Temple came to see what was happening.
‘What the devil is all this?’ he exclaimed.
Pryce was very illuminating.
‘It’s the young lady, sir,’ he managed to exclaim.
‘Which young lady?’
‘The—er—the reporter, sir.’
Temple remembered Pryce’s description of the girl ‘who wouldn’t take “no!” for an answer,’ and smiled.
‘Oh. Oh, I see,’ he said quietly.
The girl was smiling too.
‘May I come in?’ she asked pleasantly.
Temple hesitated. ‘Yes, I think perhaps you’d better,’ he said at last.
He led the way into the comfortable lounge where he had entertained Dr. Milton and Diana Thornley two days before. Unconsciously, he bowed his strange visitor into a comfortable armchair and produced Turkish and Virginia cigarettes for her to smoke. Miss Trent took one of the latter, lit it and smiled happily at him.
‘He’s very determined, isn’t he,’ she said, referring to Pryce.
Temple, normally the most self-possessed of men, was taken aback.
‘Yes—er—yes, very.’ Then suddenly he remembered that even though his charming visitor was certainly more good-looking than Pryce had led him to expect, she had literally broken into his house.
‘I say, look here,’ he expostulated, ‘you can’t come bursting into people’s houses like this!’
‘I’m sorry,’ she started without seeming to display any great depths of misery, ‘but—’ And her voice tailed away as if she had other and far weightier topics to think about and discuss.
‘You are Paul Temple, aren’t you?’ she asked, almost abruptly.
‘Yes,’ said Temple quietly.
Miss Trent had a knack of putting herself so completely in the right that Temple began to feel almost as if he were the offender.
‘I tried to see you yesterday, but your man said you were out.’
‘Well—er—what is it you wanted to see me about?’
Steve Trent looked up at the man she had forced to be her host, and her face gradually became very serious.
‘Do you think Superintendent Harvey committed suicide?’ she asked.
Temple looked at this pretty girl sitting before him with sudden interest. She was certainly a very earnest reporter.
‘My dear Miss Trent, I don’t see that it makes a great deal of difference what I think,’ he said non-committally.
But Miss Trent was not so easily evaded.
‘Please! Please, answer my question. Do you think Superintendent Harvey committed suicide?’
The words came with a rush. There was deep emotion in her voice.
Temple stared at her with surprise in his eyes. ‘By Timothy, you are a remarkable young woman! First of all you insult my…’
Miss Trent interrupted him.
‘You haven’t answered my question!’ she said firmly.
Temple had encountered many reporters in the course of his career, but this girl was something new in his experience. That she was extremely pretty, Temple had seen as soon as he set foot in the hall during Pryce’s severe efforts to restrain her. But then many girl reporters are pretty. And like the beautiful, glamorous women spies of popular fiction, they can often use that beauty with great advantage, both while extracting information from unwilling victims and coping with recalcitrant editors!
But there was something about Steve Trent that distinguished her from other women reporters in Fleet Street. Her eyes shone clear and bright, with no hard sophistication to mar them. Yet they spoke of experience, of difficulties, even dangers encountered. They were dark-blue eyes, one curiously lighter than the other, and they sparkled with the vivacity of her nature.
She was now wearing an elegant costume of dark-green tweed under which the lustrous silk stockings that emphasized the contours of two admirable legs looked slightly incongruous. A rather shapeless deerstalker type of hat crowned her luxuriant blonde hair. In every respect, as Temple and everyone else who met her thought, she was an eminently attractive young woman, in dress, appearance and character. The sort of woman for whom Elizabethan poets would have torn their hair out searching for epithets sufficiently far-fetched.
Temple took it all in, as he sat on the settee opposite her, wondering exactly what to make of this lovely young criminologist. At length he answered her question.
‘No!’ he said quietly. ‘I think Superintendent Harvey was murdered.’
‘I knew it! I knew it!’ exclaimed Steve Trent, her voice raising to a high pitch in sudden, unwonted excitement. ‘I knew they’d get him!’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Paul Temple with surprise.
‘Gerald Harvey was…a…friend of mine,’ said Steve Trent slowly.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he apologized. ‘My man told me that you were a reporter and…’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ she interrupted. ‘I’m on the staff of The Evening Post, but that’s not why I wanted to see you.’
Again Temple looked at her queerly.
‘Why did you want to see me?’ he asked at length.
Steve Trent appeared to think for a moment.
‘Because I need your help,’ she answered suddenly, ‘because I need your help more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life before.’
Temple was obviously impressed by the urgency in her voice.
‘Was Harvey a great friend of yours?’ he asked.
Steve nodded. ‘He was my brother,’ she said softly.
‘Your brother!’ exclaimed Temple, then: ‘When I suggested that your brother might have been murdered, you said: “I knew it! I knew it! I knew they’d get him!” What did you mean by “I knew they’d get him?”’
Steve Trent, alias Louise Harvey, paused a moment, then asked him a question in return.
‘Why do you think my brother came to see you, Mr. Temple, the night he was murdered?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘I’m not at all certain that he had any particular reason.’
‘He had,’ she answered, ‘a very good reason.’
‘Well?’
‘My brother was investigating the mysterious robberies which have been occurring. He had a theory about these robberies which I believe he wanted to discuss with you.’
‘A theory?’ queried Paul Temple.
Slowly at first, then gradually gaining confidence, Steve Trent proceeded to tell him her story. It was the life history of herself and of Superintendent Gerald Harvey, the police chief. She had come to see Paul Temple, the novelist and criminologist, not as a reporter after a ‘story’, but to ask his help.
‘About eight years ago,’ she explained, ‘my brother was attached to what was then called the Service B.Y. It was a special branch of the Cape Town Constabulary. At this particular time, a very daring and successful gang of criminals were carrying out a series of raids on various jewellers within a certain area known as the Cape Town–Simonstown area. My brother and another officer, whose name I forget at the moment, were in charge of the case. After months of investigation, they discovered that the leader of the organization was a man who called himself the Knave of Diamonds, but whose real name was Max Lorraine.
‘Lorraine apparently was a well-educated man who at one time had occupied an important position at Columbia University. Eventually the organization was smashed – but the Knave had laid his plans carefully and he escaped. Two months later, the officer who had assisted my brother in the investigation was murdered. It was not a pleasant murder. This was followed almost immediately by two attempts on my brother’s life.’
She paused. Paul Temple could see the look of horror in her eyes as the recollection of those terrible days came back to her.
‘Please go on,’ he said to her at last.
Steve Trent looked up at him gratefully, then resumed her story. The circumstances of the murder of her brother’s fellow officer could never be explained.
‘A farmer came upon his lifeless body in a ditch by the roadside,’ she went on. ‘He had suddenly noticed a car by the roadside, apparently abandoned, but with its engine still running.
‘There were two bullet wounds in the head. One in the back which had evidently felled him, and one in his forehead, which might have been fired as he lay on the ground.
‘The attempts on Gerald’s life might quite well have been accidents. But somehow I don’t think they were. The first time, a large black saloon car, driven at a high speed, swerved and nearly knocked him down. That was just outside Cape Town.
‘In the other case, a large wooden crate containing a piano was being lowered from the upper floor of a house. Gerald happened to be passing: the house was only two or three doors from where he was living at the time. Suddenly, a rope slipped and the crate crashed down immediately in front of him.’
Paul Temple muttered his interest. He waited for Steve to go on with what she had to say.
‘From the very first moment when Gerald was put in charge of this Midland case,’ she continued, ‘he had an uneasy feeling at the back of his mind that he was up against Max Lorraine. I saw him a few days before he came up to see you, and he told me then that he was almost certain that Max Lorraine, alias the Knave of Diamonds, was the real influence behind the robberies which he and Inspector Dale were investigating.’
Steve paused. Then added, softly: ‘I think he was a little worried – and rather frightened.’
For a long time Temple said nothing. He realized, only too well, the value of the story Steve Trent had poured out to him.
‘Had your brother discussed with Sir Graham, or any of his colleagues, his theory regarding this man Lorraine?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Miss Trent replied. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he knew only too well that they would never believe him.’
‘Never believe him?’ repeated Temple, puzzled.
‘The Knave is hardly the sort of person one can talk about – and sound convincing,’ she answered. ‘He’s like a character snatched from the most sensational thriller and inspired with a strange, satanic intellect.’ Steve Trent spoke in a slow monotone, as if reciting a well-learned lesson. She paused and looked up at Temple curiously.
‘You think that sounds silly, don’t you?’ she asked with a half-smile.
‘Well, er—’ Temple felt a little embarrassed to have his feelings so accurately analyzed, ‘it sounds a little unusual!’
At all cost Steve Trent wanted Paul Temple to believe in her. To have complete faith in her story.
‘Mr. Temple!’ she spoke with the deepest emotion in her voice. ‘Do you believe me? Do you believe my story about this man – Lorraine?’
Temple had been wavering. Now he made up his mind.
‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘Yes, I believe you. But tell me, did your brother ever see him; did they ever meet?’
‘No!’ she replied. ‘No, not once. But he knew his methods – he knew everything about him – and he was afraid.’
Paul Temple at last put his pipe down; it had grown cold some time before. Now he plunged his hands into the pockets of his well-worn tweed jacket and finally brought out with some triumph a cherry-wood pipe. This he proceeded to fill with great deliberation. Filling a pipe was a very serious business with Paul Temple. If careful filling were going to provide him with a better smoke, then carefully filled it should be. He applied the Principle of the Conservation of Energy to himself very literally, and had no intentions of wasting energy that could be better devoted to other purposes. After a few seconds had elapsed he pressed the bell-push by the side of the mantelpiece.
Pryce’s face showed the surprise he felt when he came in. Fully convinced of some strange romance suddenly blossoming forth, his respect for the mental powers of the man he almost worshipped, decreased very violently. Although Miss Trent was very nearly thirty, Pryce numbered her with the bright young things, of whom he heartily disapproved.
As soon as Pryce had received his instructions, Temple came back to the subject.
‘That night your brother came to my house, he told me that he was firmly convinced that a well-directed criminal organization existed. But he didn’t mention anything about this man – Max Lorraine. Why not, I wonder?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Steve Trent. ‘He intended to, I’m sure of that. He wanted your help over this case. He had a very great admiration for you.’ Then she produced another surprise.
‘It was Gerald who persuaded me to start the “Send for Paul Temple” campaign in The Evening Post!’
The victim began to laugh. ‘By Timothy, you certainly started something.’ Then he again became very serious. ‘A little while ago, you said you chose the name of “Steve Trent” not only for professional reasons, but partly for another reason too. What did you mean by that?’
‘Gerald was terrified that Lorraine might find out that he had a sister,’ she replied quietly. ‘Even in Cape Town, Gerald made me live with relatives under an assumed name.’
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