Читать книгу Paul Temple and the Madison Case - Francis Durbridge, Francis Durbridge - Страница 6

‘But that’s impossible!’ Stella exclaimed. ‘If the penny wasn’t made until 1957 Sam couldn’t have had it in his pocket when he was arrested.’

‘Exactly, Mrs Portland. When I met your husband, the first morning we left New York, he told me that although he was known as Sam Portland, Portland was not his real name. He told me that he didn’t know his name, had no idea of his identity.’

‘That’s perfectly true.’ Stella had added milk and sugar to her coffee. Now she began to stir it. ‘Thirty-five years ago a policeman called Dan Kelly found Sam wandering aimlessly down Portland Avenue in Chicago. He couldn’t even remember who he was or where he’d come from. Is that the story my husband told you?’

‘Part of it, yes. But he also told me that Hubert Greene, his London representative, had telexed him about a private detective called Madison.’

‘Madison?’

‘Yes. He was supposed to have discovered something about your husband’s past. When I spoke to Greene about this, he said it was nonsense, he’d never heard of Madison.’

‘I’ve never heard of him either! All this is news to me.’

‘Your husband went so far as to say that Madison was his sole reason for coming over here.’

‘But that’s ridiculous! We all know why Sam wanted to come to England. Moira – his daughter – works over here and the silly girl’s been making a fool of herself. She’s got engaged to a smooth young man called Chris Boyer who spends most of his time in night clubs. He’s forever taking Moira off to some place called the Manila. I know for a fact that Sam was very worried about it.’

Stella lifted her cup and Steve thought that at last she was going to take a sip.

‘Mrs Portland, you still haven’t told us about the watch-chain.’

‘Oh yes, I was forgetting.’ Stella put the cup down again. ‘Just before we left New York, Sam said rather a peculiar thing, as a matter of fact I thought he was joking. He said, “If anything should happen to me, Stella, take great care of my watch-chain. You’ll probably find it’s the most valuable thing I possess”.’

‘He didn’t mention the penny at all?’

‘No,’ said Stella, at last putting the cup to her lips.

‘Mrs Portland,’ Steve asked, ‘why did you tell Hubert Greene that the chain was missing?’

‘Because he was so curious about it. All the way back from Southampton he kept on about the chain, throwing out veiled hints that he’d like to see it.’ Stella pursed her lips. ‘I made up my mind I wasn’t going to let him see it.’

‘Well, it looks a perfectly ordinary watch-chain.’ Temple had continued to examine it carefully. ‘The only curious point is the date on the penny.’

‘Yes, that worries me. It almost makes me think that Sam wasn’t telling the truth, that the story about himself was a fabrication.’

‘Well, that’s one explanation, of course, but there is another, a very simple one. Somebody’s changed the penny.’

The inquest on Sam Portland was held five days later at Southampton. Temple had been unable to attend as he was already committed to delivering a lecture that morning on the implications of genetic fingerprinting. Sir Graham Forbes had implied that he would be going down and had promised to call in that evening.

Temple was in his study working on the first chapter of his new book when he heard the door-bell ring. He glanced at the wall-clock. It was only three-forty-five. Half a minute later he heard Forbes’ strong and clear accents in the hall. He pushed his chair back and went to the door.

‘Hello, Sir Graham. I didn’t expect you back so soon. Did you go to the inquest?’

‘No, I’m absolutely up to my eyes. I sent Raine. He ’phoned half an hour ago. I tried to call you but only got the ansaphone.’

‘Come on in and tell me what happened. I’m afraid I was working on my new book.’

Forbes accepted the invitation and sat down on the button-upholstered armchair.

‘For your information Mr Samuel L. Portland died from natural causes. The Coroner was quite convinced there was no suspicion of foul play.’

Temple had pressed the stop switch on his ansaphone and resumed his seat behind the desk. ‘Well, if the Coroner was convinced …’

‘Don’t you agree?’

‘There’s something behind this Portland business. I don’t know what but I’m quite sure there is.’

‘Now, take the facts, Temple.’ Forbes sounded a little impatient. ‘Either Portland told you the truth about himself and about Hubert Greene getting in touch with him – in which case Greene lied to you when you saw him at Southampton – or Portland didn’t tell you the truth, in which case his story was a complete hoax.’

‘There are too many coincidences for my liking,’ Temple persisted. ‘First of all you receive an anonymous letter saying that if Portland comes over here a murder will be committed …’

‘But a murder hasn’t been committed.’

‘One very nearly was committed, Sir Graham,’ Temple pointed out quietly.

‘When?’

‘Five nights ago, here, in this very flat.’

‘Yes,’ Forbes conceded, ‘But we’ve no evidence that had any connection with the Portland case.’

Temple decided not to press the point. ‘Anyway, let’s forget it for the time being. Would you like a cup of tea, Sir Graham?’

‘No thanks. I suppose I’d better be getting back to the Yard. Heaven knows there’s enough to do.’

‘What are you on at the moment?’

‘What are we not on? Bomb scares, the state visit, a spate of armed robberies. We’re particularly worried about this counterfeit business. I expect you’ve read about it?’

‘No, but I’ve been abroad for two weeks.’

‘It’s serious, Temple. For several months now the Continent has been flooded with counterfeit notes – chiefly dollars, of course. About a week ago the French Sûreté said that in their opinion the gang were not actually working from the Continent but from England.’

‘Who are the people behind it – have you any idea?’

‘I wouldn’t say this to anyone else, Temple, but frankly, at the moment we haven’t a clue. So now you know why I’m not particularly interested in the late Mr Portland, to say nothing of the watch-chain.’

The telephone on the desk had been ringing for several seconds. ‘Excuse me.’ Temple said and picked the receiver up. ‘Hello?’

‘Paul, I’ve been trying to ring you but all I got was the ansaphone.’

‘I’m sorry, Steve. Where are you?’

‘Paul, listen.’ Steve’s voice was excited. ‘I’m in Harridge’s. I want you to come here straight away. It’s urgent.’

‘What’s happened?’

Forbes had made a valedictory sign to Temple and was moving towards the hall. Temple signalled him to wait.

‘I came back from Bramley on the 11.40. When I got to Waterloo I was just getting into a taxi when … Paul, are you listening?’

‘Yes of course I’m listening. You were just getting into a taxi.’

‘Yes, and I saw a man join the end of the taxi queue. At first I couldn’t place him. Then suddenly I realised who it was. Darling, it was that man.’

‘Which man?’

‘The man who broke into the flat, the man who knocked you out.’

Forbes had come back into the room and was trying to hear what the caller was saying.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely sure.’

‘Go on, Steve …’

‘I didn’t know what to do. I made my driver wait a bit and then when I saw him getting into a taxi I decided to follow him. He’s here at Harridge’s.’

‘Where are you actually speaking from?’

‘I’m in a ’phone booth on the ground floor, you know, next to the flower stall.’

‘Where’s the man?’

‘He’s in the snack-bar. It’s all right, he can’t come out without my seeing him, in any case he’s only just given his order.’

‘Has he seen you?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘O.K., darling. Now, don’t do anything foolish. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’ Temple slammed the receiver down and stood up.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Get your hat, Sir Graham. I’ll explain in the car.’

The lift was occupied. Rather than wait for it Temple raced down the stairs, with Forbes not far behind. His Jaguar was parked almost directly opposite the flat. He was in the driving seat and had the engine started before Forbes slid in beside him. The car had pulled out from the kerb before Sir Graham had time to fasten his seat-belt.

‘You’ll cover me if I get stopped for speeding, Sir Graham?’

‘What’s this –’ Forbes was still regaining his breath. ‘What’s this all about?’

As soon as he heard that Steve had spotted the burglar at Harridge’s Forbes used the in-car telephone to contact his office at Scotland Yard. Temple concentrated on his driving. The knowledge that Steve was perfectly capable of attempting to prevent her quarry from leaving made him take chances. Forbes closed his eyes as Temple raced across the King’s Road just as the lights went red. Through Belgrave Square the tyres were shrieking. Down the narrows of Pont Street he switched on his headlamps and used his horn ruthlessly to clear a passage. As he swung right into Sloane Street the car heeled over and Forbes was only prevented from falling into his lap by the seat-belt.

Traffic was already building up to the evening rush hour and it was seven minutes before the tall Harridge’s building came in sight. There was no hope of finding a parking space anywhere near the store. Temple double-parked close to the entrance which he knew was nearest the flower stall. He left Forbes to deal with a scandalised traffic warden who was gesticulating wildly.

He spotted Steve as soon as he burst through the swing doors. She was standing beside the flower stall at the top of the steps that led down into the snack-bar. She was pale with tension.

‘Thank goodness, Paul! You’ve been quick.’

‘Is he still here?’

‘Yes. At that table over by the window. He’s just paying his bill.’

Using a floral display for cover Temple peered into the snack-bar. The man’s face was in profile. He had no doubt it was the intruder of five nights ago.

Forbes had come in hot on Temple’s heels.

‘Hello, Steve. He’s still here?’

‘Yes, Sir Graham.’

‘Vosper’s outside. He’s putting men on all the exits. We’ll soon have this place sealed up.’

‘It’s our man all right,’ Temple said, moving back out of sight.

‘Steve, is this the only exit from the snack-bar?’

‘Yes, I think – watch out, Paul! He’s coming this way!’

The man had risen from his seat clutching a Samsonite suitcase. He started towards the steps at the top of which Steve and the two men were waiting. Whether he spotted Steve or was warned by some instinct no one would ever know. He halted abruptly, then turned on his heel and ran towards the door which led to the kitchen. A waitress entering with a loaded tray was bowled over by the heavy suitcase.

‘Stay here, Steve,’ Temple commanded, as he raced down the flight of stairs and through the tables of the snack-bar.

He had to step across the fallen waitress and the scattered dishes to push open the door leading to the kitchen. The chefs in their white coats and cylindrical hats had stopped work and were gaping at the wild figure which was already at the tradesman’s entrance, struggling with one hand to open the door.

Temple gained ground on his quarry through the kitchen. Outside on the pavement he had to pause for a moment. Which way had the man with the suitcase gone? Then he saw him, twenty yards away, heading for the busy High Street. For someone burdened with a heavy suitcase he was moving fast. Temple gained on him again during the short sprint to the main thoroughfare. The entrance to an Underground station yawned invitingly beyond the stream of traffic. The man threw one backward glance over his shoulder, then made his fatal mistake. Missing the warning painted on the roadway to LOOK LEFT, he looked right and walked straight into the path of a taxi bowling fast along the bus lane against the stream of traffic.

The taxi driver slammed on his brakes but it was too late. The man was caught by the front mudguard and slammed against a lamp standard. Temple heard the sickening crunch of his head against the solid metal. The suitcase was projected fifteen feet along the gutter.

‘Sorry we’ve been so long, Steve.’

Half an hour had passed before Temple and Forbes were able to rejoin Steve in the snack-bar. They found her starting on her third cup of coffee.

‘What happened?’

‘He was killed, Steve,’ Forbes told her. ‘Went straight under a taxi. It must have been instantaneous.’

‘Oh Paul, I feel awful.’ Steve shook her head, near to tears.

‘Now Steve, listen, there’s no point in reproaching yourself about this,’ Forbes reassured her. ‘If he hadn’t run for it this wouldn’t have happened.’

‘No, I suppose not. Who was he, do you know?’

‘According to this diary which we found on him, his name’s Mark Kendell.’ Forbes had the diary open at the first page. ‘78A Nelson Towers, Chelsea. I’ll get Vosper to check that.’

‘Anything else of interest?’ Temple had sat down beside Steve and put a hand on her arm to comfort her.

‘No, there doesn’t seem to be. Just a minute.’ Forbes was flicking through the pages of the diary. ‘Apparently he had a date this evening. October 19th 8.45. The Manila. Appointment with C.B.’

‘The Manila?’ Temple echoed. ‘That name’s familiar.’

‘Yes, don’t you remember, darling? Mrs Portland mentioned it. She said that her step-daughter was engaged … Now that’s funny. She said that her step-daughter was engaged to a man called Chris Boyer, who regularly frequents the Manila Club.’

‘C.B.,’ said Temple. ‘Don’t you think there are too many coincidences here, Sir Graham?’

‘M-m,’ Forbes conceded. ‘It looks as if Kendell really was mixed up in the Portland affair.’

‘And he broke into our flat thinking we had the watch-chain?’ Temple saw, not without alarm, that his wife’s face had an expression which he knew all too well. It meant she was hot on the scent of something.

‘Paul, wouldn’t it be an idea if we went along to the Manila Club tonight and simply asked Boyer if he had an appointment with this man Mark Kendell?’

‘Quite an idea,’ Temple said without enthusiasm, ‘but unfortunately neither of us happens to be a member of the Manila.’

To his exasperation, Forbes said with a grin, ‘We can easily get over that, Temple.’

‘Don’t say you’re a member, Sir Graham,’ said Steve.

‘No, but Archie Brooks is. He’ll fix you up all right.’

‘Who’s Archie Brooks?’

‘One of our best undercover men. We keep him on tap for occasions like this. I’ll tell him to meet you both at the Manila at ten o’clock. Is that all right?’

‘Fine,’ said Temple with a resigned shrug.

‘Well, I’ll get back to the Yard.’ Forbes was turning away when a uniformed constable came into the snack-bar. He was carrying the Samsonite suitcase. ‘We found the key to this in the deceased’s pocket, sir,’ he told Forbes. ‘The Inspector said he’d prefer you to open it.’

The PC handed the suitcase over. Forbes was taken unawares by the weight. It dragged his arm and shoulder down.

‘I say, it’s pretty heavy, isn’t it? I wonder what the fellow was carrying in it.’

Forbes heaved the case up onto the table. Temple, Steve and the PC crowded behind him as he inserted the key in the lock. It opened with a snap. Forbes released the two side catches and lifted the lid.

‘By Timothy!’ Temple whispered.

Inside, tightly packed, were row upon row of neat bundles of notes. Forbes picked one of the packets up, stared at the top note for a moment then silently handed the bundle to Temple.