Читать книгу Send for Paul Temple - Francis Durbridge, Francis Durbridge - Страница 8

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.’

‘Have you seen her tonight?’

‘Yes, she popped in here about half-past nine.’

‘What about the servants?’ Temple asked next.

‘There’s two maids, that’s all. The rest sleep out.’

‘Oh, I see.’

Daley looked at the corpse with very clear distaste.

‘Phew!’ he exclaimed. ‘He looks terrible, don’t ’e? This business ’as made me proper nervy.’

Temple turned towards him. ‘I think you’d better fetch Miss Parchment down,’ he said at length. ‘I’d like to have a word with her.’

‘Miss Parchment!’ Daley looked surprised. ‘What do we want ’er for?’

‘The sergeant will insist on seeing her, so there’s no reason why she shouldn’t be brought down right away.’

‘All right,’ said Daley after a moment’s pause. ‘If you say so, Guv’nor.’

‘And you’d better tell her what’s happened. We don’t want her fainting, or anything like that.’

‘If you asks me, she’ll pass right out!’ said Daley, walking towards the hall. Temple watched him close the door, and listened to his footsteps as he started to mount the stairs.

Then very swiftly he passed over to the flap in the counter, raised it, and let himself through. A few strides brought him to the till. He opened it and briefly examined its contents. Then he closed it as footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs, and in a very short while he was back in the middle of the room again, sitting down on one of the old oak benches.

‘You’ve been quick!’ he said, as Daley appeared, slightly out of breath.

‘Yes!’ was the brief answer.

‘Where’s Miss Parchment?’

‘She’ll be down in a minute.’

‘Have you told her about…?’

‘Yes,’ interrupted Daley. ‘And would you believe it, she was as cool as a cucumber. Talk about some of us men being ’ardboiled! Why, if you…’ He broke off as a faint rustle came from outside.

Both men turned to look at the door. It opened, and a tall, elderly lady appeared. In spite of her grey hair she carried her sixty years well. There was almost a touch of gaiety in the way she advanced to meet them. She was wearing a nondescript dress of grey tweed, but the flashes from her diamond brooch and earrings immediately drew Temple’s attention.

‘Miss Parchment?’ he asked, as he rose to greet her.

‘Yes.’ But it was a question rather than a form of assent that came from her lips.

Temple introduced himself. He could exercise almost a spell when he wished, and with a few sentences and a smile, he had put Miss Parchment at her ease and won her sympathy.

The novelist pulled out one of the less uncomfortable- looking of the chairs for her and turned it away from the body. She thanked him with a friendly smile and sat down.

‘What time was it when you went to your room, Miss Parchment?’ asked Paul Temple, after a time.

‘Now let me see,’ she replied. ‘It would be about—er—ten o’clock. I sat for a short while – reading. I prefer to read in bed as a rule, but the book I’m reading at the moment is so very interesting that—’

‘Yes, I’m sure it is.’ Temple headed her skilfully off what might too easily have developed into a long digression. Time was short, and Temple had a number of questions to ask before the police arrived.

‘I trust you’ve sent for the police, Mr. Temple?’ the old lady asked. ‘I do feel—’

‘Yes. The sergeant is on his way here now.’

‘What a dreadful shock it must have been for you. Personally, I can never understand the mentality of anyone who commits suicide. It always seems to me that—’

Temple looked up at her in quiet surprise. ‘What makes you so certain that this is suicide?’ he said softly.

‘What makes me so certain?’ she repeated. ‘But surely it must be suicide! Unless, of course, Mr. Daley shot him!’

Mr. Daley had been standing nearby as though mounting guard over the body. He had not taken any part in the conversation, but his head had moved from Paul Temple to Miss Parchment and back again with rapid, sparrow-like, movements. Now his eyes seemed to pop out of his head in sudden surprise.

‘’Ere! None of them insinuations!’ he started, and crossed toward Miss Parchment as if nearness would lend emphasis to his words. ‘I couldn’t kill anyone, see. Not even if I wanted to. Can’t stand the sight of blood. Makes me proper queer-like.’ Then, as though exhausted by this sudden effort, he stepped back and sat down on a bench about two yards from Temple.

‘But there doesn’t seem to be much blood, Mr. Daley.’

‘There’s enough to give me the jitters!’ he exclaimed, almost savagely. He walked up to the window and peered out into the darkness. A thought seemed to occur to him and he half-turned.

‘And if it comes to that, why wasn’t you in bed when I knocks on your door?’

‘Because, my dear Mr. Daley,’ replied Miss Parchment calmly, ‘I was reading.’

‘Like to bet it was a murder story!’ The innkeeper’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

‘You’ll lose your bet, Mr. Daley,’ she replied sweetly, ‘It was a book on old English inns. I’m very interested in old English inns.’

Temple decided to interrupt them. There was still much that he might be able to ascertain before the police arrived. He turned to Miss Parchment to ask how long she had intended staying at the inn.

‘I hadn’t quite made up my mind,’ she replied. ‘Most probably till the end of the week.’

The innkeeper promptly took her up again. ‘You didn’t say that when you signed the register! You said it was only for one night!’

Miss Parchment was not disconcerted. She seemed to find pleasure in treating the irrepressible little Cockney with quiet dignity and endowing him with certain powers of understanding and reasoning.

Almost patronizingly, she replied: ‘It was my original intention to stay merely for the one night, but I found this inn so very, very interesting.’

Daley looked at her with astonishment. This was a new phase in a person’s character and completely beyond his comprehension.

‘Interesting?’ he asked. ‘What the ’ell’s interesting about it?’

It was Miss Parchment’s turn to appear astonished.

‘Why, so many things, my dear Mr. Daley!’ she explained patiently. ‘Do you realize the actual inn itself is over five hundred years old? Think of it. Five hundred years!’

But the innkeeper was no antiquarian. ‘Well, I’ve been ’ere the last six months,’ he grumbled, ‘and that’s long enough for me. The blinking place is dead after ’alf-past eight.’

Miss Parchment turned towards Paul Temple who was, oddly enough, thoughtfully considering her statement. ‘Five hundred years,’ he said. ‘By Timothy, that’s certainly a long time. But I was under the impression it was built about 1800?’

‘Oh, no,’ replied Miss Parchment. ‘Oh, dear, no! It goes back much farther than that.’

‘Then why should it be called “The Little General”?’ asked Temple. ‘Surely the—’

But Miss Parchment was now thoroughly at home on what appeared to be her favourite topic, and she interrupted the novelist to explain.

‘It was renamed “The Little General” about 1805,’ she said. ‘Before that it had a much more interesting name.’

Daley was looking up at her in wonderment. ‘You seem to know a dickens of a lot about this place.’

‘It’s all in the book I’m reading, Mr. Daley,’ said Miss Parchment patiently. ‘It’s all in the book.’

Horace Daley had for some little while been paying as much attention to the body as he had to Miss Parchment. Horace Daley had a peculiar aversion to dead bodies. And he told them so. He thought it was high time the police came to remove it. Then another idea occurred to him.

‘Can’t—can’t we cover him up or something till the sergeant arrives? ’E looks ’orrible just laid there staring up at the ceiling.’

‘Yes, yes, all right,’ agreed Temple.

‘I’ll get a sheet from the linen cupboard,’ said Daley. ‘Won’t be a minute.’

They heard him going upstairs and presently moving about in one of the bedrooms.

For perhaps two minutes they sat in silence.

‘Was he a very great friend of yours, Mr. Temple?’ asked Miss Parchment suddenly.

‘Not exactly what one would call a great friend. He was more a sort of business acquaintance.’

‘I see.’ Miss Parchment hesitated. ‘You know, when I first saw him, I had a vague sort of suspicion that I’d seen him before. Of course, one meets so—’

Temple interrupted her. ‘His name’s Harvey. Superintendent Harvey, of Scotland Yard.’

Miss Parchment looked up.

‘Scotland Yard!’ she said softly. ‘Oh, dear! Oh, dear!’

There was another long pause. Then Temple said: ‘You say this inn wasn’t always called “The Little General”?’

‘No.’

‘Then what was it called?’

Miss Parchment looked at him and there was a peculiar look in her eyes.

‘A most intriguing title, Mr. Temple,’ she replied at length. ‘I’m sure you’ll like it.’

Temple waited.

‘Well?’

‘It was called “The Green Finger”,’ said Miss Parchment quietly. And she smiled.