FRANCIS DURBRIDGE

Paul Temple and the Front Page Men

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by

LONG 1939

Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1939

All rights reserved

Francis Durbridge has asserted his right under the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

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A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008125585

Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008125592

Version: 2015-06-01

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

CHAPTER I: Chief Inspector Charles Cavendish Mackenzie Reed

CHAPTER II: Mr. Andrew Brightman

CHAPTER III: Sir Norman Blakeley

CHAPTER IV: Mr. and Mrs. Paul Temple

CHAPTER V: Mr. J.P. Goldie

CHAPTER VI: Rev. Charles Hargreaves

CHAPTER VII: A Message for Paul Temple

CHAPTER VIII: The Front Page Men

CHAPTER IX: News of Steve

CHAPTER X: Story of a Rendezvous

CHAPTER XI: Paul Temple in Regent Street

CHAPTER XII: The Medusa Club

CHAPTER XIII: The Falkirk Diamond

CHAPTER XIV: At Bramley Lodge

CHAPTER XV: Mr. Tony Rivoli Visits Scotland Yard

CHAPTER XVI: Paul Temple Receives a Warning

CHAPTER XVII: The First Circle

CHAPTER XVIII: ‘Taxi, Sir!’

CHAPTER XIX: Mr. Goldie’s Mistake

CHAPTER XX: Concerning Lucky Gibson

CHAPTER XXI: In Which Hunter Receives a Surprise

CHAPTER XXII: Concerning Lina Fresnay and Herr Von Zelton

CHAPTER XXIII: Andrea Fortune Writes a Letter

CHAPTER XXIV: Murder on the Six-Ten

CHAPTER XXV: Visitors at Eastwood Mansions

CHAPTER XXVI: Concerning a Flat in Bloomsbury

CHAPTER XXVII: The Flat Above

CHAPTER XXVIII: Mr. Brightman Is Worried

CHAPTER XXIX: Wrenson’s Report

CHAPTER XXX: The Flying Squad

CHAPTER XXXI: News of Hargreaves, Gilbert Wrenson, and Mr. J. P. Goldie

CHAPTER XXXII: The Autumn Hotel

CHAPTER XXXIII: A Surprise for Gilbert Wrenson

CHAPTER XXXIV: In Which Paul Temple Eats Far Too Many Muffins

About the Author

Also in This Series

About the Publisher

CHAPTER I
Chief Inspector Charles Cavendish Mackenzie Reed

Chief Inspector Charles Cavendish Mackenzie Reed would certainly have delighted the heart of that famous Hollywood producer who, in a moment of sheer inspiration, insisted that all Scotland Yard detectives should have genuine Scottish accents.

Though Mac tried hard to conceal his dialect, he was never entirely successful. Unlike many of his fellow countrymen, he wanted to forget that he was once P.C. Reed from a tiny Scottish border town, who had won his way further and further South by sheer pertinacity, climbing a rung in the promotion ladder with every move.

It was his relentless perseverance which had brought him into the public eye as the man who had run down The Blade Kid, perpetrator of a long series of razor-slashing crimes in the Derby area. Reed worked on his pet principle that every criminal makes a slip at some time or other, and that it was merely a matter of waiting for it. In this particular case, he took the very obvious procedure of making a methodical daily round of all the shops that stocked cut-throat razors.

His colleagues had thought it a great joke at the time, but Charles Cavendish Mackenzie Reed merely set his stubborn jaw and went on with his business.

And then suddenly, on a peaceful morning towards the end of May, The Blade Kid did buy a new set of razors and this dour, sandy-haired Scot came to town. He was not altogether happy at Scotland Yard, for there were far too many public school and university men at the Yard for his liking. Their assured manners and open vowels made him more conscious than ever of his homely Scottish accent, but he would never have dreamed of betraying this suggestion of an inferiority complex.

Nevertheless the Chief Commissioner had come to rely upon Mac, particularly in cases which called for unfailing patience and ceaseless attention to detail.

At this particular moment, however, Mac was none too pleased at the way the Chief was treating him. Sir Graham Forbes had carelessly informed him that another of these ex-public schoolboys was to join him on his latest case. Mac chose to construe this as a reflection on his capabilities, but he had not dared to say so.

Inspector Hunter stood before him now in his little private office, which was kept in scrupulous order. Hunter was a personable young man in the middle twenties, who had a wide and peculiar knowledge of the London underworld. He always gave the impression that he did not take life very seriously, and rarely wore uniform if he could avoid it.

‘The Chief says ye’re to come in with us on this Blakeley case,’ began Mac in dubious tones. He had heard that Hunter was brilliant, but erratic.

‘Why, I’ll be glad to, Mac. I’ve always wanted to study your methods,’ Hunter assured him fervently. Fortunately, Mac had very little sense of humour, and did not detect the merest twinkle that flitted over Hunter’s smooth features.

‘It’s a most peculiar case,’ continued Mac, disregarding the flattery, ‘and ye’ll have to be patient, I warn ye. I’ve got Marshall, Rigby and Nelson checking up every clue, but so far—’

‘Perhaps you’d give me the history of the case, Mac,’ put in Hunter. Reed’s face hardened a trifle. He resented young Hunter addressing him with this familiarity. These college cubs were no sooner inside the Yard than they were running the show, he reflected. However, Mac selected a small batch of cards from a file on his desk and motioned Hunter to a chair.

‘Early in January, Mitchell and Bell published a novel called The Front Page Men—’

‘Jolly good yarn, too,’ broke in Hunter. ‘You’ve read it, of course?’

‘I have no time for reading detective novels. Nelson and Rigby went through it and made a report.’

‘Oh …’ Hunter subsided. ‘I see.’

‘As you’re a literary sort of feller, maybe you already know that the book sold very well indeed, both here and in America,’ continued Reed, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

‘Eighty thousand copies to date. It was in the paper this morning,’ Hunter informed him, cheerfully.

‘That’s beside the point at the moment,’ said Mac, who did not relish these constant interruptions. ‘The thing that interests us is a raid at the Margate Central bank, and the murder of the head cashier – a young fellow called Sydney Debenham.’

‘Yes, nasty business that,’ agreed Hunter. ‘Seems to have been hushed up lately. Weren’t you looking after the case?’

‘I am still looking after it,’ retorted Mac in no uncertain manner. ‘But I don’t propose to broadcast it in the B.B.C. news bulletins!’

‘Sorry,’ murmured Hunter.

‘By the side of Debenham’s body,’ continued Mac, ‘we found this card.’

He handed over a piece of white cardboard, a little smaller than an ordinary playing-card, and Hunter regarded it with a puzzled frown.

‘The Front Page Men. So this was the card, eh? I read about it, of course. You’ve investigated the writing?’

Reed nodded indifferently. What did this youngster take him for? But the youngster seemed to be ignoring him and thinking of other things.

‘Of course this business would boost the sales of the novel,’ concluded Hunter, at length.

‘Are ye interested in the novel, or the case?’ demanded Mac, acidly.

‘Surely they have a bearing on each other?’

‘If ye’ll let me finish,’ went on Mac impatiently. ‘Well, about a fortnight after the Margate affair, there was a smash-and-grab in Bond Street. Lareines, the big jewellers. Inside the window of the jewellers, we found another card.’

He passed it over, and Hunter put the two cards together. ‘Exactly the same,’ was his verdict.

‘Humph!’ grunted Mac, who had examined the card under a microscope, and submitted it to the handwriting and fingerprint experts with no better success.

‘What about the author of this novel?’ asked Hunter, passing the cards back. ‘Wasn’t it written by a woman?’

‘It was published under the name of Andrea Fortune.’

‘Can’t say I’ve heard of her before. Was it a first novel?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Then who is this Andrea Fortune?’

‘That,’ replied Mac, ‘is one of the many things the dear Chief Commissioner expects you to find out!’

‘What about the publishers?’

Reed shook his head. ‘They say the manuscript came from a back-alley agency in Fleet Street. We’ve been on to the agency, but they tell more or less the same story as the publishers. The novel was sent to them with instructions that all royalties should be handed over to the General Hospital in Gerard Street.’

‘Any use my seeing the publishers again?’

‘I don’t want to discourage ye,’ answered Mac, ‘but I saw young Gerald Mitchell – he’s the boss – only this morning. He swore he’d never set eyes on Andrea Fortune. I think he’s telling the truth. In fact, he seems pretty scared about the whole business.’

Hunter took a cigarette from his case, caught Mac’s quizzical glare, thought better of the matter, and replaced it. He shut the case with a snap. ‘You seem to have covered the ground pretty thoroughly,’ he commented.

‘Ay, that’s what I’m here for,’ said Mac in even tones, taking up a new card from his desk. ‘Now,’ he announced solemnly, ‘we come to the Blakeley affair.’

Hunter smiled. ‘The papers have certainly been full of the Blakeley affair,’ he said.

Mac frowned. ‘I canna understand how it leaked,’ he murmured irritably. ‘The Chief has even had the Home Office on the phone five times.’

‘Well, the Front Page Men have certainly “made” the front page this time. Is the Chief doing anything about it?’

‘Now, hasn’t he put you on the case?’ demanded Reed, unable to conceal the sarcasm in his voice. ‘Apart from that, he seems to be labouring under the impression that this business might have some connection with the Granville kidnapping.’

‘But surely that was ages before we’d heard of the Front Page Men?’

‘We may not have heard of them, but they could have been there just the same,’ said Mac, who believed in covering all contingencies.

‘It was a sad affair about Lester Granville. Apparently the child was the only thing he had left in the world after his wife died.’

‘Granville completely went to pieces over that business,’ said Mac. ‘Gave up the stage and everything. The Chief was upset, too. But that’s no reason for jumping to conclusions that it’s anything to do with the Blakeley affair.’

‘I wonder,’ murmured Hunter, thoughtfully wrinkling his forehead.

‘Now, look here …’ began Mac, peevishly.

Hunter laughed. ‘All right, Mac, let’s have the rest of the Blakeley story.’

‘I expect you’ve read all there is to tell. Last Friday, Sir Norman Blakeley’s only son disappeared under rather mysterious circumstances and—’

‘By the way,’ put in Hunter, ‘who exactly is Sir Norman Blakeley?’

Before Reed could reply, there was a sharp knock at the door, and a burly sergeant entered.

‘Sorry to trouble you, sir, but there’s a man outside causing a lot of bother. Says he wants to see the Chief, but he refuses to fill up the form.’

Chief Inspector Reed’s sandy eyebrows went up in disapproval. There were too many people walking in and out of Scotland Yard these days, and it was time they put a stop to it. But before he could give instructions, the unruly visitor was standing behind the sergeant.

He was a man of about fifty, obviously in a highly nervous condition; correctly dressed in the customary City uniform of a morning coat, striped trousers and cream gloves. His tie was a shade crooked, his hair somewhat ruffled, and one button of his waistcoat was unfastened.

‘When am I to be allowed to see the Chief Commissioner?’ he began in high-pitched, petulant tones, and Chief Inspector Reed, who had risen to administer a stern reproof as only he knew how, straightened up smartly.

‘At once, Sir Norman,’ he answered politely.

CHAPTER II
Mr. Andrew Brightman

Once inside the unpretentious office that has been described as the nerve centre of Scotland Yard, Sir Norman’s overbearing manner fell from him, and he began to tremble in patent distress.

Sir Graham Forbes looked up from his desk, and at once appreciated the situation. He took his visitor’s arm and led him to a comfortable chair, then went across to a cupboard and poured out a glass of whisky.

‘Drink this first,’ he ordered, and made a pretence of carrying on with some work while Sir Norman gulped down the mellow liquid.

‘Now,’ said Sir Graham, carefully blotting his signature to a letter, ‘any news?’

‘Yes,’ answered Blakeley, in a voice that had sunk almost to a whisper. ‘I heard this morning.’

‘Tell me exactly what happened.’ The manner in which he fidgeted with his paper-knife betrayed that Sir Graham had caught some of his visitor’s nervousness.

Blakeley set down his glass. His hand still shook appreciably, but he appeared to make an effort.

‘At about a quarter past ten, the telephone rang. A girl’s voice said: “We want nine thousand pounds. We want it in twenties. The notes must not be numbered consecutively. Put the money in a brown leather suitcase, and leave it in the telephone-booth at the corner of Eastwood Avenue, Mayfair. The money must be there by four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”’

‘Is that all?’ asked Forbes, who had been making rapid notes on a scribbling-pad.

‘Not quite. After that, she said, “Don’t worry. The child is safe.” Then she rang off.’ The visitor leaned forward in great agitation.

‘Sir Graham, do you think he is safe? Because if anything’s happened to him, I’ll …’

The Chief Commissioner leaned back in his chair.

‘You can rest assured, Sir Norman, that we shall do everything in our power, but please remember that this is a far more serious business than a mere case of kidnapping. There’s a lot more at stake than just getting back your boy for you.’

‘He’s my only son, Sir Graham, the only son I’m likely to have,’ said Blakeley, quietly.

‘Believe me, I sympathise,’ replied Forbes. ‘I am merely trying to impress upon you the fact that we are doing our utmost to track down the organisation that’s responsible.’

‘Then you really think it’s a big organisation?’

Sir Graham shrugged non-committally. ‘I suspect … but I’m not certain.’ He went across to the cupboard. ‘Another whisky?’

‘No, thanks.’

Sir Graham poured himself one.

‘Your men were at the house yesterday,’ pursued Sir Norman. ‘Did they discover anything?’

The Chief Commissioner consulted a sheaf of papers.

‘Inspector Nelson inclines to the opinion that the boy was snatched out of his bed at four in the morning. All the same, it’s difficult to see how they got him out of the house.’

‘It is, indeed. I have the room next door, and I’m a very light sleeper.’

‘Who was the first to discover that the boy was missing?’

‘I did. I went into his room about half past seven. The little chap is usually awake by then, and pretty frisky with himself.’

‘And on this particular morning?’

‘The room was very untidy – bed-clothes all over the place.’

‘Was it shortly after that you received the message warning you not to communicate with the police?’

Sir Norman nodded. By this time he had recovered some of his old assurance, probably due to the influence of Sir Graham’s old Scotch whisky. But he was still considerably agitated, and his face twitched with emotion as he answered Sir Graham’s questions. The Chief Commissioner was lost in thought for a while; once he made a move to telephone, then changed his mind, and decided to continue with the questioning. He picked up a typewritten list, and looked across at Sir Norman.

‘You gave Inspector Nelson full details of all the visitors to your home during the week. Now this list looks surprisingly short to me. Are you quite sure there’s no one you’ve overlooked?’

‘Absolutely certain,’ said Blakeley, with a trace of his City aggressiveness.

‘On Tuesday, for instance,’ pursued Sir Graham, ‘apart from the usual tradespeople, a Mr. Andrew Brightman called, and also a Mr. J. P. Goldie.’

For a moment Blakeley was nonplussed. ‘Goldie? I don’t remember saying anything about a Mr. Goldie?’

‘I understand that he came to tune the piano.’

‘Oh yes, of course! The piano-tuner! I never knew his name.’

Sir Graham was toying with his paper-knife again. ‘Is Mr. Andrew Brightman a friend of yours?’ he asked at length.

‘Hardly a friend. I’ve known him about two years. We met at a City banquet, and I gave him a lift back to Hampstead. After that we became quite friendly – we’re both interested in old china – but we don’t see a great deal of each other.’

‘Then why did he come round on that particular evening?’

‘He’d brought a piece of china he’d had repaired for me by a relative of his. Suddenly, in a fit of desperation, I poured out the whole story to him. As you can imagine, I was very cut up, and to console me, I suppose, he started to tell me about his daughter.’

‘His daughter? What about her?’

Sir Norman Blakeley hesitated.

She was kidnapped too – by the Front Page Men.’

The paper-knife fell with a clatter.

For a moment, the Chief Commissioner seemed too astounded to speak. Then he recovered abruptly. ‘Are you sure of this? What happened to the girl?’

‘He got her back.’

‘The devil he did! How? He never informed us—’

‘No. It cost him eight thousand pounds, Sir Graham.’

The Chief Commissioner was obviously staggered.

‘Eight thousand! How soon can I get hold of Andrew Brightman?’ he asked.

‘He’s outside in a taxi,’ said Sir Norman. ‘I thought you would probably want to interview him, so I persuaded him to come along.’

‘I’m very grateful to you,’ acknowledged Sir Graham, pressing a button at the side of his desk. As if by magic, the door opened, and Sergeant Leopold stood waiting for instructions.

‘There’s a gentleman in a taxi outside, a Mr. Brightman. Ask him to come up, Sergeant.’

When the door had closed, Sir Graham turned to Blakeley again. ‘I suppose you’ve seen the papers today?’

Sir Norman started in alarm. ‘You don’t mean it’s got into the papers?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

The colour rushed to Sir Norman’s face.

‘They warned me not to get in touch with the police,’ he almost shouted, ‘and you promised to keep it out of the papers!’

Sir Graham clasped his shoulder. ‘Don’t alarm yourself, Sir Norman. They must have seen the papers before you had the message this morning. Now, tomorrow morning, take a taxi and go straight to your bank. Arrange for the nine thousand pounds exactly as the girl instructed you. Tomorrow afternoon, take the money yourself and deposit it in the telephone-box at the corner of Eastwood Avenue. As soon as you’ve deposited the money, leave the telephone-booth and return home. Is that clear?’

‘Then you want me to give in to these swine?’ stammered Sir Norman.

‘I want you to do as I tell you and leave the rest to us,’ answered the Chief Commissioner. ‘Now I’d like to see Mr. Brightman alone, if you don’t mind waiting.’

‘Yes, yes, I’ll wait,’ agreed Sir Norman, collecting his hat and umbrella.

Sir Graham ushered out his guest, and returned to telephone for a map of the Mayfair district. He had just replaced the receiver when Mr. Andrew Brightman was shown in.

The Chief Commissioner surveyed him shrewdly. ‘Please sit down, Mr. Brightman,’ he murmured politely, and his visitor complied. He was a fairly stout individual in the middle fifties. A man who was obviously the life and soul of the party. He reeked with self-assurance, and was never at a loss for a reply of some sort, whatever the situation might be.

His hail-fellow, well-met attitude was calculated to disarm most people, and doubtless accounted, in no small measure, for his prosperous appearance. He did not seem in the least overawed by his surroundings, and faced Sir Graham with a pleasant smile, as if they were about to discuss a business proposition.

‘I have just been having a chat with Sir Norman Blakeley,’ began the Commissioner. ‘He tells me that your daughter disappeared under rather mysterious circumstances, and that you paid a certain sum of money for her return.’

‘That is so,’ asserted Brightman. For a second or two, Sir Graham appeared to be puzzled.

‘When did this happen?’

‘March of this year. The eighth to be precise, a date I shan’t easily forget,’ Brightman assured him.

‘Why didn’t you consult us about this matter, Mr. Brightman?’ suddenly demanded the Commissioner, with a hint of anger in his tone. But his visitor was not in the least perturbed.

‘To perfectly honest, Sir Graham, because I didn’t wish to take any risk.’

Forbes’ anger was obviously rising. ‘It seems to me that you took a very grave risk.’

That,’ murmured Andrew Brightman politely, ‘like so many things, Sir Graham, is a matter of opinion.’

Once again the Chief Commissioner was at a loss, finally he asked, ‘Is your daughter in town at the moment?’

‘She’s at school in France. A small place near St. Raphael. She’s been there six months. I thought was advisable to send her away after that business.’

Sir Graham gave a nod of understanding. ‘Now, Mr. Brightman, when you handed over this money, did you retain the numbers of the notes?’

Brightman shook his head. ‘I was told to deliver it in twenties – I remember that rather surprised me. However, I cashed a cheque at Floyds, in Manchester Street, my private bankers. I daresay they could tell you the numbers. I understand it’s usual to keep a record.’

Sir Graham waved aside the suggestion. ‘How did you receive your instructions about delivering the money?’ he asked.

‘By telephone. It was the Monday after Margaret had disappeared. I didn’t feel like going to the office in case something should turn up, and I was wandering round the library when the phone rang.’

Sir Graham seemed incredulous. ‘Do you mean to tell me you waited two days without making any move?’

Mr. Andrew Brightman was still very sure of himself, however. ‘I had a reason for waiting,’ he answered quietly.

‘Then I should very much like to hear that reason.’

‘When Margaret vanished,’ continued Brightman, ‘naturally my first thought was to get in touch with the police. I was actually on the point of doing so when my butler brought me a small card. There was nothing unusual about it, except that it had no address and had obviously been delivered by hand. Morgan, my butler, thinks it must have been left in the letterbox while we were all rushing over the house looking for Margaret. This must be true, because he had already cleared the first delivery of letters out of the box and put them on my desk.’

‘H’m, very interesting. Now tell me, who was the first person to discover your daughter was missing?’

‘The maid. She used to take Margaret a glass of milk at about eight o’clock every morning. On this particular day she was surprised to find Margaret was not in her room, and that apparently the bed had not been slept in. Naturally, the poor girl was quite bewildered, so she called Morgan.’

‘And you were about to phone the police when Morgan brought you this card?’

Brightman nodded. ‘Yes. We’d searched the house from cellar to attic, and I was getting more and more alarmed. By the way, I thought perhaps you’d be interested to see the card.’

He handed over a slip of pasteboard, which Sir Graham examined carefully through a small but powerful magnifying glass. It bore the simple message:

Don’t call the police. Wait 48 hours. The child is safe.

The Front Page Men.

‘Thank you,’ said Sir Graham at length. ‘I should like to keep this for the time being, if I may.’

‘Of course, sir,’ agreed Brightman, who now appeared to be more at ease than ever, and spoke in the slightly pompous manner of the chairman of a company who is about to disclose the payment of an extraordinary dividend. ‘You can imagine,’ he went on, ‘what a state I was in when I received that note. I didn’t know what to do. Suddenly I made up my mind to wait.’ Brightman paused. ‘I needn’t tell you what that week-end was like, Sir Graham. Every minute seemed an eternity. I wouldn’t go through it again – not for a million!’

Suddenly the recollection of this experience seemed to upset his urbanity for the first time. He swallowed hard, shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and ran a finger round the edge of his collar before continuing. ‘Both Morgan and the maid wanted me to send for the police. In fact, Morgan threatened to go over my head and get in touch with Scotland Yard himself. The poor devil is devoted to Margaret, and he was completely unnerved. Then, at about half past nine, another note was delivered.’

He handed over the second card, which read:

Be near the telephone tomorrow morning. The child is safe.

The Front Page Men.

Forbes examined it carefully, but it appeared to offer no clue.

‘How long have Morgan and the maid been in your employment?’

‘Oh, quite a while – long before my wife and I parted. Morgan was with my father for some years. They both worship Margaret, if that’s what you’re thinking, Sir Graham.’

‘What time did you receive the phone call?’

‘At about 10.15. Naturally I answered the phone myself. A woman was at the other end. She sounded young and quite pleasant. “We want eight thousand pounds,’ she said, ‘we want it in twenties. The notes must not be numbered consecutively. Put the money in a brown leather suitcase, and deposit it in the cloakroom of the Regal Palace Hotel. The case must be there by 12.30 tomorrow morning.” ’

Sir Graham snatched up his pencil and made several notes. Then he nodded to his visitor to continue.

‘The next morning, I turned up at the Regal Palace Hotel complete with suitcase and money. At the cloak-room they gave me a ticket for the suitcase, which rather worried me. I couldn’t quite see how anybody could get the suitcase out without the ticket – and so far, at any rate, I’d received no instructions about sending the ticket on anywhere. I was still thinking about this when I arrived home.’

He paused, took out a handkerchief, and rather nervously wiped his lips.

‘I opened the front door, and the first thing I heard, was Margaret’s voice. She had arrived just after I left the house with the money.’

If this mystified Sir Graham, he did not betray the fact. He inquired if the child was in good health.

‘Perfectly normal, except for one thing,’ replied Brightman. ‘She couldn’t remember anything that had happened. I talked to her for hours, trying to bring back her memory, but it was no use at all. That weekend had just been erased from her consciousness.’

‘You made no attempt to retrieve the money?’

‘I did consider that point, I admit. I even got as far as starting out for the hotel, but at the last moment I turned back. It struck me that even if I did get the money, something terrible might happen to Margaret again.’

Sir Graham re-read his notes with a worried frown before asking Brightman if there had been any callers at the house on the day his daughter disappeared, Brightman thought for a while, appeared to be about to reply in the negative, then recalled that the only visitor was a piano-tuner.

Sir Graham looked up quickly.

‘A piano-tuner?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know his name?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ confessed Brightman. ‘Morgan did mention it, but—’

‘Was it Goldie, J.P. Goldie?’ broke in the Chief Commissioner, unable to repress a hint of eagerness in his voice.

‘Why, yes. I believe it was,’ replied Brightman in surprise. ‘But he’s quite a harmless old customer, he couldn’t have had anything to do with this awful business.’

Sir Graham smiled. ‘That, like so many other things, Mr. Brightman, is a matter of opinion.’

A rather awkward pause was suddenly interrupted by Sergeant Leopold, who entered with a large map, which he placed on the Chief Commissioner’s desk.

‘I think you’ve told me pretty well everything,’ said the Commissioner, ‘and if you’ll excuse me …’

‘Why, certainly, Sir Graham. And if I can be of further service, don’t hesitate to telephone.’

‘Thank you. Sergeant Leopold will show you the way out.’

As soon as Brightman had gone, Sir Graham rang for Inspector Nelson, a dark, alert young man, and ordered him to telephone Floyds Bank in Manchester Street and find out whether their customer, Andrew Brightman, had cashed a cheque for eight thousand pounds on March the eighth.

‘And tell Reed and Hunter I want them,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘Well, Mac, did you check up on Brightman?’ Forbes demanded, as the stocky figure appeared in the doorway, closely followed by Hunter.

‘I did that. He’s a stockbroker – lives in Hampstead. Divorced his wife in 1928, and has the custody of the child.’

‘H’m, that seems to tally,’ agreed Sir Graham. ‘What else?’

‘Brightman and the piano-tuner were the only people who visited Sir Norman Blakeley on the day the boy disappeared.’

‘What about the piano-tuner?’

‘I checked up on him, sir. He used to be with Clapshaw and Thompson’s in Regent Street. Started on his own about six years ago. Lives at Northstream Cottages, Streatham.’

‘That sounds fair enough. Now I’ve some news for you, Mac. Sir Norman’s had a message. They want nine thousand pounds by four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’

Even Mac’s inscrutable poker face reacted to this information, and Hunter made no secret of his astonishment.

There was a moment’s silence.

‘Nine thousand?’ repeated Reed. ‘Did he get any instructions?’

‘Yes, it must be left in twenties – inside the telephone-box at the corner of Eastwood Avenue, Mayfair.’

‘Eastwood Avenue! They’ve certainly got a nerve!’ exclaimed Hunter.

Sir Graham pulled the map towards him, and they all bent over it. They traced the position of the telephone-booth without much difficulty, and the Commissioner began to formulate a plan.

‘Mac, I shall want six of your men here on the corner of Lenton Park Road,’ he said, ‘that will give you a clear view in both directions.’

‘We’ll be there, sir.’

‘And, Hunter, you’ll be on the other corner, opposite the booth. I want everybody there by three o’clock at the latest.’

The two assistants acknowledged their instructions and made certain of their positions on the plan. Then another idea occurred to the Chief.

‘This block of flats here has a perfect view of the telephone-booth if this map’s accurate.’

‘That’s so, sir,’ agreed Hunter, who knew the district quite well.

‘See if you can arrange for me to be in the first floor flat. Ring the janitor, Hunter, and find out whom it belongs to. The address is Eastwood Mansions.’

Hunter went out to make the call, passing Nelson in the doorway. He had returned to inform Sir Graham that Floyds Bank had turned up Brightman’s cheque, which corresponded in every detail with the Commissioner’s description.

‘Well, Mac, it looks as if things are moving,’ mused Sir Graham.

‘They always are moving, sir, in this business,’ was the non-committal reply.

‘By the way, here are two more cards for your collection. They were sent to Brightman.’

Before Mac could ask any further questions, Hunter returned.

‘That flat, sir,’ he began.

The Chief looked up.

‘Whose is it?’

‘The address is 49, Eastwood Mansions, sir.’

There was a rather peculiar smile on Hunter’s mobile features.

‘The flat belongs to Mr. and Mrs. Paul Temple, sir,’ he said.

CHAPTER III
Sir Norman Blakeley

The morning after Sir Norman Blakeley visited Scotland Yard, a taxi drew up at the main entrance of Northern Bank in the Haymarket, and Sir Norman emerged, carrying a small leather suitcase. He was nervous and apprehensive, yet to the casual observer here seemed to be almost an attitude of resigned indifference in his manner. His eyes were weary, and the skin on his face was flabby and greyish-yellow. A doctor would have taken one look at him and immediately reached for his hypodermic needle.

‘Wait for me; I shan’t be long,’ Sir Norman ordered, as he stepped out rather heavily, and the driver touched his cap respectfully in acknowledgment. It was a fine morning, the sort of morning on which people preferred to walk rather than take a taxi, and he was lucky to have picked up this fare so early in the day; with a bit of luck, this distinguished-looking passenger would demand to be taken to one of the outer suburbs like Richmond – it would be a nice run through the Park this morning. ‘All the same, I’d sooner it was Croydon,’ mumbled the driver to himself. ‘It’d be nice to get ’ome for a bit o’ dinner.’ It was surprising how very few people wanted to go to Croydon these days – at night he invariably had to make the journey home without a fare.

He was cogitating upon this point when another well-dressed man came on the scene, opened the taxi- door without warning, and declared briskly: ‘Take me to Euston—quick as you can—I’ve a train in twenty minutes. …’

‘Sorry, guv’nor. The cab’s taken—I’ve got a fare in the bank ’ere. There’s a rank just up the road—’

The stranger immediately took a pound note from his pocket and unceremoniously pushed it under the driver’s nose. ‘I must get the 11.15 from Euston,’ he snapped. ‘And if you do it, there’s a pound for you.’

With a puzzled frown, the driver looked inquiringly into the bank entrance. There was no sign of his former passenger. Then he looked at his meter, which registered three-and-sixpence. He made a rapid calculation on the question of the maximum fare to Euston and decided he would clear at least ten shillings on the deal.

‘Get in, sir,’ he invited, slammed the door after his new fare, clicked the flag down as he sprang into his seat, and briskly started the engine.

The Haymarket branch of the Northern Bank is one of the oldest of its London offices, and its fittings savour of the traditional baronial hall. All the clerks are similarly attired in dark coats and striped trousers, and one or two of them can still remember the days when they were all expected to wear top hats. In spite of the absence of toppers, however, dignity is still the prevailing note.

Sir Norman never particularly liked this bank. He kept his account there because his father had done so before him, and it would have been rather an effort to change. As he stood there now, he resented the slightly supercilious air with which the clerk examined the cheque he had passed over. The young man, who was new to counter-work, had never been asked to such a large cheque before. He turned it over several times in patent hesitation. Suddenly Sir Norman’s temper got the better of him.

‘If you wish to refer that cheque, please do so at once. I want nine thousand pounds in twenty-pound notes, and they must not be numbered consecutively.’

The young cashier blushed, then managed to stammer an apology. ‘I won’t keep you a minute, sir … I just wondered if …’ Rather incoherently, he beat a hasty retreat to the other side of the counter. Sir Norman could see him talking to a small group of three other clerks in hushed whispers. One of them peered over the top of the counter, obviously to make certain of the customer’s identity.

Meanwhile Sir Norman drummed his fingers impatiently upon the expensive walnut surface. After what seemed almost ten minutes, but which was in reality exactly ninety seconds, the door of the manager’s at the far end of the counter was opened by the young cashier.

‘Would you mind stepping this way, please?’ he demanded politely, and Sir Norman had no choice but to obey. He had not the slightest wish to interview Mr. Percy Briggs, an obsequious little man who’d been appointed temporary manager two years ago, and had contrived by judicious methods, which his staff described in unprintable language, to make himself a permanency. None of his staff liked Briggs, but elderly ladies among the bank’s clientele thought him the most charming man they had ever encountered, seriously considered recognizing the fact in their wills. Which was exactly what Mr. Briggs was aiming at.

*

However, his fawning tactics never deceived Sir Norman, and he always felt slightly nauseated when Briggs thrust out a flabby hand to welcome him.

‘Good morning, Sir Norman – a very fine morning,’ smiled Briggs, exposing two teeth heavily stopped in gold.

‘I think it will turn to rain,’ replied Sir Norman, as disagreeably as possible, ‘and I want nine thousand pounds as quickly as you can let me have them.’

‘Certainly, Sir Norman. There are just one or two formalities, if you wouldn’t mind taking a seat.’ He indicated the comfortable chair reserved for customers. Briggs delighted in entertaining what he invariably termed ‘the upper classes’. At lunch he would mention Sir Norman’s name at least three times – as casually as possible – and there was no doubt that his table companions would be suitably impressed, particularly as Sir Norman was so much in the news just now. The manager adopted an attitude of polite sympathy. He had followed the Blakeley case very closely in the papers, and he loved to know what was going on behind the scenes. He told himself that it was part of his job. (‘Never be afraid to ask questions,’ he always impressed upon his new juniors.)

‘I was very distressed to read about your son, Sir Norman,’ he began in smooth accents.

‘Ah yes, nasty business,’ growled Blakeley. This was the last subject he wished to discuss with Briggs.

‘I was reading in the Evening Post that Scotland Yard consider that the Front Page Men are really an organisation of—’

‘The newspapers print too much damn rubbish,’ said Sir Norman abruptly.

‘Yes, but all the same, Sir Norman, don’t you think—’

‘I think I’d like that money as soon as possible, if it isn’t troubling you too much,’ retorted Sir Norman sarcastically.

So he was going to be unpleasant, was he, ruminated Briggs. All right, he would have to be shown that two could play the same game.

‘You realise, of course, Sir Norman,’ he cleared his throat rather ponderously, ‘this cheque will make you about four thousand overdrawn? Of course, there will be no difficulty about that, but I thought you may have lost track of your affairs lately in view of this—er …’ He cleared his throat again.

‘That will be all right. I shall be paying in some big dividends during the next week or two,’ Sir Norman informed him.

‘Quite, Sir Norman; I hope you did not mind my mentioning the matter.’

‘Not in the least; I presume you will charge the usual rate,’ replied Blakeley, hoping that the note of sarcasm in his tones did not escape Briggs.

‘It may take a little while to get the notes,’ continued Briggs, moving a pile of red-sealed documents from one side of his desk to the other in a manner which seemed to suggest that Sir Norman was trying to get a glimpse of them. This was one of Briggs’ favourite little tricks. ‘You see our main stock of banknotes are numbered consecutively. We may have to send out to the other banks.’ He shrugged his shoulders, as if to impress upon his visitor the many intricacies of the banking system.

Sir Norman fumed inwardly.

Meanwhile Briggs meandered on. He touched upon the refugee problem, National Service, unemployment and Sir Montagu Norman.

After what seemed an eternity, the young cashier returned, carrying a bulky package, and Briggs dismissed him with a curt nod.

‘Would you care to run through the notes, Sir Norman?’ he asked.

Sir Norman half-heartedly fingered the notes, then put them into his suitcase. He hardly imagined that the receiver would quibble if there were twenty pounds short. He took his leave of Briggs as rapidly as he could, but the manager insisted on following him to the outer door of the bank.

Curiously enough, Sir Norman’s prediction concerning the weather had been fulfilled, and rain was falling sharply. He was both irritated and annoyed to find that the taxi was nowhere to be seen. He distinctly remembered telling the man to wait for him. ‘Confound the impudence of the fellow!’

Sir Norman glanced down the practically deserted thoroughfare, and instinctively turned up the collar of his coat.

There was no sign of a taxi. Just as he was turning away from the bank, however, a powerful American limousine swung out of a side-street and came sleekly to a standstill level with the kerb. Sir Norman was delighted to find that he at once recognised the man sitting in the back of the car.

‘Jump in, Sir Norman,’ called Andrew Brightman smilingly as he swung open the door of the car. Sir Norman sank into the heavily sprung seat with a sigh of relief. He was feeling tired, and rather apprehensive about forthcoming events. Placing the suitcase on the floor beside him, he tried to relax.

‘I had a taxi waiting for me, but the fool disappeared,’ he explained, for Brightman’s benefit. Brightman smiled again, and produced his cigarette-case.

‘Lucky I was passing,’ he commented. ‘Where can I drop you?’

‘Well, I’m really on my way home,’ Sir Norman informed him, ‘if that isn’t taking you too far out of your way.’

Brightman shook his head. ‘As a matter of fact, I was going home myself to pick up some documents, so it’s only a question of a couple of minutes.’ He produced a gold petrol-lighter and lit Sir Norman’s cigarette.

Sir Norman puffed contentedly, and felt more at ease than he had done all day. ‘By the way, Brightman, how did you get on at the Yard yesterday?’ he asked at length, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Brightman made a faint moue which might have meant anything.

‘They were very polite, but rather vague. I suppose one expects that of a Government department,’ he laughed. ‘Though Sir Graham did seem rather interested in my information. He’s a good man, Forbes, though inclined to be a little too independent. In a case like this, Sir Norman, I maintain that Scotland Yard cannot afford to ignore the most trivial clue.’

Sir Norman nodded. ‘It was very decent of you to go along there and tell them all you knew,’ he murmured, drowsily, flicking the ash off his cigarette. ‘Very decent indeed …’ This was a very comfortable car, he reflected, though a trifle overheated. Like most of these latest American models, it was designed to nullify the rigours of their climate. Sir Norman leaned forward in an attempt to open the window. To his surprise, he found that his head swam alarmingly the moment he moved his body. He remembered that he had had no food that morning … yes, that would be the trouble …

He raised his hand to his forehead, and the cigarette fell through his fingers on to the expensive upholstery. Brightman picked it up and held it out to Sir Norman. For the first time, Blakeley noticed that the smoke was a peculiar bluish-green colour. There was a strange taste in his mouth, too. Brightman was looking at him intently.

‘You must finish your cigarette, Sir Norman,’ Brightman was saying. There was something strange about that smile of his. In spite of the fact that his head was swimming, and his vision was more than a little blurred, Sir Norman made a mental note that Andrew Brightman was not to be trusted. For some unknown reason, he reminded him of Briggs, the bank manager … and he had never liked Briggs … had … never … liked … Briggs … had never liked …

Andrew Brightman opened the window of the car about two inches and tossed the cigarette into the road. At precisely that moment, Sir Norman fell from the seat across the brown leather suitcase.

CHAPTER IV
Mr. and Mrs. Paul Temple

‘Why Mayfair?’ several of Paul Temple’s acquaintances had demanded when they heard he had taken a flat in that exclusive and somewhat ‘Michael Arlenish’ neighbourhood.

‘Why not?’ urbanely replied the novelist. ‘We’ve got to live somewhere, and one might as well start married life in the best possible surroundings. Besides, I adore seeing Steve in a riding habit, and living so near the Row encourages her.’

Paul Temple was confounding the sceptics who declare that a bachelor is too settled in his habits to make a success of married life. Nowadays he took more exercise, had lost a certain amount of weight, and looked all the better for it. His wife had even persuaded him to cut down his smoking, thereby disconcerting various other cynics who hold the opinion that a man never changes after he is married.

So far, Paul Temple had only one complaint against married life – he was so immersed in the novelty of its routine after his bachelor existence that he found little time, and not a great deal of inclination, to concentrate upon his latest novel.

When Gerald Mitchell, his publisher, brought his wife, Ann, to see the new flat one day, Temple was only too well aware that the visit had a dual purpose. Gerald Mitchell was anxious to discover if the new book was likely to be completed to schedule.

Mitchell was an exceptionally tall, dark man, a distinct Varsity product, and apt to worry himself unduly over matters which he could not control, and which had a habit of straightening themselves out without his assistance.

His wife, Ann, was in some ways a useful sort of antidote. Self-centred and sophisticated, she waved aside all his fears and petty worries until he eventually began to see them in their correct proportion. Almost ash-blonde, and extremely good-looking, Ann Mitchell obviously spent as much on her appearance as would maintain a fair-sized, working-class family.

It was not long before the conversation veered round to the subject of The Front Page Men, and Mitchell was obviously more than a little troubled about the mystery surrounding this, his most successful publishing venture. Temple did his utmost to reassure him, but Mitchell was feeling the strain of the police inquiries and constant cross questioning.

Temple was sorry that Steve was not present to divert the conversation to more cheerful channels in that delightful way she had. She was out shopping, and Temple’s mind wandered away from the conversation occasionally to picture her roaming around Selfridges’, her small mouth set in determined fashion, as from time to time she consulted her shopping list.

‘So you honestly don’t think there’s any need for me to worry about this business?’ Mitchell was saying.

‘Of course not, Gerald. If you hadn’t published The Front Page Men, somebody else would have done so.’

‘That’s exactly what I’ve been telling him all along,’ put in Ann. ‘Isn’t it, darling?’

‘Yes, I know. But these detectives get me rattled. After all, my story does sound a bit thin, doesn’t it? When a woman writes a best-seller like The Front Page Men, she doesn’t usually go out of her way to keep her identity a secret. Not from her publisher, at any rate.’

‘My dear, darling husband, don’t be silly,’ scoffed Ann Mitchell, screwing her head a little, to get a better view of herself in the full-length mirror that stood at one end of the drawing-room. ‘It’s as obvious as daylight. The woman who wrote the book is scared to death because some gang is putting her ideas into practice. I know I’d keep in the background if it were me – and I’ve never objected to publicity. Why, goodness, if she revealed herself, the police would be down on her right away. They’d immediately jump to the conclusion that she was the master mind behind these robberies.’

This idea seemed to intrigue Temple.

‘I don’t think the police are as stupid as all that,’ he smiled. ‘I have a feeling that Miss Andrea Fortune has a better reason than that for keeping her identity a secret. Still, there’s nothing for you to worry about, Gerald.’

‘Of course not. Come along, darling, we really must be going,’ decided Ann, moving over to the mirror and adjusting a Suzy hat, which appeared to be in perpetual danger of dislodgment.

Temple saw his visitors to the door, and had just closed it when the phone rang. It was Sir Graham Forbes. Rather to the novelist’s surprise, Sir Graham declared himself greatly interested in the new flat, and wondered if he could come round. Temple was inclined to feel a trifle dubious of this sudden enthusiasm, but his invitation was convincing enough.

As he replaced the receiver, there was a sound of someone lightly kicking the outer door He opened it, and there stood Steve, almost obscured by a huge pile of parcels, which seemed to hang from every part of her person.

‘I couldn’t ring or knock,’ she informed him, her dark-blue eyes twinkling with glee. ‘Quick, Paul, help me with these before I drop them.’

‘What on earth have you been doing?’ he asked, taking several parcels and carrying them into the lounge.

‘Only a little shopping, darling,’ she answered placidly. ‘Just a few odds and ends.’

‘But you’ve been away all afternoon,’ he pointed out.

‘Have I? Then you’ve had a good opportunity of getting on with the book … oh, do be careful with that box—’

‘What is it?’ demanded Temple. ‘An infernal machine?’

‘It’s a new contraption for peeling oranges. You’ve never seen anything like it. It’s absolutely marvellous! You put the orange in at one end, turn the handle, and—’

‘But, Steve, we don’t like oranges!’

‘I know, darling, but it was so frightfully cheap.’

‘By Timothy, you are the limit!’ laughed her husband, appraising her trim figure in its neat, dark-brown costume, and unconsciously making comparisons to the detriment of Ann Mitchell.

‘And besides peeling oranges,’ continued Steve, ‘Carol Forbes says it will—’

‘Have you been with Carol this afternoon?’ he interrupted, quickly.

‘Yes, why?’

‘Her father was on the phone a moment ago. Invited himself to tea, in fact. He should be here at any minute.’

Steve looked surprised.

‘Sir Graham? What does he want?’

‘Presumably, a cup of tea,’ grinned Temple.

‘I do hope you were polite to him,’ she murmured rather apprehensively. ‘You’ve been in a fearful mood since you started the novel.’

‘Nonsense! I was politeness personified. Why, his own pet detectives couldn’t possibly have …’ His voice trailed away as he glanced through the window.

‘Phew! Talking of detectives—’

‘What is it?’ asked Steve, following his gaze.

‘Look! See those two men at the corner of the avenue?’

‘Yes,’ said Steve, peeping over his shoulder at the stalwart individuals who stood on the pavement. ‘They were there when I came in. I’ve seen them before somewhere, haven’t I?’

‘They’re from the Yard,’ Temple told her. He went right up to the window and looked out in all directions.

‘Good Lord, there’s Hunter – and Reed over the other side! Now what the devil are they up to?’

‘They seem to be watching that telephone-booth,’ decided Steve, after they had observed the Yard men for some time. Temple nodded rather reluctantly. The cream of Scotland Yard playing sentry to a telephone-box didn’t seem to make sense.

‘Isn’t that Richards in the car?’ queried Steve.

‘Yes, I believe it is.’

‘I wonder if that’s why Sir Graham invited himself to tea, so that he could keep an eye on his flock,’ she mused.

‘That’s it!’ Temple had almost simultaneously reached the same conclusion. He suddenly became very cheerful. ‘Steve, my girl,’ he laughed, ‘things are looking up round the old homestead.’

His wife found it difficult to respond to his mood. The series of adventures in which she had been involved following the death of her brother had quite satisfied Steve’s thirst for adventure.

Since the adventure which had culminated in the capture of Max Lorraine, alias the Knave of Diamonds, Paul Temple had completed one book and started another. Now he had apparently arrived at a degree of satiety which demanded a certain amount of extrusion before his inspiration could be renewed.

Pryce, the Temples’ elderly manservant, suddenly announced Sir Graham Forbes, and the Chief Commissioner entered briskly.

‘I do hope I’m not butting in, Temple,’ he began, as Paul Temple went forward to greet him.

‘Of course not,’ his host assured him. ‘You know my wife, I believe?’

‘Rather,’ said Sir Graham. ‘How are you, Mrs. Temple? Married life seems to suit you. You’re looking much better than on the last occasion we met at that dilapidated inn near Evesham. Remember the place?’

‘The First Penguin? Brrr – shall I ever forget it?’ shuddered Steve.

Paul Temple laughed, and a reminiscent smile lit the Chief Commissioner’s rugged features.

Steve regarded them curiously. Here they were, making light of that terrible experience. Had they forgotten? Or was her imagination running away with her?

‘I read your last novel, Temple,’ Sir Graham was saying. ‘The detective was a bigger fool than ever.’

‘He had to be, Sir Graham,’ answered Temple seriously. ‘He was practically the Chief Commissioner!’

Steve joined in the laughter, then rang for Pryce and ordered tea. Sir Graham left his chair and strolled across to the window in casual fashion.

‘Nice place you’ve got here, Temple,’ he commented. ‘Pretty handy for most things.’

‘Very handy indeed,’ suavely agreed the novelist. ‘And such a delightful view. On a clear day we can see practically the whole of Scotland Yard.’

Sir Graham was momentarily disconcerted. ‘So you’ve noticed them?’ he grunted.

Temple nodded lightly. ‘Is that why you came here, Sir Graham?’

‘Yes. I wanted to be able to keep an eye on everything, and picked on this flat as the most likely spot. I got something of a shock when I discovered it was yours.’

‘We haven’t used it a great deal,’ explained Steve. ‘We’ve spent most of our time at Bramley Lodge.’

‘I see, just a sort of pied-a-terre, eh?’ said the Chief Commissioner. ‘Well, I’ve lived in worse places.’

‘Why are they watching that telephone-booth?’ asked Temple, unable to restrain his curiosity any longer.

Once again Sir Graham was rather taken aback.

‘Is it so obvious?’ he asked.

‘No, I don’t think so. Not to the casual observer, at any rate. But I recognised Reed.’

Sir Graham looked at his watch. It was just turned twenty minutes to four. Time enough to give his host a brief outline of the case. He might be able to make some suggestion. Temple was certainly never lacking in ideas, reflected the Chief Commissioner.

‘You’ve heard of Sir Norman Blakeley?’ he began.

‘You mean the motor magnate? Why, yes, of course.’

‘The man whose child was kidnapped – it’s in all the papers,’ put in Steve.

‘Yes, it’s in the papers all right,’ said Sir Graham ominously. ‘But I’m going to tell you something that the reporters haven’t got hold of yet.’

He went on to give details of the instructions Sir Norman had received.

‘And he’s going to deposit the notes?’ softly queried Temple when Sir Graham had finished.

‘Yes,’ answered Forbes, slowly nodding his head, ‘he’s going to deposit them.’

‘Did Blakeley receive any visitors the day the child disappeared?’

‘Two. A friend of his named Andrew Brightman and an old chap called Goldie, a piano-tuner.’ The Chief Commissioner then gave Temple a resume of the Brightman case and the strange coincidence of Goldie’s presence on the day of the abduction.

Temple seemed particularly interested in the piano-tuner, and was about to fire a series of questions at Sir Graham when Pryce entered. For once, the imperturbable Pryce actually appeared to be in a hurry.

‘Chief Inspector Reed has called to see Sir Graham,’ he announced, and Reed himself was right on the servant’s heels, somewhat out of breath and more than a little excited.

‘Sorry to burst in like this, Sir Graham, but …’ he paused to shoot a dubious glance at Temple before imparting his news, ‘it’s Blakeley.’

Sir Graham was on his feet at once.

‘What about Blakeley?’

‘He’s—dead.’

‘Dead!’ gasped Forbes, incredulously.

‘Where is he?’ demanded Paul Temple, briskly.

‘He’s in the telephone-booth downstairs. We’ve been watching it for two hours, and the poor devil was on the floor all the time.’

‘But supposing someone had wanted to telephone?’ queried Steve, in amazement.

‘Yes, you can’t tell me that nobody used the box for two hours in a district like this,’ insisted the Chief Commissioner.

Reed shook his head, dismally.

‘There was a large board against the booth which said “Out of Order”. It was there when we arrived. If it hadn’t been for that, we should have seen the body.’

‘Then what made you go to the box?’

‘The bell started ringing, sir. Hunter answered it.’

‘Anyone there?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Was the suitcase there?’

‘No. But there was this card on the ledge, sir … near the telephone.’

Forbes took the card and read:

Unlike Mr. Andrew Brightman – he talked.

The Front Page Men.

He passed the card to Temple, who examined it, and returned it to Reed. ‘You’ll be getting quite a collection, Mr. Reed,’ he smiled, but Mac did not deign to reply.

‘Come along, Mac, I want to see the body,’ ordered Sir Graham presently. ‘I’ll be in touch with you again, Temple.’

‘Always at your service, Sir Graham,’ murmured Temple politely as they walked to the lift.

*

When he returned, he found Steve deep in thought. She looked up quickly as he entered. There was rather a strained expression in the dark-blue eyes.

‘Paul,’ she demanded earnestly, ‘you’re not going to have anything to do with this, are you?’

The idea seemed to amuse him.

‘Me? Good Lord, no! What makes you think I have time to play around with the Scotland Yard boys? My dear Steve, I’m a hard-working novelist with an expensive wife to keep, and a novel as good as promised for—for—’

He stopped, and seemed to be listening intently. Steve, too, was suddenly alert.

‘What is it, Paul?’ she asked.

‘Listen!’

As from a distance, came the sound of a piano being played; rather slowly, and with a soothing, delicate touch. Heard like this, there was almost a weird charm about the performance.

‘There’s … there’s someone in the drawing-room,’ whispered Steve, rather jerkily.

‘Yes,’ murmured Temple. ‘Ring for Pryce.’ She crossed the room, and almost before she had returned to her seat the door opened, and the sound of the piano became clearer and more purposeful.

‘Is that someone in the drawing-room, Pryce?’ asked Steve.

‘Yes, madam. It’s the piano-tuner. He called while you were with Sir Graham. I—I didn’t wish to disturb you.’

Pryce appeared to be unconscious that his announcement had any dramatic possibilities.

‘The piano-tuner … ?’ said Paul Temple softly.

‘Yes, sir. A Mr. Goldie … Mr. J. P. Goldie.’

CHAPTER V
Mr. J.P. Goldie

Temple looked at Steve and hesitated. Then he said, ‘All right, Pryce, thank you.’

‘Shall I bring the tea now, madam?’

‘As soon as it’s ready,’ Steve replied. Pryce departed, noiselessly closing the door behind him.

‘Wait here – I’ll go and see if I can find out anything.’

Steve was obviously uneasy, but made no effort to restrain him. Temple went to the drawing-room, pausing for a moment outside, while the playing continued. Softly, he turned the door handle and entered. Though his back was to the door, and Temple imagined he had made no sound, the piano-tuner turned swiftly.

‘Good afternoon, sir. I trust I did not disturb you.’

He spoke in a mellow, quiet voice, with every evidence of culture. Temple regarded the piano-tuner curiously. He was apparently a little below average height, for he looked tiny, seated at the piano. His clothes were inclined to be shabby, his hair rather too long, and he wore a bow tie. His greyish eyes were obscured to some extent by slightly tinted rimless glasses.

‘You didn’t disturb us at all,’ said Temple in reply to his question. ‘You play very well.’

‘Thank you, sir. I could not resist the temptation – it’s such a beautiful instrument.’

‘Is this the first time you’ve been here?’

‘Oh no, sir,’ murmured Goldie, taking a large and somewhat soiled handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiping his hands. ‘I came in March and November of last year. I attend at most of the flats in this building, and I must say I rather look forward to it. They have some lovely instruments … there’s a Bechstein in Number Twenty-two … ’

‘I don’t think we can have met before,’ put in Temple.

‘No, sir,’ said the little man, whose memory appeared to be quite methodical. ‘On the last two occasions you have been away, if I remember correctly, and the janitor had the key.’

‘Oh, I see,’ smiled Temple rather lamely. Mr. Goldie’s manner was so completely disarming that he felt very like an intruder. ‘Well—er—I mustn’t interrupt you any longer,’ he stammered at length.

‘Not at all, sir. My work is finished. There is never much required on this instrument. It’s always nicely up to pitch. I was just amusing myself.’

‘By the way, your name’s Goldie, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right, sir,’ answered the little man, turning a fraction in Temple’s direction, and blinking mildly at him.

‘Weren’t you with Clapshaw and Thompson’s for a number of years?’

‘Yes, sir, almost fifteen.’

‘By Timothy, that’s a long time!’ commented Temple.

‘Yes, sir, but it passed quickly. I liked the work.’

‘By the way, do you ever see Mr. Paramore now?’ Temple went on, adopting a conversational tone, and doing his best to avoid any suspicion of cross-questioning in his manner. But something in Mr. Goldie’s expression changed immediately, and he was obviously on his guard.

‘Mr. Paramore?’ he repeated, rather coldly.

‘Yes, surely you remember Mr. Paramore. He used to be their general manager.’

There was a pause. Temple could almost feel the tension.

‘No, sir,’ said Mr. Goldie, finally, and there was almost a hint of reproof in his voice. ‘I’m afraid I do not remember a Mr. Paramore.’

‘Oh,’ subsided Temple, flatly. ‘Perhaps I am mistaking the firm. Er, if there’s anything you want, just ring. My man will attend to it for you.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Mr. Goldie with frigid politeness ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

He turned to the piano and began to play a melancholy study by Chopin about which there almost seemed to be an air of grievance. Paul Temple returned thoughtfully to the lounge, where Pryce was laying tea.

‘Well, what’s he like?’ was Steve’s greeting.

‘He seems rather a nice little fellow,’ Temple told her. ‘Apparently he’s been here before, when we were down at Bramley Lodge.’

‘Mr. Goldie is more or less the official piano-tuner for all the flats, sir,’ explained Pryce.

‘I see,’ smiled Temple. ‘Thank you, Pryce.’

‘Not at all, sir. Will there be anything else, madam?’

‘No, thank you, Pryce.’

‘Muffins!’ cried Temple. ‘That was a good afternoon’s shopping, after all. And what a treat Sir Graham’s missed.’ Steve passed him a large cup of tea.

‘You seem very curious about this business,’ she declared.

Temple stirred his tea reflectively. ‘Yes, it’s no use pretending that I’m not interested,’ he admitted.

‘I understand, darling.’ But she did not sound very enthusiastic.

‘There are one or two points which rather fascinate me,’ continued Temple. ‘For instance, this man Goldie … and Andrew Brightman … and Andrea Fortune …’

‘Andrea Fortune?’

‘Yes, the woman who wrote The Front Page Men. I’m not absolutely certain that she doesn’t fit into all this, somehow or other.’

Steve began to show some interest. Her reportorial instincts were slightly aroused.

‘Has it occurred to you that Andrea Fortune may be just a pseudonym?’ she suggested. ‘In fact, Andrea Fortune might even be a man.’

‘Yes, I had thought of that,’ said Temple, taking a large bite out of his muffin. ‘Pryce does these muffins to a turn,’ he murmured, inconsequently.

‘Yes, he is versatile for a man his age. He seems capable of anything from toasting muffins to throwing out inquisitive female reporters. Maybe he wrote The Front Page Men,’ laughed Steve, rather delighted at the idea.

‘I wonder if he could get the heroine of this cursed novel of mine out of her present distressing situation,’ said Temple, thoughtfully.

They continued this light-hearted banter until tea was over. Then, rather casually, Temple said, ‘We haven’t anything special on tonight, have we?’

Steve wrinkled her brow for a moment. ‘No,’ she answered, ‘nothing important.’

‘Good. Then if you don’t mind my leaving you alone, darling—’

‘Not at all. I saw Morgan of the Daily Gossip this afternoon, and he asked me for an article.’

‘On what?’

‘He hadn’t the least idea. Editors never have.’

‘All right. Then I’ll take the opportunity of looking up an old friend of mine. A Mr. Chubby Wilson.’

‘Chubby Wilson,’ murmured Steve.

‘He’s a disreputable sort of devil, and I wouldn’t trust him with a brass farthing, but I’m really rather fond of him, and besides …’

Steve smiled. ‘I understand, darling. He talks!’

CHAPTER VI
Rev. Charles Hargreaves

Any self-respecting stranger to Rotherhithe would have thought twice before entering the Glass Bowl for a drink, unless, of course, he was particularly hardened to the drab appearance of riverside taverns. It stood on the corner of an uninviting street leading up from the river; its creaking sign portraying a bowl of dejected goldfish was so faded that only the fish were now faintly visible.

There were usually half a dozen loungers, very much down-at-heel, reclining listlessly against its crumbling walls, waiting for an acquaintance to come along and invite them inside for a drink.

A good proportion of the Glass Bowl’s customers were seafaring folk; sailors from tramp steamers of every nationality, many of them looking every bit as desperate as their prototypes in the more bloodthirsty class of film.

On this particular evening, however, the bar-parlour was rather quieter than usual, and Mrs. Taylor, the hostess, had taken the opportunity to embark upon a long account of some grievance for the benefit of one of her customers.

She was a large, flamboyant woman of about forty-five, obviously a little too much inclined to sampling her own wares. Although it was still comparatively early in the evening, Mrs. Taylor’s tongue had received sufficient lubrication to set it going merrily.

‘“My Gawd!” I said to ’er,’ she ended her story, ‘“to ’ear you talk anybody would think your ole man were a blasted admiral, instead of a yellow-bellied first mate on a perishin’ tramp steamer.”’

This seemed to tickle Jimmy Mills, a shifty young man of about thirty, who was rather too well dressed for his surroundings. He had a cruel mouth, which rarely relaxed from its thin, set line, except when he laughed rather too loudly, and he wore an expensive soft felt hat, pulled a little too far to one side.

‘I bet she was nonplussed, Mrs. Taylor,’ he remarked, stressing the long word, as if proud of his vocabulary.

‘It took the wind out of ’er sails, I don’t mind telling you,’ nodded Mrs. Taylor. ‘Can I get you anything else, love?’ she suggested pleasantly, noticing that Mills’ glass needed refilling.

‘Yes,’ ruminated Mills, ‘I’d like another dry ginger; but this time you can put in a drop of—’

Suddenly his jaw dropped, as he caught sight of Paul Temple standing in the passage outside.

‘Who is it?’ asked Mrs. Taylor nervously. She had always been a little jumpy since the place had been raided last year. ‘Who is it?’ she repeated urgently.

‘A fellow called Temple,’ Mills told her. ‘The last time I saw him was—’

‘Phew! You ’ad me all of a jitter for a minute. I thought it was that dirty swine Brook, or one of his river cops.’

‘Sh, he’s coming in here,’ cut in Mills. ‘Now, the name’s Smith – remember that!’ he ordered curtly.

*

Temple came up to them and leaned against the bar, slightly nauseated by the odour of stale beer, foul tobacco-smoke, and the general uncleanliness of the bar-parlour.

‘Good evening, sir. What can I get you?’ primly demanded Mrs. Taylor, in her politest manner.

Temple ran a speculative eye over the bottles at the back of the counter.

‘Well now, I think I’ll have a ginger ale,’ he decided.

‘Yes, sir, very good, sir,’ answered the obsequious Mrs. Taylor, and busied herself with bottle and opener. Meanwhile, Temple moved over to her late companion.

‘Well, well! Look who’s here! If it isn’t Jimmy Mills!’ he ejaculated.

‘The name’s Smith,’ retorted Mills, shortly.

‘Smith?’ Temple seemed amazed. ‘Not one of the Devonshire Smiths?’

‘Don’t try to be funny!’ snapped Mills, savagely, and Paul Temple laughed.

‘Still the same old Jimmy. Tell me, what happened to that Canadian gold mine of yours? Don’t say there wasn’t any gold. Dear me, what did the shareholders have to say at the general meeting? Or perhaps there wasn’t any general meeting, Jimmy?’

Apparently the shot went home.

‘Look ’ere, Temple,’ snorted Mills, ‘there’s no need for any of this funny business. If a fellow can’t keep to the straight and narrow without some busybody shovin’ ’is nose where it’s not wanted, then it’s come to something!’

‘Jimmy, I’m disappointed in you,’ pronounced Temple, appearing to be hurt. ‘You’re dropping your aitches again. It’s a bad sign, Jimmy, it’s a bad sign!’

‘Ah, you are a one, Mr. Temple!’ laughed Jimmy, but his laugh was somewhat reluctant and rather hollow, and he was by no means at ease. He had decided that his policy was to play up to Temple without giving anything away.

‘I’m glad to see you again, Mr. Temple,’ he went on. ‘Looking pretty fit, too. I heard you was married. Is that right?’

‘That’s right, Jimmy,’ nodded Temple.

‘Seems to agree with you. I suppose you’ve gone out of the business now.’

‘Business?’ queried Temple.

‘Yes … you know …’

Paul Temple smiled enigmatically. ‘That depends …’

‘I thought of settling down meself,’ pursued the other. ‘But, well, things ain’t too good in my line just now, and—’

‘What exactly is your line nowadays, Jimmy? You’re so versatile, I never know quite—’

‘I’m a commercial man now, Mr. Temple.’

‘What sort of commerce?’

‘Oh, buyin’ and sellin’ things you know,’ said Jimmy vaguely. ‘All above board and legitimate,’ he hastened to add. ‘I’ve got a cosy little office in the West End.’

‘Really?’ smiled Temple.

Mrs. Taylor placed a badly chipped glass of ginger ale in front of the novelist, and noticing Mills’ empty glass, he invited him to have another drink.

‘I don’t mind if I do, Mr. Temple. Ginger ale, please, Mrs. Taylor.’

As she moved away, he turned to Temple. ‘I’m on the wagon these days – going straight, you see, Mr. Temple.’

‘I should have thought that there would have been rather more congenial pubs near your West End office,’ said Temple pensively.

‘Oh, I dunno. You get a hankering to see the old places,’ replied Mills, with a shrug.

Mrs. Taylor brought the drink, and would obviously have had no objections to joining in the conversation, but neither of the men encouraged her, and she eventually returned to the tap-room.

Temple lifted his glass and sniffed it suspiciously. It smelt strongly of beer. He took a quick gulp by way of acknowledging Mills’ salutation, and set the glass aside.

‘It’s always hard for a bloke like me to convince people what knew ’im in the old days that he’s running straight,’ persisted Mills, but Paul Temple was paying little attention. A newcomer had entered the bar parlour.

Dressed in sober black, the stranger had a thin face and ascetic appearance. He wore a clerical collar, but no hat. His dark hair was plastered smoothly, but free from any unguent, and Temple thought he detected a roguish glint in his eyes. He might have been any age between thirty and forty-five. For a second he stood in the doorway; then Jimmy Mills hailed him heartily.

‘Mr. Hargreaves! Come over here and vouch for me to this gentleman.’

‘Certainly I will!’ agreed the newcomer, joining them.

‘This is the Reverend Hargreaves – Mr. Temple,’ Mills introduced them, and the parson shook hands warmly. ‘He’s in charge of the Seamen’s Hostel just round the corner,’ explained Mills for Temple’s benefit. ‘Knew me before I took to the straight and narrow.’

Hargreaves managed to get in a word at last.

‘Not—Paul Temple, by any chance?’ and there was a note of astonishment in his voice.

‘Yes, that’s right, Reverend,’ corroborated Jimmy Mills.

‘Well, indeed, this is a pleasure,’ enthused Hargreaves. ‘I’ve read so many of your books, Mr. Temple, that I feel as if, well, as if I’ve known you for years.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ replied Temple, who did not know quite what to make of this unusual cleric.

He was just a shade too effusive, and Temple did not like the way he constantly looked out of the corner of his eyes at the other occupants of the room.

‘You never told me that you were a friend of Mr. Temple’s, Jimmy,’ reproached Hargreaves.

‘Well, I don’t know whether you’d call us friends or not, Reverend.’

Hargreaves seemed to understand, and was obviously amused. ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be friends now, Jimmy.’ He turned to Temple. ‘He’s going straight, Mr. Temple, and making a very fine job of it.’

‘I’m glad,’ said Temple. ‘Jimmy always made a very fine job of everything,’ he added cryptically.

Mrs. Taylor intruded once more.

‘Anything I can get you, Parson?’

‘No,’ smiled Hargreaves, as though deliberating the point. ‘No, thank you very much, my dear. But I wonder if you would be so kind as to place these bills in a prominent position for me. I’m holding a special concert on Sunday afternoon, and I do hope the attendance will be a record.’

‘Well, I’ll do my best, Reverend,’ offered Mills. ‘I’ll bring some of my City pals along.’

‘Thank you, Jimmy, that’s very good of you,’ said Hargreaves, laying a friendly hand on Mills’ shoulder.

‘I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Hargreaves,’ said Mrs Taylor, taking the bills. ‘I can’t promise nothin’, mind you.’

‘Thank you, my dear. I know I can rely on you.’

‘Well, I must be toddlin’,’ said Jimmy Mills at length, draining his glass. ‘Good night, Mr. Temple.’

‘Good night, Jimmy.’

‘Good night, my son,’ said Hargreaves, shaking Jimmy’s hand.

‘Cheerio, Lucy,’ called Mills, with a significant wink and backward nod as he passed the tap-room.

Paul Temple tried to persuade his companion to change his mind about a drink, but the latter shook his head resolutely.

‘I have great faith in Jimmy Mills, Mr. Temple,’ said Hargreaves earnestly. ‘He’s changed a great deal in the last two years.’

‘I hope you’re right, sir. He used to be one of the cleverest confidence men in the country.’

‘Yes, yes, I know, Mr. Temple. How dreadful, how very dreadful!’ deplored Hargreaves, a shade too piously.

‘I don’t want to disillusion you, sir, but I think I ought to warn you that Mills has a knack of convincing anybody about anything he sets his mind on. Of course, it’s no business of mine, but—’

‘That’s all right, Mr. Temple. I quite understand, and I appreciate your trying to warn me. But I want to give Jimmy a chance.’

‘Do you spend much time here, sir – I mean in this part of the world?’ demanded Temple, abruptly changing the subject.

‘Oh, a great deal, Mr. Temple. I’m more or less in charge of the Seamen’s Hostel, you know. It’s uphill work, but I’m always doing my best to persuade those unfortunate fellows to regard our hostel as a sort of home from home.’ He added with a sigh, ‘My task isn’t an easy one, Mr. Temple, by any means.’

‘I’m sure it isn’t,’ said Temple sympathetically.

‘However, one mustn’t grumble. There’s never a dull moment; I’ll say that for my daily round.’

‘I can quite appreciate that,’ smiled the novelist. He looked round the smoky parlour, which was now filling up with men from all the seven seas. Temple noticed their looks of suspicion and lowered his voice.

‘Mr. Hargreaves, do you know a man called Wilson, Chubby Wilson?’

‘Why, yes, I know him quite well,’ admitted Hargreaves with some slight hesitation. ‘A delightful fellow, but – well, I hate to say this – thoroughly untrustworthy.’

He seemed reluctant to pursue the subject, and continued hastily: ‘Let’s talk about yourself, Mr. Temple. I’m really quite thrilled at meeting you like this. I’ve often wondered how you get those charming little eccentricities into your characterisation – but of course I see now. You come to places like this and study your types at first hand.’ He paused. ‘You know, it may sound rather funny, but I’ve always thought that, given the opportunity, I should be able to write.’

Paul Temple began to feel rather bored. He had not come to the Glass Bowl to swop enthusiasms with a literary amateur.

‘Oh, I know it sounds frightfully conceited,’ persisted Hargreaves deprecatingly, ‘and I suppose rather priggish in a way, but when one studies human nature in the raw, as it were—’

‘Talking of life in the raw, have you read The Front Page Men?’ asked Temple, quietly.

Whether Hargreaves resented this diversion from the subject of his ambitions, or whether he was taken aback by the question, Temple was not certain. But he paused for a moment before replying.

‘The Front Page Men? No, no, I haven’t read the book. I’m told it’s very good.’

‘Yes,’ said Temple, ‘extremely realistic.’

‘I really feel quite—er—reluctant to read it,’ confessed Hargreaves, ingenuously. ‘I mean, with all these terrible robberies, and that shocking case of Sir Norman Blakeley’s. Although I suppose one can hardly hold the dear lady who wrote the book responsible. After all, according to the newspapers, she is devoting the royalties to a worthy charity.’

Temple absent-mindedly picked up his glass, set it down again, and lit a cigarette.

‘Well, this is a coincidence,’ said Hargreaves suddenly, in a surprised voice. ‘Here’s the gentleman you were asking about.’

‘Chubby Wilson? Where?’ demanded Temple.

‘In that far corner, Mr. Temple. I only just caught a glimpse of him.’

‘Then would you excuse me?’ said Temple rather abruptly.

‘Why yes, yes, of course. But I hope we may meet again on some future occasion.’

‘Yes, I hope so too,’ hastily agreed Temple, as he quickly shook hands, and moved over to the corner of the bar which Hargreaves had indicated.

As he approached, he could hear Chubby Wilson’s voice rising above the hubbub of general conversation. Apparently Chubby was trying to impress his political opinions upon one of the loungers from outside, whom he had brought in for a drink.

Chubby was not exactly worthy of his cognomen. Rather was he inclined to be pudgy and flabby. His complexion was a dirty yellowish brown, and a shabby scarf concealed a none-too-clean neck. He paused occasionally in his harangue to draw a deep breath.

‘Hallo, Chubby, still on the soap box?’ Temple greeted him. Chubby Wilson seemed surprised, but quickly recovered.

‘Why, hello, Mr. Temple!’ Then he turned to his former listener. ‘’Op it, Larry!’ he ordered. The lounger leered questioningly at Temple, then slunk away.

‘Sit down, Mr. Temple,’ invited Chubby. ‘Quite like old times seeing you again.’

Temple did not obey. Instead, he leaned over and spoke authoritatively. ‘Chubby, I’m a very busy man, and I want to talk to you. Where can we go?’

‘Well now, let me think,’ mused Wilson. Then a solution suggested itself. ‘Follow me, guv’nor.’

He led the way outside and along the passage to a tiny sitting-room, meanly furnished and shabby to a degree. Chubby closed the door after them very carefully.

‘How’s this?’ he asked.

‘It’s not the Ritz, Chubby, but it will do,’ decreed Temple, choosing a particularly uninviting bent wood chair, and sitting down. ‘Well, how’s life treating you?’

‘Very nicely, Mr. Temple. I never was one to grumble.’

‘Still in the dope racket?’

‘Mr. Temple!’ Chubby gave a very good imitation of shocked innocence, and Temple laughed.

‘All right, Chubby – let’s skip the part about going straight. I’ve just had one dose of that from Jimmy Mills.’

‘Jimmy Mills, oh, ’im!’ Chubby spat expressively.

‘Now tell me,’ continued Temple, bluntly, ‘what do you know about the Front Page Men?’

At last Wilson appeared to be genuinely frightened, and made no pretence of concealing the fact.

‘Nothin—nothin’ at all,’ he gasped. ‘My God, if Basher’s talked, I’ll break every—’

‘Oho,’ chortled Temple. ‘Still friendly with poor old Basher, eh? When did he get out?’

‘About a month ago, Mr. Temple. He’s a sick man, is Basher. His heart’s in the wrong place.’

‘You’re telling me!’ said Temple with a short laugh. ‘It was certainly in the wrong place when he beat up that poor old Chelsea pensioner.’

Chubby was still very uneasy. His yellow streak was never very far from the surface.

‘Have you seen Basher lately, Mr. Temple?’ he blurted out at last.

‘No, Chubby, I haven’t. So he hasn’t done any talking. Not to me at any rate.’

Chubby brightened up at once.

‘I’m going to America at the end of the week, Mr. Temple,’ he announced. ‘Wonderful country, America.’

Temple leaned forward somewhat aggressively.

‘Chubby, you haven’t answered my question.’

‘What question?’ The little man tried vainly to avoid the issue.

‘What do you know about the Front Page Men?’ repeated Temple deliberately.

‘I’ve told you, nothin’. Why the ’ell should I know anythin’ about ’em?’ cried Chubby, hysterically. He spread out his hands pleadingly. ‘I’ve bin a lot of things in me time, Mr. Temple, but if there’s one thing about me to the good—’

‘There isn’t!’ snapped Temple, ‘so you can cut the cackle. You’re a dirty-minded little crook, with about as much backbone as a filleted plaice – but I like you.’

After this outburst Temple took a wallet from his inside pocket.

‘I want information, Chubby, and I’m willing to pay for it.’

‘How much?’ demanded Chubby, licking his lips.

Temple pocketed the wallet again.

‘That’s better,’ he approved. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’

‘Mind you,’ whispered Chubby guardedly, ‘I don’t say I’ve got anything to tell.’

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