FRANCIS DURBRIDGE

A Present from Paul Temple
AND
Light-Fingers

Two Christmas Short Stories

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in

The Daily Mail Annual for Boys and Girls 1950, 1951

Introduction from the Paul Temple Library 1964

Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1950, 1951 and 1964

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.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008148003

Version: 2015-11-04

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

INTRODUCTION: How I Created Paul Temple

A Present From Paul Temple

Light-Fingers

SOLUTION TO: Light-Fingers

About the Author

Also in This Series

About the Publisher

INTRODUCTION
How I Created Paul Temple

It was in April 1938 that I created the character of ‘Paul Temple’ and Martyn C. Webster, the famous BBC Producer, put the first of the series on the radio.

I had been thinking about the character for almost three months before I actually came across the person whose manner, voice and attitude suggested to me the man-of-the-world novelist with an interest in criminology. I was hurrying to catch a train to Birmingham, where I lived in those days, after a visit to London. The train was, in fact, already moving as I scrambled in.

There was one other occupant of the compartment and he slowly raised his head at my unexpected entrance. As far as I can remember he was tall and dark and was reading a battered copy of Arnold Bennett’s Imperial Palace. We never spoke, but for some unknown reason after he had left the train – he got out at Leamington Spa – I started thinking about him.

I remembered the quiet, casual manner in which he had inserted a cigarette in an unusual type of holder; the keen, intelligent face; the smiling eyes a little crinkled at the corners; the friendly nod he gave the inspector as he showed his season ticket.

The man had other characteristics which fascinated me. He was obviously interested in literature and not merely a casual reader; one could tell that by the way he pondered over the novel he was reading.

That night, when I arrived home, I started to read Somerset Maugham’s First Person Singular, and I came across the following paragraph:

‘I think, indeed, that most novelists, and surely the best, have worked from life. But though they have had in mind a particular person, this is not to say that they have copied him, or that the character they have devised is to be taken for a portrait. In the first place they have seen him through their own temperament, and if they are writers of originality this means that what they have seen is somewhat different from fact.’

This passage by Somerset Maugham made me think again about the man on the train. I jotted down a few details about him. From these details, plus, of course, a certain amount of elaboration, emerged the character of ‘Paul Temple’.

Francis Durbridge

1964

A Present from Paul Temple

One morning, two or three weeks before Christmas, the telephone rang in Paul Temple’s flat and Mrs. Temple – known affectionately as Steve – lifted the receiver.

‘Is that you, Steve?’ asked a man s voice.

For a moment Steve was puzzled, then suddenly she recognised the voice. The speaker was Dr. Raymond, the Headmaster of St. Conrads.

St. Conrads was a famous public school at Downbeach in Sussex and Dr. Charles Raymond, author of several well-known text-books on Forensic Medicine, was a very old friend of Temple’s.

After a word or two with Steve, Dr. Raymond said, ‘I’d like to speak to that famous husband of yours, Mrs. Temple!’

‘I’m sorry but Paul’s in the bathroom,’ said Steve. ‘Can I deliver a message?’

Dr. Raymond hesitated. ‘I’d like to see Temple,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve a very serious problem on my hands, Steve, and I need help.’ There was no mistaking the note of urgency in his voice.

‘I’ll have a word with Paul the moment he comes out of the bathroom,’ said Steve. ‘He’ll ring you back, Charles.’

Ten minutes later the famous private detective emerged from the bathroom and put a call through to St. Conrads. An hour later Paul and Steve were on their way to Downbeach.

Dr. Raymond was a squat little man with a high forehead and a long thin nose. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and when he smiled – which was frequently – his pale-blue eyes twinkled with good humour.

The moment Temple and Steve arrived at St. Conrads he took them upstairs to his study. The study was on the fourth floor and on a clear day it was possible to see almost as far as Beachy Head.

‘Now what seems to be the trouble, Charles?’ asked Temple.

The doctor took an old briar pipe from his pocket and crossed over to the tobacco jar on the mantelpiece.

‘I’m terribly worried, Temple,’ he said thoughtfully, leaning against the mantelpiece and slowly stuffing tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. ‘One of my pupils – a boy called Brian Walters – has mysteriously disappeared. Early yesterday morning Mrs. Bridie, the Matron, reported that Brian had made a rope out of his bedclothes and lowered himself out of the dormitory window.’

Temple smiled. ‘Well, it’s not the first time I’ve been asked to investigate the disappearance of a schoolboy!’ He was thinking of the Curzon case.

Dr. Raymond said: ‘I had to send for you, Temple, otherwise it meant reporting the matter to the police. I only want to do that as a last resort.’

‘What kind of a boy is Brian Walters?’ asked Temple. The headmaster smiled thoughtfully.

‘I wouldn’t exactly describe him as a typical boy,’ he replied. ‘He hates games, and spends most of his time on the cliffs chasing after butterflies. He has quite a collection. As he is not very strong I don’t compel him to play games; I think his hobby probably does him more good.’

‘He sounds pretty athletic to me – clambering out of windows in the small hours,’ grinned Temple.

‘He may have been after some special moth. He’s rather an eccentric little boy. His father is a professor at Cambridge and his mother does a lot of lecturing, so Brian has been left to his own devices quite a bit.’

‘Hasn’t he any friend in the school?’ asked Steve, anticipating her husband’s question by a fraction of a second.

Dr. Raymond took his pipe from his mouth and tapped it on the palm of his hand.

‘Yes, strangely enough, he’s on quite friendly terms with a boy named Dickson, who is the reprobate of his form. I’ve caught Walters helping him with his prep several times, and they work together in the lab and sit next to each other as often as they get the chance.’

Temple exchanged a glance with Steve and said:

‘I think we might have a chat with Master Dickson.’

‘Of course,’ nodded Dr. Raymond. ‘I’ll have him sent up immediately.’ He picked up the telephone on his desk and gave the necessary instructions.

‘You don’t think the boy has run away because he’s tired of school?’ suggested Steve.

Dr. Raymond shook his head.

‘Walters has been very happy with us. Besides, it’s only a week to the end of term. Why should he run home now?’

At that moment there came a nervous knock at the study door, and in response to the headmaster’s ‘Come in,’ the door opened slowly and the figure of a boy of about eleven edged itself somewhat cautiously into the room. He was rather an untidy little boy with his hair over his left eye, and a tie that was moving in the direction of his right ear.

‘Ah, there you are, Dickson,’ said the headmaster. ‘We want to have a word with you. Shut the door.’

‘Please, sir,’ burst forth Dickson. ‘It was an accident! There happened to be a little pool of sulphuric acid on my bench, and Mr. Tolworth was just leanin’ on the desk, and his hand happened to…’

‘That will do, Dickson,’ interposed Dr. Raymond in a severe tone, though Steve noted a twinkle in his eyes. ‘We want to talk to you about Walters. This is Mr. Temple…’

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