Send for Paul Temple
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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
Death of a Detective
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
Again the Green Finger
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.’