Читать книгу Paul Temple 3-Book Collection: Send for Paul Temple, Paul Temple and the Front Page Men, News of Paul Temple - Francis Durbridge, Francis Durbridge - Страница 17

The Midland jewel robberies served at least one good purpose. Steve Trent and Paul Temple now shared one common aim. Their tastes, their aims, so dissimilar in many ways, now fitted together perfectly. The liveliness and the external flippancy which were part of Steve Trent’s make-up were set off by the more sedate nature of Paul Temple. Indeed, a queer form of platonic friendship had arisen between the two. Although it is doubtful whether either of them would have chosen such a hackneyed word as platonic to describe their friendship.

Paul Temple had told Steve to regard Bramley Lodge as her home, to come and stay whenever she wished, indeed to feel that she had an actual share in the place.

On this particular afternoon, after the two had finished lunch together, Temple announced that he would have to spend the next two or three hours dictating his serial, and that he also intended to do a few chapters on a new book if he had any time over.

He had a large room with a balcony overlooking the garden which he regarded as his office and library. This was upstairs on the first floor. Bookcases lined the walls up to the ceiling. On the whole, it was a mixed collection, and although they included many of the books which had helped him on to his degree, they also included many whose names were more or less unknown, save by the solvers of the more erudite of acrostics and crossword puzzles.

All the cases were glass fronted, save one section which comprised his most used reference books. Fiction spread itself over the house. In the lounge were several bookcases filled with thrillers. Paul Temple, indeed, had formed one of the best collections of thrillers and detective stories in the country. His bookseller had a standing order to supply him with thrillers as a matter of course.

Other novels sprawled about in the dining-room, the drawing-room, and elsewhere in the house. Odd cases even found their way into the hall and into the spare bedrooms. But while Paul Temple read as widely as he did furiously, he was in no sense of the word a bookworm. He had taken up literature as a trade rather than an art, and he instinctively kept well abreast of the latest moves and developments.

After Temple adjourned to the library Steve decided to wander about the grounds for half an hour, then to come back and map out two or three new features for The Evening Post. She had already accepted Temple’s invitation to stay for supper but had made up her mind to leave for town immediately after the meal. She had to be back in Fleet Street early the next day. But first Steve had a ‘story’ to telephone to her editor.

The ‘story’ of the climax to their ‘Send for Paul Temple’ campaign. As Temple left her to start his work upstairs, she began scribbling a few lines on a pad to read out to the telephonist at the office. Already she could see the posters that would throng the streets forty-eight hours later—‘Paul Temple Sent For!’ The news would still have to be ambiguous, however, as Temple was not yet sure exactly why Sir Graham Forbes wanted to see him.

That evening, a few minutes after they had finished supper, there was a ring at the bell, followed by Pryce’s now habitual inspection through his little grill. He opened the door and came in to announce Inspector Merritt.

Paul Temple jumped up and went out to welcome him. ‘Hello, Charles. This is a pleasant surprise.’

‘Just thought I’d drop in for a chat,’ replied the inspector. ‘Happened to be passing.’

‘Why, yes, of course,’ exclaimed Temple, at the same time introducing the inspector to Steve.

‘I hope I haven’t interrupted a private—’ Temple cut him short.

‘No, of course not, Charles,’ he replied with a smile of amusement. ‘Have you had dinner?’

‘Yes, but if there’s any of that really excellent brandy of yours, then—’

‘Help yourself, old man. It’s on the cocktail cabinet.’

Merritt looked round and saw the bottle of fine old brandy where its owner had indicated. He poured a little into the bottom of a big glass which stood in readiness, and warmed it in his hands before savouring it. Inspector Merritt appreciated his host’s fine taste for the better things of life. And not least of them, in the inspector’s opinion, was the wonderful old matured brandy Temple always managed to acquire.

Meanwhile, Steve had risen from the luxurious depths of the armchair into which she had sunk after dinner, and declared her intention of returning to town. She felt the two men might be more at their ease if she made her departure. In any case, it was already half-past eight, and she was still faced with the long drive back to London.

‘Well, I really think I ought to be getting along, Paul,’ she was saying. ‘If you’re coming up to town on Monday, then—’

‘I’ll pick you up about three. We’ll go along to the Yard together, Steve.’

‘You really think I ought to tell Sir Graham all I know about—’ Steve Trent spoke quietly and very seriously. Temple hastened to reassure her.

‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

Steve hesitated for the last time. Then she made up her mind. ‘Very well. Good night, Inspector,’ she added brightly.

Paul Temple went out with her to the car which had remained parked in a corner of the drive all day. The engine started up after Steve had touched the starter once or twice. Then suddenly she turned a switch, and flooded the drive with the brilliant flood of light from her headlamps.

Temple noticed her hand resting on the side of the car, and after a little while he took it in his own. ‘Look after yourself, Steve,’ he said softly.

She smiled, slowly disengaged her hand, pushed the tiny stump of a gear lever into position, and with a roar of the engine was gone. As the car’s lights lit tree after tree down the long drive, Temple stood watching her; then as he saw the car turn into the lane which led into the main London-Warwick road, he walked slowly back to the house.

‘I say, look here, Paul,’ Inspector Merritt started, with some slight embarrassment and no little alarm, ‘I hope I haven’t butted in on a private little—’

Temple hastened to relieve him. ‘No, of course not, Charles. Of course not. How’s the brandy?’ he asked inconsequently, both to change the conversation and to try to forget the alarm he suddenly felt for Steve Trent’s safety.

‘Fine!’ answered the inspector, in no way discouraged. ‘She’s a pretty girl, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, yes, she is rather. Surprised you’ve never met her before. She’s a reporter on The Evening Post.’

‘Did you say her name was Trent?’

‘Yes, Steve Trent,’ answered Temple. ‘At least, that’s the name she works under on the newspaper. Her real name is Harvey. Louise Harvey. She’s the sister of Superintendent Harvey, the fellow who was—’

Inspector Merritt looked startled. ‘Sister!’ he exclaimed with surprise.

‘Yes. Why, what’s the matter?’

‘Oh, nothing, only…only I never knew Harvey had a sister.’ The inspector paused to assimilate this new fact. ‘Why wasn’t she at the inquest?’

‘She was, but she didn’t give evidence,’ replied Temple. ‘Well, any news?’ he asked at length.

‘I’ve had the inn watched,’ Inspector Merritt replied. ‘Everything seems to be above-board as far as I can make out. I checked up on that “Green Finger” story. The inn did used to be known as “The Green Finger” – but that’s certainly going back some years.’

‘I still think there’s something funny about that inn, Charles,’ Paul Temple replied. ‘I don’t know what it is, but I intend to find out.’

Merritt looked thoughtful. ‘Yes, I think there’s something there too,’ he said slowly.

‘By the way,’ continued Temple, ‘you might be interested to know that the Commissioner wants to see me.’

‘He does!’ exclaimed Merritt, obviously surprised. ‘Well, that’s certainly good news.’

‘Of course, he may only want to ask me a few questions about this business with Harvey. On the other hand—’

Merritt suddenly interrupted him.

‘Oh, just a minute, Paul!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have got a little news which might interest you. One of my men went into “The Little General” yesterday morning, and on coming out, he bumped into a fellow known as Skid Tyler.’

‘Skid Tyler,’ repeated Temple, puckering his brows.

‘Yes. Know anything about him?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Temple thoughtfully. ‘Skid Tyler …Skid—’ Suddenly he jumped up. ‘Yes, I’ve got him!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘He used to be a driver at Brooklands. He was warned off the track in 1930 and served a term of imprisonment in 1931 for share-pushing…or was it ’32? I’m not sure which.’

‘Well, that’s the fellow anyway.’

‘I wonder what he’s doing at “The Little General”,’ said Paul Temple thoughtfully.

‘Yes – that’s what I wondered. I sent a man back to trail him, but the idiot bungled the job, and Skid disappeared.’

Paul Temple put down his pipe at which he had been puffing steadily for the last half-hour, and took his cigarette holder from the mantelpiece. Oddly enough Temple very rarely smoked cigars although he always had a selection in stock for his visitors, and he now passed a box over to Inspector Merritt. They were Brazilian cigars— ‘Havana tobacco, but grown in Brazil,’ Paul Temple explained to him; ‘I think they’re much better than plain Havana cigars. Hope you like them.’ Merritt took one, peeled off the thin wooden covering which protected it, cut the end off and lit it. Then he settled back into his comfortable armchair.

‘Did you check up on Miss Parchment?’ Temple asked him at last.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘She’s all right as far as I can make out. Retired schoolmistress. Lives alone in a small flat near the Tottenham Court Road. Passionately fond of reading and old English inns. Seems a hell of a life to me – but it sounds genuine enough.’

Temple walked up and down the room, occasionally flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette.

‘Somehow,’ he said at last, ‘I feel sure that in some peculiar way, Miss Parchment fits into all this mystery about “The Little General”…Harvey’s murder…and the jewel robberies.’ He paused. ‘I don’t know how…but I’m sure she does.’

‘Well, your hunches aren’t often wrong, Paul,’ Merritt replied, ‘but I fail to see how an innocent old dame with a passion for—’

The telephone ringing outside cut short his sentence. Temple got up and with an apology left the room. Pryce was probably some distance away downstairs in the servants’ quarters, and there seemed little need to bring him up while the call was in all probability one he would have to answer.

After a moment or two he came back into the room with the instrument in his hands, a long extension cord trailing behind him. ‘It’s for you, Charles,’ he explained, putting the instrument down on the low table. With a word of thanks the inspector picked up the receiver.

‘Hello! Yes, speaking! Oh, hello, Sergeant. Yes…yes—’ He looked up at Temple significantly.

‘Yes…Go on…When did it happen?…Good lord! Yes, yes, of course…You’d better pick me up here. Yes, goodbye.’

Throughout the conversation, Inspector Merritt had rapidly been growing more and more restless. Now, as he replaced the receiver, he jumped out of his chair and almost rushed up to Temple who was standing with his back to the fire.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Temple quickly.

‘They’ve done it again.’

‘You mean…?’

‘It’s Leamington this time. Frobisher’s, of Regent Street. £14,000 worth of stuff.’

Temple whistled. ‘By Timothy!’ he exclaimed.

‘There’ll be hell to pay over this,’ went on the inspector irritably.

‘When did it happen?’

‘About an hour ago. Practically in broad daylight. That smash sounds a dam’ funny business to me.’

‘What smash?’

‘A lorry crashed into a dress shop which was next door to the jeweller’s,’ Merritt explained. ‘There was such a devil of a row over the smash that no one took the slightest notice of what was happening next door.’

‘Sounds like a cover,’ said Temple thoughtfully.

‘Yes, that’s what I thought.’

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Both were too busy assimilating news of this latest development. Inspector Merritt’s first spasm of sharp excitement had gone and he sat down again in his armchair, and relit the cigar he had been too busy to continue smoking.

Suddenly Temple turned. His face was set in an expression of grim determination.

‘Charles. Tell them to hold that lorry driver.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, by Timothy,’ said Temple, ‘I’ll bet a fiver it’s Skid Tyler.’