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 20

A few minutes after six o’clock Paul Temple collected a happy and excited young reporter from the offices of The Evening Post.

Intense excitement reigned outside the office as they drove away. The vans were beginning to load up. Drivers were cursing. Men and boys were running backwards and forwards. As the fast vans tore away at breakneck speed, other vans took their places. Soon the news would have spread to all parts of London and the Home Counties, as the skilful drivers threaded their way at an amazing speed through the rush-hour traffic.

The editors of the rival papers were already beginning to foam gently at the mouth and mutter harsh words at the failure of their own intelligence service. The morning papers were beginning to get busy on the ‘story’, wondering at the same time, in some cases, how they could make the most of the sensation without publicizing too much the news-gathering capabilities of a paper belonging to a rival group.

As Paul Temple started up the car, Steve Trent again opened the copy of the paper she had taken with her. There was her ‘story’, with a streamer headline stretching right across the top of the front page. While the car jolted along, she struggled to read once again the story she had written. ‘It’s the biggest thrill I’ve ever had!’ she confessed to her companion.

Finally they drew up in a quiet Chelsea cul-de-sac, and Paul Temple was gaily escorted up to Steve’s rooms. They were bright, very feminine rooms, yet in the comfort they provided, they were almost masculine. Her sitting-room (‘cum dining-room cum lounge cum office cum women’s gossip club’, as she described it) boasted two very large and very luxurious armchairs, which Paul Temple eyed appreciatively.

A bright plain rust-coloured carpet covered the floor and did most of all to provide an atmosphere which the Germans aptly describe as ‘gemuetlich’. Brown tweed curtains, coloured with a dash of blue, hung over the windows. The furniture in the room was of a sturdy limed pine, ‘not too difficult to look at, and jolly cheap,’ said Steve in praise.

In contrast with the rich warm colours of her large sitting- room, her bedroom was bright and cool. Nearly everything in it was either cream or blue. Even the carpet was blue, while the walls were distempered in a light stone tint. It was a happy little home that Steve Trent possessed, and Paul Temple’s admiration for her and his appreciation of her excellent tastes suddenly jumped up.

But his first remark was one of quiet good humour.

‘So this is where you write all those soul-stirring articles for The Evening Post!’ he said.

Steve Trent, who had been watching him very closely, bubbled over with her infectious laughter. ‘Well, I’m glad somebody thinks they’re soul-stirring!’ she said. Suddenly she became aware that Paul Temple’s arms were still burdened with a host of small parcels, the raw material for the tête-à-tête evening meal Steve had promised him. There were also some cigarettes, a couple of books, and other little purchases Paul Temple had made.

‘Put those parcels on the table, dear!’ she told him.

Paul Temple did as he was told, and then subsided into one of the armchairs he had so much admired when he came into the room.

‘How long have you been on The Evening Post, Steve?’ he asked.

‘Oh, about eighteen months,’ came the reply. ‘I started as “Auntie Molly”,’ she continued with a smile.

‘Auntie Molly?’ queried Paul Temple, looking slightly puzzled.

‘Yes, the—er—the answers to correspondence,’ explained Steve. ‘You know, the—er—the—’ she broke off a little awkwardly.

‘Oh, you mean writing articles about—about love, and things like that?’

‘Mostly about—things like that!’ rippled Steve, and they both began to laugh.

‘I say,’ said Temple, ‘this is a grand little place, isn’t it?’

Steve looked pleased. ‘I’m glad you like it,’ she said.

‘By Timothy, yes!’ said Temple. Slowly he rose out of the depths of his chair and looked round the room again. His eyes finally rested on her radiogram, an extremely large instrument which occupied a corner of the room. It was clearly no ordinary mass production instrument. Its case was of the limed pine of which the rest of her furniture was made.

‘Rather unusual radiogram you’ve got, Steve!’ he said.

‘Yes. Gerald bought it for me in Paris the year he—’

A knock at the door interrupted what Steve was saying.

The door opened, and a homely, cheery-looking woman who made up in bulk what she lacked in height, appeared, carrying a tray.

‘Ah, tea!’ exclaimed Steve. ‘I’ll help you, Mrs. Neddy.’

Mrs. Neddy was the benevolent Irish woman of uncertain age, though Steve gathered it was at least fifty, who ‘did’ for her. She would come early in the morning to get Steve’s breakfast ready and spend the greater part of the day there instead of the three hours for which she was paid. She had transformed the little flat into a real home for the girl who had no time to perform for herself all the many services she required.

‘That’s all right, dearie!’ Mrs. Neddy said. ‘I can manage.’

‘Good afternoon!’ said Temple.

‘Good afternoon to ye, sir!’ she answered with her delicious West-of-Ireland brogue.

She set the tea-tray on the sideboard and began to clear the accumulation of debris from the fireside table. Then she set the tray down on it and was about to go out when Steve stopped her.

‘Is that parcel for me, Mrs. Neddy?’ she asked.

Mrs. Neddy had entered the room carrying a parcel under her arm, and all the while she was clearing the things so that the two could drink their tea in comfort, she still carried the parcel.

‘Parcel?’ she now asked with some surprise, having completely forgotten its existence. Then suddenly she remembered. ‘Why, yes, of course!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s a good job you mentioned it now! I should ’ave probably gone to bed with it under my arm!’

Steve began to laugh. ‘I gather the memory isn’t improving!’ she said.

‘Improving!’ echoed the Irish woman. ‘Oh, ’tis something shocking, miss. There are times when I wonder who the devil I am!’

The two began to laugh at the kindly but absent-minded Mrs. Neddy. But whatever her faults, and they included the most complete disregard and contempt for any kind of efficiency, she did her work well. She kept the flat absolutely spotless, and the most fastidious of epicures could not have found fault with the excellence of her cooking. It might have lacked the variety of a Soho restaurant, but it was good, tasty, and nourishing.

Steve Trent took the parcel from her and began to inspect it. There was no stamp and no indication of its sender. It was about an inch in thickness and a foot and a half across. ‘A plate or a dish of some sort,’ reflected Steve.

‘Where did the parcel come from, Mrs. Neddy?’ asked Steve, rather puzzled.

‘It was delivered about an hour ago, by a boy. A cheeky- faced monkey he was an’ all.’

‘Was there any message?’

‘No,’ replied Mrs. Neddy. ‘No message, dearie.’ She had been staring at the tea-tray on the table in what might have been wistful contemplation. ‘Lordy!’ she exclaimed suddenly, ‘I’ve forgotten the buttered scones! You’ll have to be excusing me!’

Gathering her voluminous skirts about her, Mrs. Neddy swept majestically out of the room, bent on retrieving yet another error. Mrs. Neddy was always making errors, but errors of a kind that endeared her to Steve. Besides, she had a way of saving her face that at once completely removed any possible ill-feeling or grievance.

‘Mrs. Neddy seems quite a character!’ said Paul Temple, as she closed the door.

‘She’s a dear!’ agreed Steve fervently. Then her face became a little more serious. ‘I wonder what this is?’

‘It looks like a disc of some sort, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Steve quietly. She walked over to the sideboard, opened a drawer and took out a pair of scissors. Then she cut the string which fastened the parcel.

‘We’ll soon find out,’ she said, as she pulled back some sheets of corrugated paper and at last extracted a flat cardboard box. Inside was a gramophone record.

Steve looked at Paul Temple, a frown of curiosity over her face. ‘I wonder who sent it?’ she speculated.

‘Isn’t there some writing on the—’ Temple stopped in midsentence. The girl in front of him had turned a deathly pallor. ‘Steve!’ he exclaimed. ‘Steve, what’s the matter?’

She passed him the black disc. ‘Look what it says on the record!’ she said tensely.

Paul Temple examined the label. ‘To Louise Harvey,’ he read. ‘From the Knave of Diamonds.’

He caught her eye. For a moment neither of them spoke.

‘Max Lorraine!’ whispered Steve at last.

‘Yes!’ he agreed.

Steve Trent took the record out of his hands, and walked slowly over to the radiogram.

‘Steve!’ he said sharply. ‘What are you going to do?’

She hesitated an instant. ‘I’m going to play the record,’ she said decisively.

She opened the radiogram, switched it on, and placed the record carefully on the turntable. ‘The set takes a little while to warm up,’ she added.

‘Yes.’

‘Paul!’ This time there were traces of anxiety in her voice. ‘What do you think is on the record?’

‘I don’t know. Probably a message from the—’ He hesitated. ‘Steve!’ he said suddenly. ‘You’re shaking!’

‘No,’ she replied, though without any great conviction. ‘No, I’m…all right.’

‘Here – I’ll set it going. You sit down, dear!’

He took Steve gently by the arm and led her to one of the comfortable armchairs. She sat down in it with an infinite look of gratitude in her eyes.

Paul Temple walked slowly back to the radiogram. For some seconds he looked down at the gramophone record. From where she was sitting, Steve Trent watched him with curiosity.

‘What is it, Paul?’ she asked at length. ‘Why don’t you put the record on?’

‘Just a minute,’ said Temple. ‘Just a minute!’ He hesitated. ‘Aren’t we being a little obvious, my dear?’

‘A little obvious?’

‘Steve…Supposing you sent someone you knew a record – a gramophone record. It had no official label, and looked very mysterious. What do you think would be the first thing they’d do with it?’

‘Why, play it, of course! That’s what everyone would do under the circumstances.’

‘Yes, of course it is,’ agreed Temple. ‘That’s what everyone would do under the circumstances,’ he added slowly.

Steve looked even more puzzled.

‘Paul…I don’t understand.’

‘The person who sent you this record knew that you’d be puzzled by it,’ Paul Temple explained, ‘and he knew, without a shadow of doubt, that the first thing you’d want to do would be to satisfy your curiosity by playing it.’

‘Well?’ she inquired.

Paul Temple began to grow a little excited. His reason had told him something he did not even care to think about.

‘Steve, don’t you see?’ he asked urgently. ‘That’s the whole point! The Knave wants you to play this record – and immediately you do so, his purpose in sending it to you is fulfilled!’

‘But—but what is his purpose?’ asked Steve. Not yet had she begun to suspect what was in Paul Temple’s mind. ‘Why should he send me a gramophone record? If it contains a message, then—’

‘Any message it contains could have been sent to you in writing,’ interposed Temple quietly.

‘Yes, I—I suppose it could.’ But she was still very puzzled. ‘Then what’s on the record?’

‘Nothing,’ said Temple softly. ‘Nothing of importance. I’m sure of that.’

‘Then why should he send it?’ asked the bewildered Steve. ‘You said yourself his purpose was to get me to play it! If nothing is on the record, then—’

‘Yes, why should he send it?’ asked Temple in turn. He, too, was puzzled. ‘By Timothy!’ he exclaimed after a moment or two. ‘By Timothy, Steve!’ He hesitated. ‘The gramophone!’

‘The gramophone…?’

‘That’s what he wants!’ said Paul Temple in excited tones. ‘That’s what he wants He wants you to use the gramophone. Tell me,’ he said sharply, ‘has it always been in this position?’

‘Yes, always, only—’ Steve hesitated.

‘Well?’

Steve Trent had now caught Paul Temple’s excitement. ‘It looks as if it might have been moved slightly,’ she said. ‘It’s further against the wall as a rule. Oh, and look at the gauze on the speaker, why—’

‘It’s been altered, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes!’

Paul Temple walked back to the radio set and looked at it very carefully. He inspected the switches and the other controls; finally he bent down to examine the grill on the speaker itself.

Suddenly he jumped up and his face was set and determined.

‘What is it, Paul?’

‘Stand on one side!’ commanded Paul Temple quietly; then after a little while: ‘Steve, when you want to put a record on, you stand in front of the loud speaker like this, don’t you?’ And he stood in front of the radiogram, his arm stretched over it so that his hand was just above the tone arm.

‘Yes,’ she agreed.

‘And you lift the arm up and bring it across to the record?’ he continued.

‘That’s right!’

‘I’m going to do exactly the same, only I’m going to stand on one side instead – you’ll see why in a minute.’

He stood to one side of the radiogram, making sure at the same time that Steve was well back on the other side of the instrument. Then, very gingerly, he picked up the tone arm. He swung it over, as if to start the motor, just before setting the needle down on the groove of the record.

During that fraction of a second the room was filled with a loud, deafening report. A wisp of acrid smoke began to issue from the loud speaker grill.

‘Paul—’ ejaculated Steve, with a little cry, in sudden alarm.

Temple took her by the arm.

‘There’s a small revolver hidden by the speaker,’ he explained. ‘It’s been wired up with the tone arm. Immediately the arm was moved, the revolver was fired.’ He paused. His next words were ominous. ‘Now you know why he sent you the gramophone record. Obliging little fellow, isn’t he?’

Steve Trent shuddered visibly as she thought of the narrow escape she had experienced.

‘Thank goodness you were here when it arrived. Why, I—’

Paul Temple interrupted her.

‘How many people know that your real name is Harvey…Louise Harvey?’ he said.

‘Yourself,’ she replied, ‘Lord Broadhedge, the proprietor of The Evening Post, and Sir Graham Forbes.’ She thought a moment. ‘That’s all.’

Paul Temple nodded. ‘And Merritt, Inspector Merritt,’ he added. ‘I told him myself.’

‘Inspector Merritt?’

‘Yes.’

For a long while neither of them spoke. Each was preoccupied with this new problem that confronted them.

‘What are you thinking of?’ asked Steve Trent at last.

Paul Temple hesitated. ‘I was just wondering how long Sir Graham had smoked Russian cigarettes!’ he said.