Paul Temple and the Front Page Men

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First published in Great Britain by

LONG 1939

Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1939

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

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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: 9780008125585

Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008125592

Version: 2015-06-01

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

CHAPTER I: Chief Inspector Charles Cavendish Mackenzie Reed

CHAPTER II: Mr. Andrew Brightman

CHAPTER III: Sir Norman Blakeley

CHAPTER IV: Mr. and Mrs. Paul Temple

CHAPTER V: Mr. J.P. Goldie

CHAPTER VI: Rev. Charles Hargreaves

CHAPTER VII: A Message for Paul Temple

CHAPTER VIII: The Front Page Men

CHAPTER IX: News of Steve

CHAPTER X: Story of a Rendezvous

CHAPTER XI: Paul Temple in Regent Street

CHAPTER XII: The Medusa Club

CHAPTER XIII: The Falkirk Diamond

CHAPTER XIV: At Bramley Lodge

CHAPTER XV: Mr. Tony Rivoli Visits Scotland Yard

CHAPTER XVI: Paul Temple Receives a Warning

CHAPTER XVII: The First Circle

CHAPTER XVIII: ‘Taxi, Sir!’

CHAPTER XIX: Mr. Goldie’s Mistake

CHAPTER XX: Concerning Lucky Gibson

CHAPTER XXI: In Which Hunter Receives a Surprise

CHAPTER XXII: Concerning Lina Fresnay and Herr Von Zelton

CHAPTER XXIII: Andrea Fortune Writes a Letter

CHAPTER XXIV: Murder on the Six-Ten

CHAPTER XXV: Visitors at Eastwood Mansions

CHAPTER XXVI: Concerning a Flat in Bloomsbury

CHAPTER XXVII: The Flat Above

CHAPTER XXVIII: Mr. Brightman Is Worried

CHAPTER XXIX: Wrenson’s Report

CHAPTER XXX: The Flying Squad

CHAPTER XXXI: News of Hargreaves, Gilbert Wrenson, and Mr. J. P. Goldie

CHAPTER XXXII: The Autumn Hotel

CHAPTER XXXIII: A Surprise for Gilbert Wrenson

CHAPTER XXXIV: In Which Paul Temple Eats Far Too Many Muffins

About the Author

Also in This Series

About the Publisher

CHAPTER I

Chief Inspector Charles Cavendish Mackenzie Reed

Chief Inspector Charles Cavendish Mackenzie Reed would certainly have delighted the heart of that famous Hollywood producer who, in a moment of sheer inspiration, insisted that all Scotland Yard detectives should have genuine Scottish accents.

Though Mac tried hard to conceal his dialect, he was never entirely successful. Unlike many of his fellow countrymen, he wanted to forget that he was once P.C. Reed from a tiny Scottish border town, who had won his way further and further South by sheer pertinacity, climbing a rung in the promotion ladder with every move.

It was his relentless perseverance which had brought him into the public eye as the man who had run down The Blade Kid, perpetrator of a long series of razor-slashing crimes in the Derby area. Reed worked on his pet principle that every criminal makes a slip at some time or other, and that it was merely a matter of waiting for it. In this particular case, he took the very obvious procedure of making a methodical daily round of all the shops that stocked cut-throat razors.

His colleagues had thought it a great joke at the time, but Charles Cavendish Mackenzie Reed merely set his stubborn jaw and went on with his business.

And then suddenly, on a peaceful morning towards the end of May, The Blade Kid did buy a new set of razors and this dour, sandy-haired Scot came to town. He was not altogether happy at Scotland Yard, for there were far too many public school and university men at the Yard for his liking. Their assured manners and open vowels made him more conscious than ever of his homely Scottish accent, but he would never have dreamed of betraying this suggestion of an inferiority complex.

Nevertheless the Chief Commissioner had come to rely upon Mac, particularly in cases which called for unfailing patience and ceaseless attention to detail.

At this particular moment, however, Mac was none too pleased at the way the Chief was treating him. Sir Graham Forbes had carelessly informed him that another of these ex-public schoolboys was to join him on his latest case. Mac chose to construe this as a reflection on his capabilities, but he had not dared to say so.

Inspector Hunter stood before him now in his little private office, which was kept in scrupulous order. Hunter was a personable young man in the middle twenties, who had a wide and peculiar knowledge of the London underworld. He always gave the impression that he did not take life very seriously, and rarely wore uniform if he could avoid it.

‘The Chief says ye’re to come in with us on this Blakeley case,’ began Mac in dubious tones. He had heard that Hunter was brilliant, but erratic.

‘Why, I’ll be glad to, Mac. I’ve always wanted to study your methods,’ Hunter assured him fervently. Fortunately, Mac had very little sense of humour, and did not detect the merest twinkle that flitted over Hunter’s smooth features.

‘It’s a most peculiar case,’ continued Mac, disregarding the flattery, ‘and ye’ll have to be patient, I warn ye. I’ve got Marshall, Rigby and Nelson checking up every clue, but so far—’

‘Perhaps you’d give me the history of the case, Mac,’ put in Hunter. Reed’s face hardened a trifle. He resented young Hunter addressing him with this familiarity. These college cubs were no sooner inside the Yard than they were running the show, he reflected. However, Mac selected a small batch of cards from a file on his desk and motioned Hunter to a chair.

‘Early in January, Mitchell and Bell published a novel called The Front Page Men—’

‘Jolly good yarn, too,’ broke in Hunter. ‘You’ve read it, of course?’

‘I have no time for reading detective novels. Nelson and Rigby went through it and made a report.’

‘Oh …’ Hunter subsided. ‘I see.’

‘As you’re a literary sort of feller, maybe you already know that the book sold very well indeed, both here and in America,’ continued Reed, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

‘Eighty thousand copies to date. It was in the paper this morning,’ Hunter informed him, cheerfully.

‘That’s beside the point at the moment,’ said Mac, who did not relish these constant interruptions. ‘The thing that interests us is a raid at the Margate Central bank, and the murder of the head cashier – a young fellow called Sydney Debenham.’

‘Yes, nasty business that,’ agreed Hunter. ‘Seems to have been hushed up lately. Weren’t you looking after the case?’

‘I am still looking after it,’ retorted Mac in no uncertain manner. ‘But I don’t propose to broadcast it in the B.B.C. news bulletins!’

‘Sorry,’ murmured Hunter.

‘By the side of Debenham’s body,’ continued Mac, ‘we found this card.’

He handed over a piece of white cardboard, a little smaller than an ordinary playing-card, and Hunter regarded it with a puzzled frown.

‘The Front Page Men. So this was the card, eh? I read about it, of course. You’ve investigated the writing?’

Reed nodded indifferently. What did this youngster take him for? But the youngster seemed to be ignoring him and thinking of other things.

‘Of course this business would boost the sales of the novel,’ concluded Hunter, at length.

‘Are ye interested in the novel, or the case?’ demanded Mac, acidly.

‘Surely they have a bearing on each other?’

‘If ye’ll let me finish,’ went on Mac impatiently. ‘Well, about a fortnight after the Margate affair, there was a smash-and-grab in Bond Street. Lareines, the big jewellers. Inside the window of the jewellers, we found another card.’

He passed it over, and Hunter put the two cards together. ‘Exactly the same,’ was his verdict.

‘Humph!’ grunted Mac, who had examined the card under a microscope, and submitted it to the handwriting and fingerprint experts with no better success.

‘What about the author of this novel?’ asked Hunter, passing the cards back. ‘Wasn’t it written by a woman?’

‘It was published under the name of Andrea Fortune.’

‘Can’t say I’ve heard of her before. Was it a first novel?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Then who is this Andrea Fortune?’

‘That,’ replied Mac, ‘is one of the many things the dear Chief Commissioner expects you to find out!’

‘What about the publishers?’

Reed shook his head. ‘They say the manuscript came from a back-alley agency in Fleet Street. We’ve been on to the agency, but they tell more or less the same story as the publishers. The novel was sent to them with instructions that all royalties should be handed over to the General Hospital in Gerard Street.’

‘Any use my seeing the publishers again?’

‘I don’t want to discourage ye,’ answered Mac, ‘but I saw young Gerald Mitchell – he’s the boss – only this morning. He swore he’d never set eyes on Andrea Fortune. I think he’s telling the truth. In fact, he seems pretty scared about the whole business.’

Hunter took a cigarette from his case, caught Mac’s quizzical glare, thought better of the matter, and replaced it. He shut the case with a snap. ‘You seem to have covered the ground pretty thoroughly,’ he commented.

‘Ay, that’s what I’m here for,’ said Mac in even tones, taking up a new card from his desk. ‘Now,’ he announced solemnly, ‘we come to the Blakeley affair.’

Hunter smiled. ‘The papers have certainly been full of the Blakeley affair,’ he said.

Mac frowned. ‘I canna understand how it leaked,’ he murmured irritably. ‘The Chief has even had the Home Office on the phone five times.’

‘Well, the Front Page Men have certainly “made” the front page this time. Is the Chief doing anything about it?’

‘Now, hasn’t he put you on the case?’ demanded Reed, unable to conceal the sarcasm in his voice. ‘Apart from that, he seems to be labouring under the impression that this business might have some connection with the Granville kidnapping.’

‘But surely that was ages before we’d heard of the Front Page Men?’

‘We may not have heard of them, but they could have been there just the same,’ said Mac, who believed in covering all contingencies.

‘It was a sad affair about Lester Granville. Apparently the child was the only thing he had left in the world after his wife died.’

‘Granville completely went to pieces over that business,’ said Mac. ‘Gave up the stage and everything. The Chief was upset, too. But that’s no reason for jumping to conclusions that it’s anything to do with the Blakeley affair.’

‘I wonder,’ murmured Hunter, thoughtfully wrinkling his forehead.

‘Now, look here …’ began Mac, peevishly.

Hunter laughed. ‘All right, Mac, let’s have the rest of the Blakeley story.’

‘I expect you’ve read all there is to tell. Last Friday, Sir Norman Blakeley’s only son disappeared under rather mysterious circumstances and—’

‘By the way,’ put in Hunter, ‘who exactly is Sir Norman Blakeley?’

Before Reed could reply, there was a sharp knock at the door, and a burly sergeant entered.

‘Sorry to trouble you, sir, but there’s a man outside causing a lot of bother. Says he wants to see the Chief, but he refuses to fill up the form.’

Chief Inspector Reed’s sandy eyebrows went up in disapproval. There were too many people walking in and out of Scotland Yard these days, and it was time they put a stop to it. But before he could give instructions, the unruly visitor was standing behind the sergeant.

He was a man of about fifty, obviously in a highly nervous condition; correctly dressed in the customary City uniform of a morning coat, striped trousers and cream gloves. His tie was a shade crooked, his hair somewhat ruffled, and one button of his waistcoat was unfastened.

‘When am I to be allowed to see the Chief Commissioner?’ he began in high-pitched, petulant tones, and Chief Inspector Reed, who had risen to administer a stern reproof as only he knew how, straightened up smartly.

‘At once, Sir Norman,’ he answered politely.

CHAPTER II

Mr. Andrew Brightman

Once inside the unpretentious office that has been described as the nerve centre of Scotland Yard, Sir Norman’s overbearing manner fell from him, and he began to tremble in patent distress.

Sir Graham Forbes looked up from his desk, and at once appreciated the situation. He took his visitor’s arm and led him to a comfortable chair, then went across to a cupboard and poured out a glass of whisky.

‘Drink this first,’ he ordered, and made a pretence of carrying on with some work while Sir Norman gulped down the mellow liquid.

‘Now,’ said Sir Graham, carefully blotting his signature to a letter, ‘any news?’

‘Yes,’ answered Blakeley, in a voice that had sunk almost to a whisper. ‘I heard this morning.’

‘Tell me exactly what happened.’ The manner in which he fidgeted with his paper-knife betrayed that Sir Graham had caught some of his visitor’s nervousness.

Blakeley set down his glass. His hand still shook appreciably, but he appeared to make an effort.

‘At about a quarter past ten, the telephone rang. A girl’s voice said: “We want nine thousand pounds. We want it in twenties. The notes must not be numbered consecutively. Put the money in a brown leather suitcase, and leave it in the telephone-booth at the corner of Eastwood Avenue, Mayfair. The money must be there by four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”’

‘Is that all?’ asked Forbes, who had been making rapid notes on a scribbling-pad.

‘Not quite. After that, she said, “Don’t worry. The child is safe.” Then she rang off.’ The visitor leaned forward in great agitation.

‘Sir Graham, do you think he is safe? Because if anything’s happened to him, I’ll …’

The Chief Commissioner leaned back in his chair.

‘You can rest assured, Sir Norman, that we shall do everything in our power, but please remember that this is a far more serious business than a mere case of kidnapping. There’s a lot more at stake than just getting back your boy for you.’

‘He’s my only son, Sir Graham, the only son I’m likely to have,’ said Blakeley, quietly.

‘Believe me, I sympathise,’ replied Forbes. ‘I am merely trying to impress upon you the fact that we are doing our utmost to track down the organisation that’s responsible.’

‘Then you really think it’s a big organisation?’

Sir Graham shrugged non-committally. ‘I suspect … but I’m not certain.’ He went across to the cupboard. ‘Another whisky?’

‘No, thanks.’

Sir Graham poured himself one.

‘Your men were at the house yesterday,’ pursued Sir Norman. ‘Did they discover anything?’

The Chief Commissioner consulted a sheaf of papers.

‘Inspector Nelson inclines to the opinion that the boy was snatched out of his bed at four in the morning. All the same, it’s difficult to see how they got him out of the house.’

‘It is, indeed. I have the room next door, and I’m a very light sleeper.’

‘Who was the first to discover that the boy was missing?’

‘I did. I went into his room about half past seven. The little chap is usually awake by then, and pretty frisky with himself.’

‘And on this particular morning?’

‘The room was very untidy – bed-clothes all over the place.’

‘Was it shortly after that you received the message warning you not to communicate with the police?’

Sir Norman nodded. By this time he had recovered some of his old assurance, probably due to the influence of Sir Graham’s old Scotch whisky. But he was still considerably agitated, and his face twitched with emotion as he answered Sir Graham’s questions. The Chief Commissioner was lost in thought for a while; once he made a move to telephone, then changed his mind, and decided to continue with the questioning. He picked up a typewritten list, and looked across at Sir Norman.

‘You gave Inspector Nelson full details of all the visitors to your home during the week. Now this list looks surprisingly short to me. Are you quite sure there’s no one you’ve overlooked?’

‘Absolutely certain,’ said Blakeley, with a trace of his City aggressiveness.

‘On Tuesday, for instance,’ pursued Sir Graham, ‘apart from the usual tradespeople, a Mr. Andrew Brightman called, and also a Mr. J. P. Goldie.’

For a moment Blakeley was nonplussed. ‘Goldie? I don’t remember saying anything about a Mr. Goldie?’

‘I understand that he came to tune the piano.’

‘Oh yes, of course! The piano-tuner! I never knew his name.’

Sir Graham was toying with his paper-knife again. ‘Is Mr. Andrew Brightman a friend of yours?’ he asked at length.

‘Hardly a friend. I’ve known him about two years. We met at a City banquet, and I gave him a lift back to Hampstead. After that we became quite friendly – we’re both interested in old china – but we don’t see a great deal of each other.’

‘Then why did he come round on that particular evening?’

‘He’d brought a piece of china he’d had repaired for me by a relative of his. Suddenly, in a fit of desperation, I poured out the whole story to him. As you can imagine, I was very cut up, and to console me, I suppose, he started to tell me about his daughter.’

‘His daughter? What about her?’

Sir Norman Blakeley hesitated.

She was kidnapped too – by the Front Page Men.’

The paper-knife fell with a clatter.

For a moment, the Chief Commissioner seemed too astounded to speak. Then he recovered abruptly. ‘Are you sure of this? What happened to the girl?’

‘He got her back.’

‘The devil he did! How? He never informed us—’

‘No. It cost him eight thousand pounds, Sir Graham.’

The Chief Commissioner was obviously staggered.

‘Eight thousand! How soon can I get hold of Andrew Brightman?’ he asked.

‘He’s outside in a taxi,’ said Sir Norman. ‘I thought you would probably want to interview him, so I persuaded him to come along.’

‘I’m very grateful to you,’ acknowledged Sir Graham, pressing a button at the side of his desk. As if by magic, the door opened, and Sergeant Leopold stood waiting for instructions.

‘There’s a gentleman in a taxi outside, a Mr. Brightman. Ask him to come up, Sergeant.’

When the door had closed, Sir Graham turned to Blakeley again. ‘I suppose you’ve seen the papers today?’

Sir Norman started in alarm. ‘You don’t mean it’s got into the papers?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

The colour rushed to Sir Norman’s face.

‘They warned me not to get in touch with the police,’ he almost shouted, ‘and you promised to keep it out of the papers!’

Sir Graham clasped his shoulder. ‘Don’t alarm yourself, Sir Norman. They must have seen the papers before you had the message this morning. Now, tomorrow morning, take a taxi and go straight to your bank. Arrange for the nine thousand pounds exactly as the girl instructed you. Tomorrow afternoon, take the money yourself and deposit it in the telephone-box at the corner of Eastwood Avenue. As soon as you’ve deposited the money, leave the telephone-booth and return home. Is that clear?’

‘Then you want me to give in to these swine?’ stammered Sir Norman.

‘I want you to do as I tell you and leave the rest to us,’ answered the Chief Commissioner. ‘Now I’d like to see Mr. Brightman alone, if you don’t mind waiting.’

‘Yes, yes, I’ll wait,’ agreed Sir Norman, collecting his hat and umbrella.

Sir Graham ushered out his guest, and returned to telephone for a map of the Mayfair district. He had just replaced the receiver when Mr. Andrew Brightman was shown in.

The Chief Commissioner surveyed him shrewdly. ‘Please sit down, Mr. Brightman,’ he murmured politely, and his visitor complied. He was a fairly stout individual in the middle fifties. A man who was obviously the life and soul of the party. He reeked with self-assurance, and was never at a loss for a reply of some sort, whatever the situation might be.

His hail-fellow, well-met attitude was calculated to disarm most people, and doubtless accounted, in no small measure, for his prosperous appearance. He did not seem in the least overawed by his surroundings, and faced Sir Graham with a pleasant smile, as if they were about to discuss a business proposition.

‘I have just been having a chat with Sir Norman Blakeley,’ began the Commissioner. ‘He tells me that your daughter disappeared under rather mysterious circumstances, and that you paid a certain sum of money for her return.’

‘That is so,’ asserted Brightman. For a second or two, Sir Graham appeared to be puzzled.

‘When did this happen?’

‘March of this year. The eighth to be precise, a date I shan’t easily forget,’ Brightman assured him.

‘Why didn’t you consult us about this matter, Mr. Brightman?’ suddenly demanded the Commissioner, with a hint of anger in his tone. But his visitor was not in the least perturbed.

‘To perfectly honest, Sir Graham, because I didn’t wish to take any risk.’