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The sergeant grinned knowingly.
‘I shan’t be long, darling,’ Temple told his wife. ‘Just one or two small matters to clear up.’
‘Don’t forget, we’ll be in the lounge,’ called Roger over his shoulder as they disappeared into the night. ‘Now, what you want, Mrs. Temple, is a jolly good double brandy. Pre-war strength, if they’ve got it. And by gad, I could do with one myself …’
Temple smiled as the voices slowly faded. Then he turned to the sergeant, who was peering round the car with the help of a torch.
‘Now Sergeant,’ said Temple, ‘what about this lorry driver?’
‘That’s just the mystery, sir. Neither of my men saw him. First of all, they were busy helping with your friend, and by the time they’d finished the man seems to have vanished. Funny business, if you ask me.’
He directed his torch on the steering column of Temple’s car, jerked the wheel from side to side, and finally pulled the steering rod out of the socket. At the base of the rod were the unmistakable scratches made by a heavy file.
‘Funny sort of accident, this, Mr. Temple,’ murmured the sergeant. ‘I don’t like the look of it.’
‘I’m not exactly delighted myself,’ said Temple, dryly. ‘But I haven’t time to investigate now. If you have any questions to ask, sergeant, perhaps you’ll come with me …’ He signalled a passing taxi. ‘I have an urgent appointment.’ The sergeant entered the taxi and Temple paused to give the address.
‘Percy’s Snack Bar, just off the Haymarket.’
By the time the sergeant had taken down the routine details concerning the accident, they had arrived at their destination. Percy’s Snack Bar seemed to have a similar decor to the old-time coffee houses, which had no doubt been the inspiration of its designer.
‘I’d be glad if you’d come in with me, sergeant, and see if you recognise anybody,’ said Temple.
It was evidently a slack time of the evening for no one was sitting at the small tables, although a few people occupied the high stools at the counter.
There was a shabby middle-aged woman moodily consuming a milk-shake, two coltish girls vying for the attentions of a youth, a very old man was noisily drinking soup, and a slim, well-dressed man in the late thirties looked up at them over the top of the evening paper he was reading.
‘D’you know that man?’ asked Temple of the sergeant.
‘Why of course, sir,’ replied the latter in some surprise. ‘It’s Inspector Street! He’s one of the new men at the Yard.’
Street leisurely got down from his stool and joined them at the door.
‘What’s the trouble, Sergeant?’ he asked.
‘Blessed if I know, sir. Better ask Mr. Temple, here.’
‘Oh – so you’re Paul Temple,’ said Street, eyeing him shrewdly. ‘I’m Street – came to the Yard while you were in America.’ He spoke in a guarded whisper.
‘I can only conclude we’re here on the same errand, Inspector,’ said Temple quietly. ‘How did you get your information?’
‘We managed to tap a ’phone call to Sammy Wren.’
‘H’m.’ Temple looked round the room once more, noting that the clock behind the counter pointed to eight-thirty.
‘Any luck yet?’ he asked.
Street shook his head. ‘Sammy must have got wind of us. He hasn’t put in an appearance.’
Temple told him about the accident.
‘Then it looks as if this rendezvous is a washout,’ decided Street, folding his paper.
‘You haven’t seen anyone you recognise?’ queried Temple.
‘Not a soul, except …’ he hesitated. ‘I did know one old josser – it seems he often comes in here for a snack. He left about ten minutes ago. Quite well-known in his own line, though I can’t say I know much about that sort of thing.
‘And what is his line?’ asked Temple.
‘He’s an Egyptologist named Reybourn, Sir Felix Reybourn.’
When Temple came into the bright lights of the Regency lounge twenty minutes later, Roger Storey at once noticed the cut on his cheek, and insisted on fixing on it a scrap of adhesive plaster, which he extracted from his wallet. As Steve sipped her brandy and ginger ale, she reflected thankfully that her husband’s cut cheek was the only outward sign of the accident as far as they were concerned.
When the glasses were half-empty and the flow of small-talk seemed to be slackening, Temple turned to Roger Storey.
‘I should be very interested to hear why you’ve been looking for me this evening,’ he murmured.
Storey took a gulp at his brandy.
‘Well, I’m dashed if I know quite where to begin,’ he confessed.
Temple gave him a searching glance.
‘Supposing you take your time,’ he suggested, ‘and begin at the beginning.’
Storey frowned thoughtfully as if deciding how to approach his subject. Finally, he turned to Steve.
‘I think you knew Alice Mapleton, Mrs. Temple.’
Steve thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes, the name comes back to me. We were at school together, but she was junior to me, and I never saw very much of her. And now I think of it, we met again at a party about two years ago. She was a willowy brunette – quite attractive.’
‘And Lady Alice Mapleton was, of course, the first girl to be murdered by The Marquis,’ put in Temple.
Storey nodded, hesitated for a moment, then said: ‘Yes, her body was found on the bank of a stream about four miles from Richmond. She had been strangled.’
Steve shuddered.
‘I understand Lady Alice was a friend of yours,’ said Temple, quietly. The young man pushed the rather becoming lock of wavy hair from his forehead.
‘We were engaged,’ he replied simply, making a patent effort to conceal his emotion by lighting a cigarette. After a moment, he inhaled a large quantity of smoke, then slowly expelled it.
‘That was just over four months ago,’ he informed them. ‘Four months. It seems like four years whenever I think about it.’ He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose vigorously.
There was silence for some seconds, then Temple asked: ‘Was your fiancée worried at all?’
Storey shrugged impatiently. ‘Haven’t you read those awful reports of the inquest? God! It was on every front page!’ He seemed to recoil at the recollection.
‘We’ve only just returned from America,’ Steve reminded him, gently. He apologised, and continued: ‘Yes, Alice was worried. There’s no doubt about that. She was terribly worried. Though I admit that she was always a moody sort of girl, and we frequently had the most awful rows. Being engaged isn’t all honey, I can tell you.’
Steve smiled at the boyish confession.
‘Yes, we had our quarrels,’ he continued, ‘but we never stopped being in love with each other for a single minute. The night before it happened, we had one of our worst stack-ups. I can’t even remember what it was about, but poor Alice had been irritable and difficult to get on with that day. I realise now why she was like that.’
‘Please go on,’ said Temple.
Roger Storey stubbed out his cigarette with long, nervous fingers.
‘It was blackmail!’ he muttered in a tense voice.
Steve looked horrified and checked an exclamation.
‘You mean The Marquis?’ suggested Temple.
‘Yes.’
Storey’s eyes assumed a distant expression, and his lips narrowed into a thin line. With jerky movements he lighted another cigarette, then continued:
‘He’s a cunning sort of devil you know, Temple. He puts the pressure on his victims until they can stand it no longer, and then …’ his mouth twitched nervously as he seemed to visualise the consequences.
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