Читать книгу Send for Paul Temple Again! - Francis Durbridge, Francis Durbridge - Страница 5

ARTHUR MONTAGUE WEBB had occupied the position of ticket inspector for over fifteen years. It was a position of which he was more than a little conscious, as those unfortunate passengers who tried travelling ‘first’ on a third-class ticket had reason to aware. Even during the war years, when he fought his way endlessly down jammed corridors, his attitude seldom relaxed. Very occasionally, he might install a harmless old lady in a first-class compartment, with an apologetic and slightly anxious glance at the other occupants.

Mr. Webb’s raucous, ‘Tickets, please!’ echoed down the corridors of the Manchester–Euston express one rough night in the late autumn. He paused to pull up a window in the corridor which was admitting a half-gale, then opened the door of a compartment which had a single occupant who was stretched full length along the seat. The occupant of the carriage was rather a dark young man of about twenty-seven, with unruly black hair and glistening white teeth, which he exposed in a pleasant smile. He seemed in no way upset at the inspector’s intrusion.

‘Sorry to wake you, sir,’ said Mr. Webb mechanically. It was his inevitable formula on night trains.

‘That’s all right,’ yawned the young man, fumbling in his pocket for his ticket. ‘Lordy, I was hard on!’

Mr. Webb’s ears, attuned to dialects from every corner of the country, immediately registered the young man as being of Welsh origin.

‘What time is it now?’ asked the passenger, inserting a finger and thumb in his upper waistcoat pocket.

‘It’s half past ten, sir,’ announced Webb, producing a large silver watch, and glancing at it for corroboration.

The Welshman yawned again.

‘About another hour before we get into Euston?’ he queried.

Webb nodded, and waited while the young man found his ticket.

‘Not many people travelling tonight,’ said the young man, his Welsh accent as pronounced as ever.

‘Haven’t had it as quiet as this for months,’ the inspector informed him, clipping the ticket and handing it back. ‘Thank you, sir. Good night.’

The young man nodded and composed himself to sleep again as the door of the compartment slid softly to, and Mr. Webb went on his way.

Webb muttered a soft imprecation to himself as he came out into the corridor again, for the window he had closed had slid down, and once more he got the full force of the biting wind. He snatched at the strap, pulled up the window and passed on to the next compartment. There was no light in this compartment and the blinds were drawn, but in the faint glow reflected from the corridor Webb could discern the figure of a woman slumped in the far corner with her back to the engine.

‘Ticket, please, miss!’ called the inspector. At that moment the express began to rattle noisily over a viaduct, and she gave no sign of having heard him. Webb repeated his request and advanced a step into the compartment.

‘Cor blimey!’ muttered Webb, who never ceased to marvel at the way people slept on trains. The girl remained indifferent to his presence, so he moved across and shook her shoulder vigorously.

‘Come along, miss, wake up!’ he urged in an authoritative tone. ‘Wake up now! I want to see your ticket.’ He shook her again. Suddenly and quite without warning her head jerked forward.

Webb released her shoulder and, turning, switched on the lights in the compartment. The girl was in the early thirties, with red-gold hair and large eyes. Beneath an elaborate makeup the face was ashen.

‘Strewth!’ murmured Webb expressively under his breath. Then, without any further ado, he turned and went back to the compartment he had just visited.

The young man looked up in some surprise as the inspector’s head appeared.

‘What is it? What is it, man?’ he demanded. ‘Have you seen a ghost or something?’

‘Would you mind coming into the next compartment, sir?’ asked Webb in a very agitated tone. ‘It’s – it’s a young lady, sir. I think she’s been taken ill.’

The young man sat up with a start and at once rose to his feet.

‘Why, yes, of course,’ he murmured, following the ticket inspector into the next compartment. They found the young woman had now slid to the floor, where she was lying in an ungainly heap.

‘Take her shoulders,’ ordered the young man, catching hold of the woman’s feet. Rather awkwardly, they lifted her on to the seat and laid her full length. The Welshman placed a finger and thumb beneath her eyes, then felt her pulse.

‘What is it? What’s the matter with her?’ demanded Webb in an anxious tone.

‘What’s the matter with her! Why, lordy, man, she’s dead!’

The inspector’s jaw dropped. He bent forward and eyed the body intently, as if he could not believe what he heard. For some seconds there was no sound but the mournful scream of the engine’s whistle and the unceasing clatter of the wheels.

‘Shouldn’t we pull the communication-cord?’ suggested the Welshman, an excited flush mounting in his cheeks.

‘Don’t see that can help much,’ replied the other gruffly.

‘But, man, we should get a doctor…’

‘I’ll see if there’s one on the train first. No sense in losing time if we can help it. We’re running seven minutes late as it is.’

A sudden draught swept through the compartment. The window in the corridor was open again. The breeze stirred the curtains, which were closely drawn. Something caught the Welshman’s eye, and he drew back one of the curtains. He leaned forward and gazed intently at the corner of the window near where the dead woman had been sitting.

‘What are you staring at?’ demanded Webb.

For a moment the other did not reply. Then he suddenly gave to an exclamation.

‘Look what’s chalked on the window,’ he said, moving out of the light, so that the inspector could see for himself.

Rather laboriously, he spelt out the three letters that were scrawled in vivid red capitals. ‘R-E-X.’

‘Rex?’ repeated the little Welshman, with a puzzled frown. ‘Now what does that mean, I wonder?’

Arthur Montague Webb slowly shook his head. He was very puzzled.

It did not take the police long to discover that the dead woman was Norma Rice, the well-known actress, and within a few hours a dozen newspaper reporters were busily ferreting for facts to add to the rather scanty information about the lady in question which they found in their libraries.

Norma Rice’s career had always been something of a mystery, true, she made no secret of her origins. She was the daughter of a wardrobe mistress from the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, and had spent her childhood in Peabody’s Buildings, within a stone’s throw of that famous theatre. Her gamin qualities and their potentialities had soon come to the notice of a certain Madame Terrani, who ran the famous Starlit Juveniles, and it was not long before Norma Rice was the ‘stooge’ of the outfit – the girl who always does the wrong thing and is a couple of beats behind the rest of the talented troupe.

Norma stuck it until she was fifteen, then she mysteriously vanished, to reappear four years later as the star overnight of a new Broadway musical, Glamour Incorporated, in which she sang and danced with such gay abandon that even the dour H. L. Mencken professed himself enchanted.

Norma remained in the show for six months, then staged another of her strange disappearances, re-emerging two years later as the lead in a sophisticated Hollywood film, Never Marry Strangers. Once again, the critics acclaimed her as a new star, but when the film company endeavoured to foreclose their option upon her services, she vanished again without leaving the slightest clue.

Back in England, she invested most of the money she had earned in founding a repertory company which appeared at a tiny theatre in a small town in Dorset. Later she scored a considerable success as Lady Teazle in a revival of The School for Scandal at the Viceroy Theatre in London, and was afterwards seen in several other costume parts. She had, in fact, only deviated from costume comedy on one occasion, to play the lead in The Lady Has a Past, by an unknown young dramatist named Carl Lathom, whose first play it was. It had proved a sensation in theatrical circles, yet once again Norma Rice had disappointed her public by withdrawing from the cast after six months, after which the play slowly fizzled out, despite the fact that the most expensive young actress in the West End had taken Norma Rice’s place.

It was not surprising that the more sensational newspapers found Norma Rice’s career more than a trifle intriguing, and engaged certain practised freelance journalists to ‘play it up’. You can’t libel a dead woman, so let’s have a double-page spread with plenty of pictures!

But none of the articles provided the solution as to how Norma Rice could have taken a large dose of Amashyer, a little-known drug with a delayed action, which had caused her death. Nor could they offer any clue to the identity of the melodramatic individual who had scrawled ‘Rex’ on the carriage window.

True, the police had discovered that a clever young actor named Rex Wilmslow had played opposite Norma on her last appearance in the West End, but as he had performed in a matinee and evening show in London on the day that she had died, it was difficult to prove that he could possibly have had anything to do with the tragedy.

A murder of a well-known person like Norma Rice presented many difficulties – always presuming she had been murdered – for a woman in her position was likely to have made enemies in almost any sphere of life, and such enemies might just as easily be in America as over here. It was a by-word, for instance, that she had alienated at least half a dozen big executives in the stage and film world by her impetuous actions, which had cost them thousands of pounds, and by her vitriolic tongue, which she never made the least attempt to restrain. As long as stage people could remember her, there had been rumours about Norma Rice. She was said to have slapped three dramatic critics’ faces, one after the other, during a first-night party; she was said to have extorted thousands of pounds from the Earl of Dorrington, whose son had been infatuated with her during his Varsity days; she was reputed to have obtained the famous Calcutta Pendant by a trick; she was said to spend months under the influence of opium, hence her mysterious disappearances…

Few people had liked Norma Rice, but her bitterest enemies had to admit that she possessed that certain something which held an audience from the first moment she set foot on the stage.

Naturally, all these sidelights on Norma Rice’s character ended to confuse the issue, and the Special Branch Commissioner of New Scotland Yard was more than a little worried when he attended the third conference in the office of Lord Flexdale, Secretary for Home Security. It was by no means the last conference. The Norma Rice murder was followed by two more within a comparatively short space of time.

Newspapers made Rex the subject of leading articles which cast no uncertain aspersions at the efficiency of the police force.

The name Rex could be overheard in conversation upon almost any public vehicle as passengers opened their morning and evening papers, and the Sunday Press indulged in a shoal of speculative articles, signed by so-called experts. When the total of Rex murders was up to four, Lord Flexdale decided it was high time drastic action was taken, and bluntly intimated as much to Sir Graham Forbes.

Sir Graham protested at some length. He was one of the old school who disliked the private affairs of New Scotland Yard being dragged into the limelight. He maintained that the Yard would get its man in the long run, and he chafed at the impatience of government officials who panicked at a few articles in what he called the ‘Scare Press’.

But on this occasion Lord Flexdale was adamant.

‘It’s no use, Forbes,’ he declared flatly. ‘We can’t hope to tell where this fellow Rex is going to break out next. There appears to be no connection between any of his victims, and his motives are all quite obscure so far. We’ve got to call for wider co-operation from members of the public. It’s been done before, and it worked. I see no reason why it shouldn’t work again.’

‘That’s all very well,’ grunted Forbes, ‘but remember you’re giving a devil of a lot away to Rex if you admit—’

Lord Flexdale broke in impatiently.

‘I shall admit as little as possible.’

‘Then what do you propose?’

‘I have already arranged,’ Lord Flexdale informed him, ‘to speak after the nine o’clock news.’

Forbes grunted again. Privately, he thought Lord Flexdale welcomed any opportunity to address himself to the nation.

The discreetly shaded reading-lamp near the fire revealed a room furnished in a manner sufficiently unusual to arouse a visitor’s curiosity as to the character of its owner. There was a strange jumble of small ornaments of Oriental origin, an assortment of Persian daggers on the walls, a life-size bust of a Chinese idol standing on a pedestal, two enigmatical pictures by Picasso or one of his disciples – it was difficult to judge in the subdued light – and a wide assortment of cushions ranging through a spectrum of colours.

The recumbent figure in a large armchair stirred as a clock in the hall outside softly struck nine, and a slim, perfectly manicured hand stretched out and switched on the radio. It seemed that the clock in the hall was slow, for the announcer was just concluding the news. There was an impatient exclamation from the armchair.

After a suitable pause, the announcer continued: ‘As listeners to our earlier bulletins will already have heard, we have with us in the studio this evening Lord Flexdale, Secretary for Home Security, who is broadcasting a special message to listeners, both in this country and the United States of America. Lord Flexdale.’

There was a slight cough, a shuffling of papers, then the measured tones of the Cabinet Minister.

‘It is exactly two months since we read in the newspapers about the murder of that distinguished young actress, Miss Norma Rice. As you will no doubt recall, the body of Miss Rice was discovered in a railway compartment in the night express from Manchester to London. The official who discovered the body has already recounted at some length how he noticed the word “Rex” marked on the window of the compartment. Since that particular night, there have been three more murders, all as yet unsolved, and in each case the perpetrator has left this solitary clue to his or her identity.’

The minister paused, as if to allow this statement to impress itself upon the listening public. Then he continued with slightly more emphasis: ‘I am authorised by His Majesty’s Government to state that a free pardon will be given to any person, other than one actually guilty of wilful murder, providing the said person will furnish the evidence necessary to secure the arrest and conviction of the criminal responsible for these tragic misdeeds, which are a menace to the existence of social security.’

Lord Flexdale was obviously making the most of this opportunity to enlarge upon one of his pet themes. With the merest suggestion of a chuckle from the armchair, the slim fingers reached out once more and switched off the radio.

‘We shall see, Lord Flexdale, we shall see,’ murmured Rex, sinking back into the large armchair.

The news-room of the Daily Clarion was in its customary state of turmoil. At tables ranged found the room, reporters hammered out their stories. Copy-boys moved quickly in and out of the sub-editors’ room, carrying messages and bundles of copy. Under a large window, one of the staff artists put some finishing touches to a drawing. A dozen people seemed to be joking at once, and doors marked ‘News Editor’, ‘Assistant News Editor’, ‘Chief Sub-Editor’ were forever opening and closing.

George Dillany, the crime reporter of the paper, sat at his little table, moodily jabbing at the space bar of his typewriter.

George had been overworked of late, and it was beginning to show in his face and manner. He was a little worried, too, that his work might be suffering. After a couple of drinks, however, he would reassure himself with the consolation that if Scotland Yard couldn’t deliver the goods, how could he be expected to turn in a reasonable story? The Daily Clarion paid him to report crimes, not to solve them. All the same, a really good story, particularly an exclusive, made a hell of a difference to one’s outlook on life. You could walk down Fleet Street and look people in the face, reserving a particularly generous greeting for rivals who had been unlucky enough to miss the scoop. Unfortunately, George would be in the position of one of those rivals today, for he had missed a scoop himself. It had appeared in a morning edition of the Evening Courier under the large black headline:

SCOTLAND YARD SENDS FOR PAUL TEMPLE

‘All ruddy headline and no story,’ grumbled George to himself, reading the ten lines that followed the heading:

‘It is understood that Sir Graham Forbes, Special Branch Commissioner of New Scotland Yard, is consulting with Mr. Paul Temple, the popular novelist and private investigator, on the question of the “Rex” murders. Mr. Temple has been staying in the country working on his latest novel, but is coming to London to appear in this evening’s Brains Trust broadcast. It is not yet known whether Mr. Temple will agree to co-operate with the Yard in solving these crimes which are agitating the whole country.’

George Dillany ruffled his hair thoughtfully.

What did it all amount to? he asked himself. It was one hundred per cent conjecture. He himself had called twice at the Temples’ flat during the last twenty-four hours, and had found it empty. He had rung up Bramley Lodge and spoken to Steve, Temple’s wife, who had somewhat coldly informed him that to the best of her knowledge her husband was not contemplating embarking upon another case.

A copy-boy came running up to tell him that Hawkes, the news-editor, wanted to speak to him, and George levered himself up rather moodily and went over to the room in question.

Hawkes was just slamming down the telephone receiver as. Dillany entered. His beady black eyes snapped as he asked: ‘What about the Paul Temple story?’

Dillany shrugged.

‘I’ve tried to get hold of Forbes – in fact, I’ve been through to half a dozen people at the Yard. They’re not talking.’

‘You and your pals at the Yard!’ sneered Hawkes. ‘It’s a damn’ lucky thing for you and all of us I had the sense to send a man down there. And, what’s more, he’s landed a story, and it confirms this!’

He indicated the report in the evening paper.

‘You don’t mean Temple has been to the Yard?’ queried Dillany sceptically.

‘No, I mean the Yard has gone to Temple. Wilkinson was hanging around about an hour ago when he saw Forbes leave. He followed him to Temple’s flat. They’re there now.’ Dillany whistled softly to himself. ‘Then it looks as if they’re calling Temple in after all,’ he mused.

‘Of course they’re calling him in,’ rasped Hawkes impatiently. ‘What the hell do you think they’re doing? Drinking each other’s health?’

Which, in point of fact, was exactly what they were doing at that particular moment. Temple was reflecting that Forbes looked just a little greyer and the lines of his face were a shade more pronounced. Forbes was thinking that Temple, with his slight sunburn, appeared amazingly young, and he envied him his comparatively carefree existence. How very pleasant to disappear into the heart of the countryside to write a novel when one was in the mood. Like many people who have never written a book, Forbes imagined it was merely a matter of filling in an occasional hour in the evenings, with a pipe and a drink at one’s elbow to assist one’s pleasant ruminations.

The third member of the party, Inspector Emmanuel Crane, had never even given the matter a thought, though he did read a novel occasionally. A well-built, seemingly unimaginative individual, he sat four-square in one of the upright chairs, clutching his tankard. As he looked round Temple’s well-appointed lounge, he reflected for the first time that there must be money in this writing game. This fellow Temple had a place in the country too – yes, there must be a lot of money in it. More writing about crime than in tracking down criminals. He began to wonder how much…

Inspector Crane had a nasty habit of lifting a corner of his upper lip from time to time, thus giving his face a sneering expression which was more than a little unfortunate, and which created a none too favourable impression upon strangers. Temple, who had only met him casually once or twice previously at the Yard, was lazily trying to assess Crane’s possibilities, for he was apparently a very active personality at the Yard of recent months, according to reports he had received.

Meanwhile, Temple made pleasant conversation with Forbes, enjoying renewing his acquaintance with the rather brusque but none the less likeable personality.

‘What the devil have you been doing with yourself lately?’ Forbes was asking. ‘I tried to telephone you about a fortnight back.’

‘Steve and I have been at Bramley Lodge, and the village telephone exchange out there is, well, a bit happy-go-lucky,’ smiled Temple. ‘I’m writing a new novel – at least, I’m trying to write one.’

Crane suddenly came to life.

‘I read your last novel, sir,’ he announced with a note of pride in his voice.

‘Oh, did you, Inspector?’ Temple was just a shade taken aback.

‘So did I,’ grunted Forbes. ‘The detective was a bigger fool than ever!’

Temple laughed.

‘He had to be, Sir Graham,’ he replied with a twinkle. ‘Wasn’t he practically the Chief Commissioner?’

Crane’s hearty guffaw seemed to shake the glasses on the sideboard, and Forbes could not restrain a grim chuckle.

Temple got up to fill Forbes’ glass again, and as he returned the Assistant Commissioner said: ‘I suppose I don’t have to tell you why we’re here, Temple.’

Temple looked from one to the other, then said very quietly: ‘Rex?’

Forbes nodded, hesitated, then took a sip at his sherry.

‘Well?’ he queried, with a lift of his bushy grey eyebrows.

Temple slowly shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, Sir Graham,’ he murmured. ‘I’d like to help you if I could, but I must finish this novel by the end of the month and make a start on a series of articles I’ve been commissioned to write for an American magazine.’

Forbes put down his glass and gazed earnestly at the novelist. ‘Temple, I don’t think you realise just how serious this business is. It’s damned serious! I saw Lord Flexdale this morning—’

‘I heard him on the radio last night,’ interposed Temple with a trace of a smile. ‘A remarkable display of oratory, if I may say so.’

‘Oratory never caught a murderer yet in my experience,’ rejoined Forbes grimly. ‘And nobody knows that better than Flexdale. When I saw him this morning, he sent you a message.’

‘This is an unexpected honour.’

‘He said to me: “We must call in Paul Temple, and there isn’t a minute to lose. Get hold of Temple immediately!”’

Temple flicked the ash from his cigarette.

‘You tell Lord Flexdale with my compliments that if he will finish writing my novel I will catch Rex for him,’ he retorted lightly.

Crane did not appreciate this.

‘You’ll catch Rex, eh, Mr. Temple?’ he ruminated ponderously. ‘Just like that?’ He snapped his fingers expressively.

Temple still refused to take the matter very seriously. ‘Well, after all, Inspector,’ he murmured, ‘I was lucky enough to catch the Knave, the Front Page Man, Z 4, and, if I remember rightly, even the Marquis.’

‘Yes, that’s all very well, Mr. Temple,’ insisted Crane heavily, ‘but, if you’ll forgive my saying so, this is a different proposition.’

Temple gave him a friendly smile.

‘I quite appreciate that, Inspector,’ he said reassuringly. Then he turned to Forbes and asked: ‘When did you first hear about Rex? Forgive my asking such elementary questions, but I’ve been buried in the country.’

‘It was about six months ago,’ supplied Crane.

‘Yes,’ nodded Forbes.’ A man called Richard East was murdered – he was found in his car on the Great North Road. Chalked on the windscreen of the car was the word—’

‘Let me guess,’ smiled Temple. ‘And that was Rex’s first appearance?’

‘The very first time.’

‘How was East murdered exactly?’

‘He was shot through the head.’

‘Motive?’

Forbes stirred uneasily in his chair, and looked across at Crane, whose dour features were inscrutable.

‘There didn’t appear to be a motive,’ said Forbes at last. ‘There never does! That’s the extraordinary part about it, Temple, damn it, we just don’t know what we’re up against!’ He rubbed his chin with an impatient gesture.

‘Well, it certainly wasn’t money,’ ventured Crane. ‘East had about a hundred and fifty quid in his pocket when we found him.’

Temple was obviously getting interested.

‘And after the East murder?’ he asked.

‘After that came the Norma Rice affair. You remember that surely, sir?’ put in Crane.

Temple nodded slowly.

‘Oh yes, I read about Norma Rice. I knew her slightly. I even dallied with the idea of writing a play for her at one time. She was a very remarkable actress.’

‘That’s right, sir,’ nodded Crane. ‘She was found in the express from Manchester. The word “Rex” was scrawled across the window.’

‘So it was,’ nodded Temple. ‘This Rex would appear to be something of an exhibitionist.’

‘Yes, and there again, you see, Temple, there didn’t seem to be a motive,’ interposed Forbes eagerly.

Temple lighted another cigarette and asked: ‘Could it have been suicide?’

Crane’s upper lip twitched sardonically.

‘Suicide?’ he repeated in an amused tone. ‘Not a chance!’

‘Surely with a temperament like Norma Rice’s—’ began Temple diffidently, but Crane interrupted.

‘She’d just opened in a new play at Manchester that had been a big success, and was coming to London in a fortnight’s time. What’s more, she’d got herself engaged to be married, so you might say everything in the garden was rosy. Couldn’t possibly have been suicide, whichever way you look at it.’

Temple frowned and looked across at Sir Graham, who appeared to be lost in thought.

‘Was Miss Rice shot through the head?’

Forbes came back to earth with a start.

‘Good God, no!’ he exclaimed. ‘As a matter of fact, when the ticket-inspector found her he thought she was asleep.’

‘She’d been poisoned,’ added Crane. ‘Obviously somebody had given her an overdose of Amashyer.’ He turned to Temple. ‘It’s a delayed-action narcotic that takes about six hours as a rule to prove fatal, Mr.Temple.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of Amashyer, Inspector,’ smiled Temple, who had been among the first to discover the presence of this drug in London some years previously. He refilled Crane’s tankard, then turned to Sir Graham.

‘How many of these murders did you say there had been, Sir Graham?’

‘Five.’

‘And in every case you came across the word “Rex”?’

Forbes nodded slowly. ‘On the window of a railway carriage, on the windscreen of a car, on a small lace handkerchief written in lipstick, on the face of a watch—’

‘And don’t forget the tattoo mark on the dead man’s wrist,’ put in Crane, who seemed to take a morbid delight in the more gruesome aspects of the case.

Forbes sipped his sherry, wishing Temple would make up his mind whether he was going to work on the case. He was anxious to get back to his office, acquaint himself with any recent developments and get his team of picked men launched on their respective lines of investigation. He had not been particularly enthusiastic about Lord Flexdale’s decision to call in Temple, for he had the impression that during the past year or so Paul Temple had become rather more interested in writing about crime than in active participation. No doubt Steve had something to do with this, and you couldn’t blame her. Temple made a packet of money out of his books, so why should he go rushing into danger just for the fun of the thing? Yet Temple seemed more than a little interested in this case – that was a part of the man’s charm, decided Forbes. He had a capacity for taking a lively interest in whatever you chose to talk about.

‘Is this word “Rex” the only link between each particular murder?’ Temple was asking, his dark brown eyes alight with eagerness. ‘Is that your only reason for suspecting that each murder was committed by the same person?’

‘Yes, of course,’ nodded Forbes. ‘Except that in one case…’ Forbes seemed to hesitate.

‘In one case…’ prompted Temple.

‘We found a card on Richard East, a visiting-card,’ admitted Forbes. ‘Of course, it may mean nothing at all – just the merest coincidence. After all, most men have a habit of tucking an odd visiting-card in one of their waistcoat pockets.’

‘You mean it was one of his own cards?’

‘Yes – but there was a name scribbled on the back,’ broke in Crane.

‘Oh,’ said Temple. ‘Anyone we know?’

‘It conveyed nothing to us at the time. But we found the same name scribbled in the back of a diary which was in Norma Rice’s handbag.’

‘This is most interesting,’ said Temple, leaning forward in the chair. ‘And what was the name?’

‘It was just “Mrs. Trevelyan”.’

‘Trevelyan,’ mused Temple, obviously more than a little intrigued. ‘No address?’

‘No address.’

Forbes shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

‘And now you know as much as we do, Temple,’ he murmured dryly. ‘If I didn’t think this business was damned serious, believe me, I wouldn’t be bothering you. In fact, when Lord Flexdale mentioned it, I told him you were up to your eyes in work, but he insisted.’

Temple sighed.

‘I’d like to help you, Sir Graham, I really would,’ he admitted. ‘But you see after that business with the Marquis, I made Steve a promise. I promised her faithfully that under no circumstance would I take on another case.’

He was about to explain further when the door handle turned and Steve herself came in, wearing an attractive costume and what was obviously a new hat. Temple raised his eyebrows the merest fraction. There was a flicker of amusement round his mobile mouth as he welcomed her.

‘Hello, darling. Look who’s here!’

Steve was patently delighted to see Sir Graham, and went across to shake hands.

‘It’s good to see you again after all this time, Sir Graham.’

‘And you look younger every time we meet,’ he responded gallantly.

‘She certainly looks a very different woman,’ supplements her husband. ‘I say, what the devil have you been doing to yourself, darling?’

Steve could not repress a smile.

‘It’s the new hat, darling. Don’t you like it?’

Temple put his head on one side and scrutinised the article in question with a serious air.

‘Is it back to front?’ he asked at last.

‘Of course it’s not back to front!’ retorted Steve indignantly and they all laughed.

Forbes introduced Crane to Steve and they chatted for some minutes about minor matters. Then, suddenly remembering the hours of work awaiting him at the Yard, Forbes said: ‘Well, I suppose we’d better be getting along. Thanks for the sherry, Temple. Good-bye, Steve. I hope we’ll be meeting again fairly soon. Don’t bury yourself in the country quite so long next time.’

He picked up his hat and gloves from a chair.

‘Why don’t you come to dinner one night while we’re up here, Sir Graham?’ asked Steve. ‘We’d love to have you.’

Forbes nodded. ‘Let’s make it one night next week. May I give you a ring to let you know?’

‘Do,’ urged Temple, accompanying the visitors to the door.

When he returned, Steve had taken off her hat, and was sitting on the settee placidly knitting. This was an accomplishment she had acquired recently from the housekeeper at Bramley Lodge, and one which she found both soothing and satisfying. Intent upon turning the heel of a sock – the second of the first pair which she intended shortly to present with pride to her husband – she only looked up for a second as he came in.

‘You seem very pleased with yourself,’ smiled Temple, going to pour himself another glass of sherry, then changing his mind. ‘Is it the new hat?’

‘Yes. It’s a model, you know. Don’t you really like it?’

‘It’s got unconditional surrender written all over it!’ laughed Temple.

‘No, seriously, what do you think of it?’

‘It’s stupendous! It’s terrific! It’s colossal!’ he enthused, rescuing her ball of wool which had rolled under a chair. He went on, ‘How much did it cost?’

‘You’ll never know!’ laughed Steve. ‘I paid cash.’ She went on knitting for a while and her husband idly rolled the ball of wool along the edge of the settee.

‘What did Sir Graham want?’ asked Steve presently, doing her utmost to make the inquiry sound casual.

Temple dropped the wool and felt for his cigarette-case.

‘Oh, he just happened to be passing,’ he answered lightly.

She did not speak again for a minute or two. Temple wandered rather restlessly round the room, lighting a cigarette and stubbing out after a few puffs. Presently Steve gave vent to a sigh of relief. ‘Thank goodness, that’s the heel finished!’ she announced. Then, apparently as an afterthought, ‘Paul, have you seen the evening paper?’

He turned quickly.

‘No, darling. Why?’

Steve reached for her handbag, opened it and took out a small, neatly folded square of paper, which she opened out and passed over to him. The first thing to catch his eye was the streamed headline:

SCOTLAND YARD SENDS FOR PAUL TEMPLE

He glanced quickly at the report, then tossed the paper on the floor.

‘Darling, you know what they’re like in Fleet Street,’ she murmured apologetically.

‘I know,’ Steve nodded, the memories of her newspaper days always fresh in her mind.

‘I can’t think where they could possibly get this information from,’ went on Temple hurriedly. ‘Considering we only got here last night—’

‘Did Sir Graham mention this Rex affair?’ asked Steve in the same casual tone, though her heart was beating much faster than she would have cared to admit.

‘Oh, he mentioned it, of course, in a general sort of way,’ replied Temple vaguely, glancing at his wrist-watch, and suddenly leaping to his feet. ‘I say, I must be off. I’m supposed to be at Broadcasting House at seven sharp.’

‘I’ll drive you down,’ she offered.

‘Good!’ he agreed. ‘Then if you pick me up later we can have a spot of dinner together and I’ll tell you all the blunders I made.’

‘Yes, let’s do that,’ she nodded. But she seemed to have suddenly become restrained and on the defensive. He could see that she was troubled.

‘Steve, don’t worry,’ he begged. ‘I’m not going to get mixed up in anything more dangerous than the Brains Trust. I promised you last time, remember?’

Her face seemed to clear.

‘All right, darling.’

‘So come along, put on that ridiculous hat of yours and let’s go and earn an honest living.’

‘Okay. And don’t make a fool of yourself any more than you can help.’

She thrust her knitting under a cushion and went out into the hall with him.

‘Good heavens, why should I? Just because I’m in the Brains Trust!’

‘Well,’ murmured Steve, standing in front of the mirror and adjusting her hat to the correct angle, ‘what shall you do if they ask you some pretty awkward questions?’

‘That will rather depend,’ smiled Temple. ‘But I imagine I shall give them some pretty awkward answers!’

It took them rather less than five minutes to reach the dignified entrance to Broadcasting House, but the clock showed three minutes to seven as Temple passed into the hall, and he chafed impatiently as he waited to announce himself to the receptionist, who dispatched a pageboy to accompany him to the studio immediately.

He found the announcer talking to Donald McCullough and both eyeing the clock anxiously, while the members of the Brains Trust were sitting round a table in the centre of which was a microphone. They were all looking extremely cheerful and engaging in desultory bursts of conversation.

‘I’m afraid you’ve missed the “warming-up” question, Mr. Temple,’ said the announcer, ‘but you’ll be all right.’ He briefly acquainted Temple with the procedure, and a minute later they were ready to go.

‘Remember, although this is a recording, it’s the real thing! So get right on your toes,’ smiled the announcer.

‘Really, I’ve never felt so nervous in my life,’ admitted Lady Weyman, a tall woman with piercing eyes, who rather surprisingly proved to be an expert on international affairs.

Next to her sat A. P. Mulroy, editor of the London Tribune, and a very young man for the job – a man who never hesitated to print what he thought.

Sitting next to him was Sir Ernest Cranbury, Professor of Economics, who had a large following in America by reason of his readable book on the subject of the gold standard. He was a man in the early fifties, with pale, watery eyes, iron-grey hair and a protruding forehead.

As he slipped into his seat next to C.E.M. Joad, who favoured him with a murmured greeting, Temple was overcome for a moment by the collection of such distinguished individuals, and wondered what he could possibly add to the remarks of such a company. However, he nodded and smiled at the producer, who was sitting behind Donald McCullough. Suddenly McCullough began to introduce them.

He paused for a moment, then continued: ‘Our first question this evening comes from Mrs. Palfrey, Chorley Forest, Abingale. She would like the Brains Trust to explain what is meant when one speaks of the Science of any particular subject. Is it correct, for instance, to speak of the Science of History?’

McCullough looked round his team, who were reading duplicates of the question on slips of paper passed round by the producer. Presently, Joad raised a languid hand, and McCullough nodded to him.

‘Well, of course, it all depends what you mean by the word “science”,’ Joad was beginning in his inimitable fashion, when there was a strangled gasp from Sir Ernest, who suddenly fell forward across the table, knocking a carafe of water and two glasses on to the floor. Lady Weyman could not suppress a scream and Joad stopped speaking.

Meanwhile, the announcer had gone to the microphone and given the curt order, ‘Stop recording!’

‘It’s my heart!’ gasped Cranbury, clutching aimlessly at his coat. ‘I can feel it…racing…’

‘Are you all right, Sir Ernest?’ cried Lady Weyman rather unnecessarily.

‘I’ll be all right presently,’ Cranbury told them. ‘I’m most terribly sorry.’

‘Get some more water,’ said McCullough, and one of the studio assistants ran to obey.

Sir Ernest tried to struggle into an upright position.

‘Don’t try and get up, Sir Ernest,’ advised Temple, who was feeling Cranbury’s pulse. The sick man gave a little cry of pain and relapsed into his former position.

‘Don’t excite yourself, and lie perfectly still,’ insisted Temple still holding Cranbury’s wrist. He turned to tell McCullough that it would be advisable to get a doctor, and the latter replied that the staff doctor was on his way.

Cranbury took a sip at the glass Temple held to his lips, then said in a weak voice: ‘Temple, listen! There’s something I want you to know, just in case anything happens.’

‘Nothing’s going to happen,’ Temple tried to reassure him though he felt far from confident on the subject.

‘It’s just a sort of giddy turn,’ said Mulroy comfortingly. ‘We all get ’em at times.’

‘No!’ gasped Cranbury. ‘I know it isn’t! Listen, Temple – I want to tell you about—about Rex!’

The word was spoken very softly, but they all heard it, and there was a tiny gasp of astonishment.

‘Rex!’ repeated Mulroy, alert as ever for news.

‘That’s right,’ breathed Cranbury heavily. ‘Now listen…when I first received the letter…’ His voice faded away. Temple and Mulroy had both leaned forward to catch every word, but suddenly Cranbury’s head dropped helplessly.

‘Here’s the doctor,’ said Mulroy. ‘Perhaps an injection…’ Temple shook his head.

‘No, it’s too late,’ he said, dropping the lifeless wrist. ‘He’s dead!’