FRANCIS DURBRIDGE

Send for Paul Temple Again!

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First published in Great Britain by

LONG 1948

Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1948

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

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

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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.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 978-0-00-812564-6

Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 978-0-00-812565-3

Version: 2015-06-04

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

CHAPTER I: Death at the Brains Trust

CHAPTER II: Paul Temple Takes Over

CHAPTER III: Steve Finds a Treasure

CHAPTER IV: Rex Strikes Again

CHAPTER V: Concerning Doctor Kohima

CHAPTER VI: Canterbury Tale

CHAPTER VII: Cyanide Is no Tonic!

CHAPTER VIII: Carl Lathom Is Perturbed

CHAPTER IX: The Girl in Brown

CHAPTER X: Ordeal for Mrs. Trevelyan

CHAPTER XI: Doctor Kohima Intervenes

CHAPTER XII: Enter Leo Brent

CHAPTER XIII: Mr. Lathom Receives a Visitor

CHAPTER XIV: No Picnic at Claywood Mill

CHAPTER XV: Forbes to the Rescue

CHAPTER XVI: Appointment With Rex

About the Author

Also in This Series

About the Publisher

Footnotes

CHAPTER I
Death at the Brains Trust

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!’

CHAPTER II
Paul Temple Takes Over

WHEN the body of Sir Ernest Cranbury had been taken away conversation seemed to flow more easily, and there were three or four animated groups in the studio, busily discussing what could be done, what had caused Sir Ernest’s death, whether or not he could be replaced on the Brains Trust at such short notice – and what precisely had Rex to do with his sudden and mysterious death?

They apparently expected Temple to enlighten them upon this last point, but discovered that he seemed to know as little as they did. For one thing, he had never met Sir Ernest before and had not the least idea why he should be singled out by Rex in this manner. It was this aspect of the case which intrigued Temple. Rex’s victims appeared to come from all classes of people – as far as Temple could judge the only thing they had in common was a certain degree of financial stability, though this was by no means absolutely certain. On the face of it, Norma Rice was a successful actress, but that did not necessarily mean she had a great deal of money.

Temple mused upon these and other things, taking little part in the conversations that seethed around him. Meanwhile, the producer of the programme was busily telephoning the Programme Controller.

It was eventually decided that it would be advisable to cancel the present session of the Brains Trust and substitute a recording of a much earlier session in the programme.

Temple breathed a small sigh of relief and asked if he could telephone his wife. In the tiny control-cubicle which the engineers had now deserted, he managed to get through to Steve and ask her to pick him up right away. In reply to her startled query about the broadcast, he told her that there had been an accident and the programme was cancelled. Having twice reassured her that he himself was in no way involved, she agreed to come right away.

Accompanied by Mulroy, who was still trying to pump him, Temple took the lift down to the private bar in the basement. He drank a large glass of whisky, refused a second, and made his uncertain way along endless corridors and upstairs until he came into the entrance hall once again.

A little knot of reporters had already gathered there, and among them was Rex Bryant, of the Evening Post, who had been considerably involved in one of Temple’s earlier cases. He caught sight of the novelist and came over to him eagerly. After various mutual inquiries, Rex Bryant said, ‘Well, now, what about a story on this Rex affair?’ Temple shook his head.

‘I’m sorry to say you’re probably just as wise about it as I am,’ he confessed.

‘Then tell me if that story’s true about your being called in on the case. Are you really going to work on it?’

‘That rather depends,’ murmured Temple.

‘On what?’

‘Well, you’ve heard of actors appearing by kind permission of some management or other?’

‘Yes, of course, but what—’

‘I’, explained Temple, ‘also take on a case by kind permission of a lady who’s waiting for me outside in a car.’ He turned to go. ‘Give me a ring a bit later on, Bryant, and I’ll help you if I can.’

He found Steve sitting in the car outside with a tiny worried frown corrugating her forehead.

‘Are you sure there’s nothing seriously wrong, darling?’ she asked as he opened the door of the car and got in beside her.

‘Nothing wrong with me,’ he replied. ‘But Sir Ernest Cranbury has had a nasty heart attack, and I’m afraid…’

She guessed the rest.

‘Have they told his wife?’ was her next question.

‘Sir Ernest, so they tell me, is a bachelor who lived in a nice flat just off Park Lane,’ explained Temple.

Steve nodded thoughtfully, started the car, and they set off along upper Regent Street.

As they waited for the traffic lights to change, Steve said, ‘It must have been a dreadful shock to everybody in the studio.’

‘Frightful,’ nodded Temple. ‘We didn’t know what the devil to do. It was all so sudden. No doubt if we’d had to answer a question on how to deal with just such an emergency, we should have given long and plausible replies, but when the event was beneath our noses it was quite a different kettle of fish!’

‘What did the doctor say?’

Temple shrugged.

‘There was nothing much for him to add to what we’d guessed. There’ll be an inquest, of course.’

Steve nodded thoughtfully and released the clutch as the lights changed.

‘Do you think it was heart failure, just over-excitement?’ she asked presently, trying to make her voice sound as casual as possible.

Temple did not speak for a few seconds. Then he said thoughtfully, ‘No, I don’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because just before he passed out he said to me, “I want to tell you about Rex”,’ replied Temple unemotionally, thinking he might as well enlighten Steve now, for she would be certain to hear or read his evidence at the inquest. She took it with comparative calm.

‘Rex…’ she murmured thoughtfully, pulling up again at another set of lights. ‘What do you think he could have meant?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about that. There was something else too that rather intrigued me.’

He began to fumble in his coat pocket, then leaned forward and switched on the overhead light in the car.

‘We had to search Sir Ernest’s pockets to try and find his address. Inside his wallet there was this piece of paper – it dropped on the floor. No one else noticed it, so I – er – naturally…’

‘Naturally,’ smiled Steve. The lights were still against her, so she took the paper and looked at it quickly.

‘There’s nothing on it,’ she said.

‘Look in the corner – it’s written rather faintly in pencil.’

She held the paper closer and read, ‘Mrs. Trevelyan.’

He took the paper and nodded. Steve suddenly sat bolt upright.

‘Paul, that was the name you told me about, the one on the visiting-card and in the diary belonging to Norma Rice.’

‘Exactly. Hi—look out, the lights have changed!’

The car shot forward again, and they travelled for about two hundred yards without speaking. Then Temple happened to look through the side window and noticed a large black saloon edging dangerously near them and moving at a fair speed.

‘By Timothy, he seems to be in a hurry!’ commented Temple as the car came almost level. With a sudden impulse he switched off the roof light.

Quite suddenly, the overtaking car seemed to lurch towards them. Temple grabbed the hand-brake as Steve swerved to avoid the passing car. There was a scraping of metal and a slight bump as Temple’s car hit a lamp standard a glancing blow. The black saloon roared away down Regent Street, swung into a side turning, and was lost.

Steve sat for a moment trying to regain her composure. ‘He nearly forced us into that shop window,’ she said breathlessly. Temple nodded.

‘It was done deliberately, no doubt about that.’ He was debating in his mind whether to give chase to the black saloon, but the arrival of a constable forestalled that. Temple briefly gave him particulars, but on an impulse refrained from giving the number of the saloon, of which he had caught a fleeting glimpse. For one he was not quite certain, for another he thought he might like to follow up this clue himself. Unfortunately, neither he nor Steve had been able to recognise the man who was driving – he had worn a hat pulled well down, and his overcoat collar was turned up round his ears. After making one or two notes, the constable allowed them to proceed.

‘Why did you hesitate when he asked you the number?’ said Steve, as she changed gear.

‘Because,’ he answered softly, ‘I think I saw it. I wouldn’t be quite certain, but it looked like DVC629.’

‘Can’t you have it traced?’ asked Steve eagerly.

‘I didn’t want an official job made of it, in case I happened to be wrong. What’s more, number plates can be changed pretty quickly. And then again…’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, supposing this business has got something to do with Rex?’

‘With Rex!’ echoed Steve, completely staggered. ‘But it can’t have.’

‘But supposing it has!’ insisted her husband.

‘Well?’

‘Well – would you still want me to trace that car number?’

Steve suddenly swung round, a determined light in her eye.

‘Yes!’ she replied in a definite tone. ‘Yes, I would. Forget that promise if you really want to.’

Temple slapped his right fist into his left palm. ‘Okay, Mrs. Temple! If that’s how you feel, pull up for a minute and we’ll change places.’

She did so. Then a thought seemed to strike him as he caught sight of a telephone-box, and he asked Steve to wait while he made a call. When he returned he looked very pleased with himself.

‘All right, darling, we’re all set. Hold on to that precarious hat of yours, and off we go.’

‘But, Paul, where—?’

He smiled.

‘To a little pub in Limehouse known as the “Twisted Keys”.’ He noted her expression. ‘It’s all right, darling, it’s not such a dive as all that. They’ve even got a saloon bar!’

However, the Twisted Keys certainly did not look very inviting from the outside when they arrived there, though Steve could find little fault with the saloon bar, which had obviously been modernised.

‘I take it we’re supposed to be meeting somebody here,’ said Steve, as she settled in a corner with a pink gin.

Temple looked round cautiously.

‘Yes, an old friend of mine named Spider Williams. He specialises in car jobs – knows who’s out on the road and what they’re up to. If ever a car gets stolen, trust Spider to hear about it in next to no time. I told him to ’phone his pals and let me know if he heard anything about a Milford saloon – gave him the number, of course, though that may not mean much.’

He did not seem inclined to talk any more, but thoughtfully drank half a pint of ale and then ordered another. Half an hour slipped by; people drifted in and out, some eyed them suspiciously, others seemed intent only upon quenching their thirst, and minding their own business. Temple fetched Steve another pink gin and grinned at her cheerfully.

‘You don’t seem very impressed by this establishment,’ he said.

‘Is one supposed to be?’ asked Steve.

‘Of course! It’s one of the most famous pubs in London. At least it was, before the brewery decided to modernise it. Since then, the place has lost its tone. I don’t suppose there’s been a free fight here for months. Of course, they still get a few of the old-timers, but you have to know when to catch them – and they never use this bar.’ He grinned reminiscently. ‘That’s why Spider sounded surprised when I told him I’d be in here.’

‘What sort of man is this Spider Williams?’ inquired Steve, rather more intrigued.

Temple shrugged.

‘Oh, he’s just a little chap who knows most of the answers.’

‘Why do they call him Spider?’

‘Possibly because his web explores most of the corners of the underworld as far as his own particular line is concerned.’

Steve smiled somewhat wistfully. ‘I can’t understand you, darling. I really can’t. Surely Sir Graham could have found out about the car?’

Temple took a gulp at his beer.

‘If I’m going to investigate this business, I’ll do it in my own sweet way,’ he announced calmly. Then the door swung open and he said, ‘Ah, here’s our friend. Now don’t laugh – he takes himself very seriously.’

Under the large peak of his cloth cap, the beady eyes of Spider Williams swiftly surveyed the room. Then he caught sight of Temple and came over at once. He was the type of man familiar to habitués of racecourses, where his prototypes abound in hundreds – hangers-on who somehow contrive to make a living at the game.

‘Ah Mr. Temple!’ he began breezily. ‘Sorry I’m late. ’Ad a bit of a job gettin’ ’ere.’

‘Sit down Spider,’ smiled Temple, turning to introduce his wife.

‘You don’t ’ave to tell me who this is!’ grinned Spider. ‘Could spot her a mile off. Glad to know you, Mrs. Temple. Sorry I’m late, Mrs. Temple. ’Ope you ain’t tired of ’angin’ about. I ’ad a bit of a job gettin’ ’ere.’

Temple obtained a drink for the newcomer.

‘Any luck, Spider?’ he asked, when they had gathered round the table.

Spider shook his head. ‘Not a blamed thing, guv’nor,’ he replied, taking a swig at his beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I bin through to five or six what’s in the know, but they ain’t ’eard nothin’. What sort of car did yer say it was?’

‘I told you,’ said Temple rather impatiently. ‘So far as I could see, it looked like a Milford.’

‘And what time was this?’

‘I couldn’t say to the minute. I left Broadcasting House soon after seven-thirty, and we were on our way down to Piccadilly.’

‘It couldn’t have been much after eight when you ’phoned me,’ said Spider. ‘You’ll ’ave to gimme a bit more time, guv’nor. Maybe something’ll turn up. These cars ain’t so easy to trace, yer know—’

He was interrupted by the barmaid, with whom he seemed on be on rather more than familiar terms. She told him that he was wanted on the telephone, and with a knowing wink at Temple he went out to take the call.

Temple took the opportunity to order another drink, and was about to make some remark to Steve when he noticed her looking at someone behind him. The next instant he felt a resounding smack between the shoulders, and a voice said in a pronounced Welsh accent: ‘Hello, Simon! Who would have thought of seeing you here!’

Temple looked round inquiringly, and saw a dark young man who now appeared highly embarrassed.

‘Lordy!’ he exclaimed in a half whisper. ‘You’re not Simon!’

‘I’m rather afraid I’m not,’ smiled Temple, not a little amused at the other’s dismayed expression. It was, in fact, the little Welshman who had been present at the discovery of Norma Rice’s body, though Temple was not yet aware of this.

‘Well now, just fancy my patting you on the back like that. Good gracious me, what a stupid thing to do! I can’t think what came over me.’

‘This is the first time I’ve heard that I’ve got a double,’ smiled Temple.

‘But you have indeed! When your back was turned towards me I was sure it was Simon Phipps.’

‘I should like to meet Mr. Phipps sometime. By the way, my name is Temple.’

‘Temple!’ cried the little Welshman, with a dramatic gesture. ‘Not Paul Temple?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Why, yes, of course – I recognise you now. I have seen pictures of you on your novels.’

‘No wonder you didn’t know me!’ grinned Temple.

‘It’s very sporty of you to take it like this, I must say. But I do feel such a fool! And to think I’ve only just finished reading one of your novels.’

‘Oh?’ murmured Temple, in a somewhat indifferent tone.

‘Yes indeed,’ continued the Welshman with gathering enthusiasm. ‘The one called Murder on the Mayflower.’

‘I hope you liked it.’

The other nodded vigorously.

‘It was most ingenious. There was only one thing I didn’t quite like – when that man jumped off the boat so suddenly. Of course, you know I go in for that sort of thing quite a lot.’

‘Jumping off boats?’ asked Temple.

‘Oh no, no! I mean detective novels.’

‘You write them too?’

‘Mercy, no! I read them. I have always got one with me.’ He fumbled in his coat pocket and produced a shabby paperbacked specimen. ‘I read them all day long. Why, in the last two years I have read four hundred and sixty-three detective novels. That’s pretty good going, isn’t it?’

For a moment Temple seemed quite stunned. ‘Yes,’ he agreed at length in a subdued voice, ‘whichever way you look at it, that seems to be pretty good going. You must be fully qualified to embark upon a career of crime.’

‘You will have your little joke, Mr. Temple. But I am an absolute glutton for anything to do with murder, crime or criminology. It is very strange for a docile man like myself. I could not hurt so much as a fly.’

‘Anyhow,’ said Temple, ‘I hope you haven’t remembered quite everything you’ve read, or your brain must be in a considerate state of turmoil.’

At that moment Spider Williams loomed up once more, and the Welshman again made his apologies and withdrew. As he was moving away, he turned and said to Temple in a serious voice, ‘If it’s any consolation to you, Mr. Temple, my friend Phipps is a very good-looking man. Good night, Mr. Temple. Goodnight, Mrs. Temple.’

When he was out of earshot, Steve said, ‘Now what made him think I was Mrs. Temple? You never introduced me.’

‘You look like Mrs. Temple,’ her husband assured her. ‘But, what’s more to the point, what made him think I was Simon Phipps?’ He hesitated a moment, then added thoughtfully, ‘If he really did think I was Simon Phipps.’

But he had no further opportunity to speculate upon this, for Spider was breathing hoarsely in his ear.

‘Bit o’ luck we’ve ’ad, guv’nor,’ he wheezed. ‘One of my blokes, Bert ’Arris struck oil, as yer might say.’

‘Go on,’ nodded Temple.

‘That car was a six-cylinder Milford. Black saloon. DVC629 like you said – ’ad a G.B. plate on the back.’

‘Yes, I seem to remember that,’ said Temple, wrinkling his forehead.

‘I saw it too,’ agreed Steve. ‘Whose car is it?’

Spider Williams chuckled.

‘Quite the little detective, ain’t she, guv?’ Then he became confidential once more. ‘That car belongs to a bloke named Doctor Kohima, 497 Great Wigmore Street.’

‘You seem to have it all off pat,’ said Temple. ‘Has this doctor ever been mixed up in anything?’

‘Not that I know of, Mr. Temple. All you asked me was to find whose car bumped you – and I’ve got you the lowdown.’

‘Are you sure of this, Spider?’ asked Temple rather dubiously.

The little man nodded emphatically.

‘We don’t make mistakes in our racket, Mr. Temple. You know that.’

‘Doctor Kohima,’ repeated Temple thoughtfully. ‘I seem to recall the name. I believe he’s an Egyptian nerve specialist – some sort of psychiatrist.’

‘That’s right,’ nodded Steve. ‘He’s very fashionable just now. I’ve overheard women talking about him at the hairdresser’s or somewhere.’

Temple opened his wallet and passed a couple of banknotes over to Spider, who stowed them away in an inside pocket.

‘If it was Doctor Kohima driving that car,’ said Temple, ‘there doesn’t seem to be much wrong with his nerves.’

They bade Spider good night and went out.

Temple was very silent as he drove back, turning over in his mind the startling events of the evening. Could there be any connection between Sir Ernest’s death and the attempt to smash up their car? And who was that little Welsh fellow? And Doctor Kohima…he found himself more intrigued by that name than any of the others. Why should a fashionable psychiatrist spend his evening charging around the streets in his car? And why should he have homicidal intentions towards Paul Temple?

He was still more than a trifle puzzled the following day when Steve drove him slowly down Great Wigmore Street.

They drew up outside a Georgian mansion and noted the neat brown plate with ‘Charles Kohima’ in white lettering.

‘Did you make an appointment?’ asked Steve.

‘Yes, I ’phoned through this morning. What are you going to do – wait for me in the car?’

She considered this for a moment, then decided that she would pay a visit to a servants’ registry office which was just round the corner.

‘Still looking for a maid?’ smiled Temple. ‘By Timothy! You are an optimist!’ He slowly climbed out of the car and said, ‘I don’t suppose I shall be very long. If you’re not outside, I’ll probably go straight back to the flat.’

She nodded and drove off.

A young maid answered Temple’s ring and conducted him into the waiting-room, which looked much more like a private sitting-room. Lounging on the settee was a fair-haired, sensitive-faced man of about forty-five, carelessly glancing through an expensive American fashion journal. He wished Temple good afternoon in a rather agreeable sort of voice, and started the usual aimless sort of conversation about the weather. As he was obviously waiting to see the doctor, Temple began to wonder if his own appointment would take place at the agreed time.

‘Our friend seems as busy as ever,’ said the man on the settee, when the conversation was showing some signs of lagging.

‘Our friend?’ repeated Temple, slightly puzzled.

‘Doctor Kohima.’

‘Oh!’

The man on the settee eyed Temple keenly. ‘Oh, I’m afraid I was rather jumping to conclusions,’ he said. ‘This is your first visit, perhaps?’

‘Well, yes,’ smiled Temple, ‘I suppose in a manner of speaking it is.’

The other leaned forward and said in an earnest voice, ‘You won’t regret it.’

‘I hope not,’ said Temple, secretly wondering if the other man was quite normal.

‘Kohima’s a brilliant man. Really brilliant. Absolutely first class. Take my word for it.’

Temple did not speak for a moment, but quietly eyed the fair-haired man very carefully. Then he said, ‘Forgive my asking, but haven’t we met before somewhere?’

The other shook his head, and with just a shade too much emphasis replied, ‘I don’t think so. My name is Lathom – Carl Lathom.’

‘I thought so,’ nodded Temple, whose memory for faces was as reliable as a card index. ‘It was about six years ago, at Lady Forester’s.’

Carl Lathom frowned.

‘I’m afraid I don’t actually remember the occasion,’ he admitted.

‘Then you’d hardly remember me. My name happens to be Temple.’

Lathom’s face cleared.

‘Oh yes, of course. You write detective novels and things.’

‘Chiefly detective novels.’

‘Oh, please forgive me,’ said Lathom apologetically. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude.’

‘That’s all right,’ laughed Temple.

‘But I really must apologise. I know how sensitive one feels about one’s work. You see,’ he added, with a rueful sort of smile, ‘I once wrote a play myself.’

‘I remember it very well,’ Temple assured him.

‘Yes,’ nodded Carl, in a more indifferent tone, ‘it had quite a good run. Made me a lot of money.’

‘Congratulations.’

Carl Lathom shrugged.

‘Oh, that was a long time ago,’ he murmured, as if the memory was not entirely pleasant.

But Temple had suddenly recollected something else.

‘Tell me,’ he went on, in a casual tone, ‘wasn’t Norma Rice in your play?’

‘Yes, she had the lead. It was her first big chance in the West End. She was awfully good, too. Awfully good. The play was quite hopeless without her.’ After a brief pause, he added, ‘I say, did you see that in the newspapers? About Norma? It was a hell of a shock to me.’

‘A most distressing business,’ agreed Temple.

‘Oh, most distressing. A charming girl, too. Temperamental, of course, but that’s understandable. I got to know her quite a bit during rehearsals of the play, and it seemed to me that she had a morbid streak in her nature which might run away with her one day. When I first read about her death I should have been willing to lay ten to one that it was suicide.’

Temple smiled.

‘But surely she would hardly have taken an overdose of Amashyer and then gone to the trouble to scrawl “Rex” on the carriage window…’

Lathom shook his head.

‘That’s just the sort of crazy thing Norma would do – specially if she had happened to read about the Rex murders.’ He sighed. ‘There’s no accounting for some women. All the same, she was a great actress.’

‘Have you written anything else since that play?’ asked Temple.

‘Not a single word. I got caught up in the advertising game and then I had a sort of breakdown. I’ve been very ill during the past three or four years.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ sympathised Temple.

Lathom smiled. ‘Oh, I’m much better now, thank you.’

‘Thanks to Doctor Kohima?’

‘Entirely. He’s really first class. It’s difficult to explain without sounding rather schoolgirlish, but he is really, quite frankly, such a distinctive personality. Something keeps telling you that he is doing his utmost to work with you and straighten out all the kinks.’ He laughed a trifle self-consciously and added, ‘You can imagine that’s rather important with a psychiatrist.’ Opening a slim gold cigarette-case, he passed it over to Temple.

After they lit their cigarettes, Lathom went on in a conversational tone, ‘Yes, I’ve been very groggy. Had one or two very nasty turns – the brain can play some devilish queer tricks, you know, Mr. Temple. As a matter of fact, strictly between ourselves, I’ve been suffering from – well – hallucinations.’

Temple managed to conceal his surprise by taking a draw at his cigarette and slowly expelling a stream of smoke.

‘Of course, I’m cured now,’ continued Lathom rather more assertively. ‘But it was distinctly unpleasant while it lasted.’

‘I should imagine so,’ nodded Temple.’ Did the – er – hallucinations take any consistent form?’

‘Why, yes, I had the impression that everywhere I went I was being followed—’

‘Not by the police?’ queried Temple, who had often heard of this particular type of illusion.

‘No, nothing as lurid as that,’ laughed Lathom. ‘This was a girl who was following me around. A very attractive girl, too. I can see her now just as clearly as I see you sitting there. She had brown shoes – brown costume – brown handbag – perky little hat – silk stockings! I suppose, really, it was quite the nicest type of hallucination.’

‘Did you ever try to, well, to sort of corner the girl in brown?’ asked Temple, in an interested tone.

‘Time and again. But of course she was never there. She’d vanish quite completely – almost into thin air. It was quite uncanny. I don’t mind telling you it had me badly rattled.’

‘And you mean to say Doctor Kohima convinced you that she did not exist?’

‘That’s just what he did,’ Lathom assured Temple earnestly. ‘It’s taken him literally months of exhaustive research, but he’s done it! I can’t quite tell you how, but suddenly the lady in is no more. She’s vanished for the last time. No doubt about the doctor is brilliant – really quite brilliant.’

He appeared to be about to enlarge further upon this question when the door opened, and a well-dressed woman of about thirty-five stood there.

‘The doctor’s sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Temple,’ she announced. ‘He’ll be able to see you in about five minutes.’

‘Thank you,’ said Temple. The woman looked round and suddenly saw Lathom, who was sitting behind the door.

‘Your appointment wasn’t till four, Mr. Lathom,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you know that?’

Lathom rose politely and smiled at her.

‘Oh yes,’ he replied suavely. ‘But I’m afraid I found myself in the neighbourhood with half an hour to spare, so I thought I’d come in and relax, as the doctor always advises.’

‘It’s quite all right,’ smiled the secretary, ‘as long as you don’t mind waiting.’

‘Not at all.’

‘I’ll tell the doctor you’re here,’ she said as she went out, silently closing the door after her.

Temple looked round for an ash-tray and stubbed out his cigarette.

‘Was that Doctor Kohima’s secretary?’ he asked.

‘That’s right. An awfully nice person.’

‘Yes, she seemed very helpful when I spoke to her on the ’phone,’ nodded Temple. ‘You don’t happen to know her name?’

‘Well, I always call her “nurse” for some silly reason. But the doctor did introduce us when I first came here. Her name is Mrs. Trevelyan.’

CHAPTER III
Steve Finds a Treasure

TEMPLE glanced somewhat suspiciously at Lathom, but the letter’s expression was completely matter-of-fact.

‘Are you quite sure that’s the name?’ asked Temple.

‘Of course I’m sure. Why?’

‘Oh—nothing.’

Temple imagined he caught a glint of amusement in Lathom’s somewhat steely blue eyes, but decided he had been mistaken. Lathom picked up a glossy magazine, glanced aimlessly through it then turned to Temple again.

‘Come to think of it, Mr. Temple, I’ve been seeing your name the papers once or twice lately in connection with this Rex case. Was the report true in the Evening Courier a couple of nights back?’

‘Which report was that exactly?’

‘The one that said Sir Graham Forbes had finally decided to send for Paul Temple.’

Temple shrugged, took out his cigarette-case, and offered one to Lathom.

‘Are you interested in this Rex affair?’ he asked.

There was silence for a moment, then Lathom said, ‘Yes, as a matter of fact I am. I don’t actually take an interest in murders and sordid crimes, but this business rather intrigues me. Maybe it’s partly because I knew Norma Rice.’ He gave an apologetic laugh, then added somewhat self-consciously, ‘I’m afraid I’ve even got quite a little theory of my own.’

‘What is it?’ asked Temple quietly.

‘Oh, really! You must get dozens of people trying to foist their wild ideas on you. Doesn’t it get rather boring?’

‘I’m not easily bored, Mr. Lathom,’ Temple assured him, he lit his cigarette. ‘In a case of this nature, one has to consider every possible angle, and there’s an old story about the onlooker seeing most of the game.’

‘Then, if you really want my opinion, Mr. Temple,’ said Lathom earnestly, ‘I think this fellow Rex is nothing more than a homicidal maniac.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Well, look at the Norma Rice affair. If Rex really was responsible for murdering Norma Rice, what possible motive could he have had?’

‘I suppose Norma Rice had enemies, the same as anyone else. I believe she had rather a gift for alienating people.’

‘But poor old Norma never meant any harm. Everyone knew it was just her temperamental moods. And then take this murder of Cranbury in the Brains Trust. It sounds fantastic to me.’

‘Then you’ve heard of Sir Ernest’s death?’

‘Good lord, yes. Haven’t you seen the papers today? They gave you a pretty good show. But why did Rex pick on poor old Cranbury?’

‘Who says Rex killed him?’

‘Why, the papers. Anyhow, you were there – you know what happened.’ He paused, evidently expecting Temple to supply some further information.

‘There was nothing very dramatic about it,’ said the novelist. ‘Sir Ernest simply collapsed – it just appeared to be heart failure.’

‘Then why are the newspapers saying that he was murdered by Rex?’

‘Because,’ Temple quietly informed him, ‘Sir Ernest mentioned Rex just before he died.’

‘Did he?’ Lathom’s eyes widened. ‘Did he, by Jove! I didn’t know that. Can you tell me what he said, or is it a secret?’

Temple smiled.

‘It wasn’t as startling as all that. He simply said, “Temple, I want to tell you about Rex.”’

Again there was silence. Then Lathom asked:

‘That was all?’

‘All there was time for.’

Lathom nodded his head thoughtfully, as if he were busy fitting facts into his theory. Suddenly he exclaimed, ‘Well, there you are! Obviously this fellow Rex is a lunatic. Must be as crazy as a hatter. Good heavens, why should anyone want to murder poor old Ernest?’

‘You knew Sir Ernest?’ put in Temple quickly.

‘Good lord, yes! He was quite a man about town, you know. He wasn’t exactly a friend of mine, but we were always bumping into each other in clubs and places. Seemed quite a harmless old stick – completely wrapped up in his work – the last sort of person you’d expect to find at cross-purposes with a murderer.’

As Lathom finished speaking the door opened, and Mrs. Trevelyan said, ‘The doctor will see you now, Mr. Temple.’

Temple rose and thanked her. As he went to the door, Lathom murmured, ‘We shall meet again, I hope, Mr. Temple. I hope my theories haven’t bored you too much.’

‘Not at all,’ replied Temple politely, and there was some degree of truth in his answer, for he had not made up his mind about Mr. Carl Lathom. And one is invariably intrigued by a stranger who retains some element of mystery.

Outside, Mrs. Trevelyan closed the door behind them. ‘Before you see Doctor Kohima, could I have a word with you?’ she said.

Her voice was low and urgent, and Temple detected an expression of alarm in her eyes.

‘Yes, of course,’ he answered.

She led him a little way along the corridor, then turned once more.

‘Listen! I’ve got to talk to you!’ she whispered, and there was a note of urgency in her voice. ‘I’ve got to talk to you about Rex.’

She looked round cautiously as if she were scared of being overheard. Then she went on, ‘Please believe me, it’s desperately important.’

Temple said, ‘I’m sure it must be.’

‘We can’t talk here,’ she said nervously, looking at the row of doors, as if she expected any one of them to open suddenly.

‘Then what do you suggest?’

She placed a forefinger and thumb inside a belt she wore, and produced a slip of paper.

‘Could you possibly come to this address – tonight?’

Temple took the paper and glanced at it casually.

‘Tonight, at what time?’

She moistened her lips, hesitated, then said:

‘Half past ten. You will come, won’t you?’

‘Yes, all right.’

‘You promise?’ she insisted anxiously.

Temple eyed her keenly, noting the attractive high cheekbones and keen grey eyes set widely apart.

‘Yes, I promise,’ he slowly assured her.

Obviously relieved, she went to a door opposite where they stood and opened it. ‘This way, sir, please,’ she called, raising her voice.

The room into which she showed him was quite plainly furnished. There was, however, a very comfortable couch in an alcove farthest from the window, and there was also a large armchair beside it.

Doctor Kohima was sitting at a large desk in the middle of the room, and he rose to shake hands with Temple as he came in. The doctor was quite obviously an Egyptian. His skin was honey-coloured and he had a handsome profile that would most certainly find favour with a large feminine clientele. When he spoke he had a soft voice rather like the purr of a contented cat, a voice calculated to extract the most intimate confidences, however unwilling the patient.

Temple had already looked up his record and had discovered that he was fully qualified in medicine, but had devoted five years to psychological analysis under the celebrated Pulitzer in Vienna. He was, in fact, reputed to have been a favourite pupil of the great man.

At a first meeting, Kohima always gave the impression of holding a tremendous reserve of very vital mental power which it was difficult to describe. There was a warmth in his handclasp, and he nodded to Temple to take a chair.

‘I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Temple,’ he apologised in a sincere voice with the merest trace of accent. ‘Do sit down, please. According to your ’phone message, you wish to consult me upon a purely personal matter.’

He swung round in his swivel chair and smiled frankly.

Temple could not restrain the feeling that here was a man with whom one could put the cards on the table. But this feeling was tinged with caution, for he was aware that the doctor must be an adept at breaking down defences, and knew every gambit to suit all types of individuals.

‘To be quite frank, Doctor Kohima,’ he began carefully, ‘I should simply like to ask you a few questions.’

A tiny frown puckered the loose skin round the doctor’s dark eyes.

‘This is not a newspaper interview?’ he asked, still in the same pleasing tone, though Temple noticed that his expression had changed.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing like that.’

‘Then I shall be delighted,’ said the doctor. ‘It will make such a pleasant change. It is always I who am asking the questions, hour after hour – day after day – probing into people’s private thoughts. However, you will not be interested in that. Please go on.’

Temple hesitated a bare second, then suddenly shot the question.

‘Have you a car, Doctor?’

‘A car?’ repeated Kohima, obviously a little surprised. ‘Why, yes – is that unusual for a doctor?’

‘What make is your car?’

‘It’s a Milford. A six-cylinder Milford.’

‘Black?’

The doctor nodded.

‘Registration number?’

‘DVC629,’ replied the doctor, his voice betraying the fact that he was considerably puzzled. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Thank you,’ said Temple. ‘Now I’ll tell you exactly why I am here.’

He went on to detail the story of the accident of the previous evening, telling it in a level, unemotional tone, and noting that his listener paid close attention to all the facts. Doctor Kohima was a perfect audience. When Temple concluded by repeating the description of the car that had forced them into the kerb, the doctor was patently startled.

‘You must have been mistaken!’ he urged.

‘No,’ replied Temple calmly. ‘I have every reason to believe that my description is accurate to the last detail.’

‘But it couldn’t have been my car, Mr. Temple,’ replied the other, a little worried now. ‘Why, my car was never out of the garage at all last night.’

‘Where do you keep it?’

‘Well, actually at my house near Regent’s Park. But all this week it’s been at Sloan’s Garage in Leicester Square for one or two minor repairs. As a matter of fact, I’m supposed to collect it tonight.’ He hesitated, obviously more than a little puzzled, then suggested, ‘Why don’t you ’phone the garage, Mr. Temple? Please, I wish you would.’

‘You’ve no objection?’

‘But of course not!’ He picked up a little black notebook and turned the pages. ‘The number is Temple Bar 7178.’

‘Thank you,’ said Temple, and drew the telephone towards him. The doctor poured himself a glass of water from the carafe on his desk and began to sip it slowly.

‘Sloan’s Garage?’ said Temple into the mouthpiece. ‘I am speaking for Doctor Kohima. Would it be convenient for him to pick up his car this evening?…yes, the Milford…oh…it was ready yesterday? I see. Could you tell me, by any chance, if the car was taken out last night?’ There was a pause while Temple listened to a lengthy explanation.

‘Have you any idea what time that was?’ he said presently. ‘Half past seven? Who brought it back? Oh, the chauffeur – at about a quarter to ten. Right—thank you very much.’

He slowly replaced the receiver and turned to the doctor.

‘Do I understand that the car was ready yesterday?’ asked Doctor Kohima.

‘That’s so. It was also taken out of the garage last night by your chauffeur. He had it between half past seven and a quarter to ten. And of course it was during that period that our little accident happened. So you see it was obviously—’

‘But I don’t understand—’ interrupted Doctor Kohima in a bewildered tone. ‘In fact, I’m afraid you’re going to get rather a surprise…’

But Temple did not seem in the least surprised. With the merest suggestion of a smile playing around his lips, he said: ‘I don’t think so, Doctor Kohima. You are simply going to tell me that you haven’t got a chauffeur!’

As Steve was not waiting with the car outside, Temple decided to walk back to the flat. As he strode along the wide pavements of Wigmore Street he turned over the mystery of Doctor Kohima’s car in his mind. The doctor’s surprise had seemed genuine enough, which was no more than one could expect, for one could hardly suspect an established psychiatrist of repute to be connected with an incident of this character. It was probably a sheer coincidence that his car had been chosen from the hundreds or more in the garage.

And yet there was Mrs. Trevelyan.

No doubt about it, this woman was in some way connected with Rex. There had been those clues on the dead bodies, and she herself had almost admitted as much. She was supposed to be going to tell him more tonight. In fact, she seemed terribly anxious to tell what she knew. Could it be a case of a guilty conscience? Mrs. Trevelyan might even be Rex herself, and tonight’s appointment some sort of trap. All the same, Temple meant to keep the appointment. He had found more than once that if one walked into a trap knowingly and kept one’s wits, the trapper was often himself caught. His mind went back to the elaborate and ingenious plans laid by the Marquis at the October Hotel…but they had culminated in an episode which had revealed the identity of The Marquis. There was such a thing as baiting the trap too generously.

Temple pondered upon these and other similar ideas as he came into Oxford Street and crossed it to turn down into Mayfair. Finding that he had left his latchkey in his other suit, Temple had to ring the bell to be admitted to the flat. He was beginning to wonder if Steve had returned when the door swung quickly open, and a bland yellow face smiled up into his.

‘Good afternoon. You are Mr. Temple, yes?’ said a cheerful voice which was of obvious Oriental origin.

‘Er – yes –’ murmured Temple, somewhat taken aback.

‘Welcome home, Mr. Temple,’ continued the little man, with a slight inclination of his head as he stepped aside for Temple to enter.

‘Thanks very much,’ was all Temple could manage by way of reply.

As the door closed, the man said, ‘I will take your hat and coat, thank you.’

‘Thank you,’ murmured Temple politely, secretly wondering what all this was about.

‘Not at all,’ smiled the other, quite unabashed. ‘It is a pleasure to serve you, sir.’

At that moment, to Temple’s great relief, Steve came out of the lounge.

‘Hello, Paul,’ she greeted him. Then turned to the little man. ‘Oh, Ricky – this is Mr. Temple.’

Ricky smiled even more widely than before.

‘I recognise him,’ he announced proudly. ‘We get on pretty well together – I hope.’

Even Steve seemed slightly at a loss.

‘Yes, well, that will be all now, thank you, Ricky,’ she said, and the little man bowed and went into the kitchen. In the lounge, Temple said, ‘Steve, where on earth did you pick him up?’

‘At the registry office. He was waiting for a job there – and I was looking for someone – and they hadn’t another soul on their books, so I thought, well, there’s no harm in giving him a trial.’

‘By Timothy, what next?’ exclaimed her husband. ‘Ever since Pryce left, there’s been one long succession—’

‘Paul, you don’t seem to have any idea just how difficult it is to get servants,’ said Steve, faintly exasperated.

‘Difficult!’ echoed Temple. ‘We’ve had three Czechs, a Viennese, a Hungarian, a Greek…and now, for Pete’s sake, a Chinese!’

‘Siamese, darling!’ she corrected him. ‘And, anyway, he’s got awfully good references. I was lucky to catch him before he registered, or he’d most certainly have been snapped up by some film star. As it was, I only got him through mentioning your name.’

‘My name?’

‘Yes, he’s quite an admirer of your books. He says he reads them to improve his English!’

Temple caught Steve’s eye and could not repress a smile.

‘Okay, we’ll give him a trial,’ he grinned. ‘But chop-suey for breakfast just once and he’ll need all those references!’

‘Oh, I forgot to tell you,’ said Steve quickly. ‘Sir Graham’s in the study.’

‘What does he want?’ asked Temple.

‘I’ve no idea, darling. He’s been talking most interestingly about the weather. Inspector Crane’s with him – you know – the sandy one with the unfortunate manner.’

‘Must be something in the wind,’ mused Temple, as they went along to the study.

Forbes and Crane were talking rapidly, but they stopped as soon as the door opened. Forbes looked as if he had not slept very well of late – the lines on the rugged face were more deeply marked than ever. But he smiled as Temple and Steve entered the room.

‘Sorry to have kept you waiting, Sir Graham. Good afternoon, Inspector,’ said Temple, noting that Crane looked even more surly than usual.

Steve brought them a drink, and after a short interchange of noncommittal pleasantries, Temple lay back in his chair and asked:

‘Well, what goes on now? Any more developments, Sir Graham?’

Sir Graham took a deep breath.

‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘there’s always something moving on this case. That’s one thing to be thankful for, anyway.’

‘Then what is it this time?’

‘Well, it looks as if we might be on to something at last.’ Forbes paused for a moment, then said, ‘Temple, do you happen to have heard of a man called Hans Muller?’

‘Hans Muller,’ repeated Temple thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I know the gentleman. Big, fair man. Dutch extraction. Has he turned up again?’

‘What do you make of him?’ demanded Crane bluntly.

‘Oh, well,’ shrugged Temple, ‘the man’s a crook, of course but a fairly intelligent one. Why do you ask?’

‘We’ve received a letter from him – or, rather, the inspector has. Show it Mr. Temple, Inspector.’

Crane fumbled in an inside pocket and produced a thin blue envelope.

‘Here it is, sir,’ he replied.

‘Then are you a pen-friend of Muller’s?’ queried Temple in some surprise.

Crane shook his head.

‘I can’t think why he picked on me, sir. I’ve never actually been in contact with Muller, and I must say this rather surprised me.’

‘Do you mean the contents surprised you, or the fact that you received it?’

‘Well, in a manner of speaking, both, sir.’

Temple extracted a single sheet of notepaper and read:

Inspector Crane,

I am given to understand that you are personally in charge of the Rex case. I would respectfully suggest, therefore, that you meet me tonight, shortly before midnight, at Granger’s Wharf, Rotherhithe. I can enlighten you on the identity of Rex.

Sincerely yours,

Hans Muller.

Temple read it through again, then returned the note to its envelope, which he passed back to the inspector.

‘It seems genuine enough – though I get the impression that Muller seems to know you rather well,’ he commented.

Crane shook his head.

‘I’ve never set eyes on the fellow,’ he insisted. ‘To be perfectly honest, I’d never even heard of him till this morning.’

‘Then why should he write you a friendly sort of letter like that? It isn’t as if there were any reward offered for information about Rex,’ put in Steve.

‘I’ve never seen the man in my life,’ Crane reasserted stubbornly.

‘We don’t even know much about Muller at the Yard,’ said Forbes. ‘That’s why I wanted to have a word with you, Temple. We know that Muller is a Dutchman and that he came over here in 1934, but that’s about all.’

‘Very well,’ smiled Temple, ‘now let’s see what I can do.’ He went over to his desk, unlocked the bottom right-hand drawer and produced a thick, indexed ledger, with an attractive leather cover.

‘What’s that, Temple?’ asked Forbes, with interest.

‘Oh, just a sort of personal “Who’s Who” I’ve been keeping for years. I meet a lot of interesting people, and it seemed a good idea to keep a record of them. Useful when I’m stuck for a new character in one of my books.’

His long fingers flicked over the pages.

‘Ah, here we are…Muller, Hans. Born in Amsterdam, probably about 1898…suspected of receiving stolen diamonds…nothing proved…first-class linguist…Dutch, Flemish, Danish, French and English…’

He stopped, then said quietly, ‘I say, this is interesting. Apparently, Muller is very well off. In 1939 he inherited quite legitimately nearly a quarter of a million…’

Forbes whistled expressively.

‘Have you ever met the man?’ asked Crane.

‘Why, yes.’ Temple referred to the book again. ‘Paris in February 1938 and the Hague, January 1939 – that was before he came into the money. At that time, we suspected he might have had a hand in disposing of the Falkirk Diamond when it was smuggled out of this country.’

‘Oh yes, I remember,’ said Forbes, who had indeed been closely concerned with the case.

‘Well, if you know this man, Mr. Temple,’ interposed Crane, ‘it seems to me it might be a very good idea if you came along with us tonight.’

‘Yes, by all means,’ agreed Forbes. ‘We’ll pick you up at eleven, if that’s all right with you.’

‘No,’ replied Temple quickly. ‘I’m afraid I have an appointment at ten-thirty.’

‘An appointment, darling?’ queried Steve.

‘Yes,’ said Temple casually, ‘I’ll tell you about that later.’ He turned to the Assistant Commissioner. ‘Where are you starting from?’

‘We’re taking a police-launch from Westminster.’

‘That’ll suit me,’ nodded Temple. ‘I’ll see you there – at the Pier – about eleven-fifteen?’

‘No later.’

Temple nodded.

‘Right,’ agreed Forbes, slowly rising and putting down his empty glass. ‘See you at eleven-fifteen. Better wear a couple of overcoats – it’ll probably be damned cold on the river. Come on, Crane.’

They had not reached the door before it had already opened, and there was Ricky with their hats and coats.

‘Sir Graham and Inspector Crane are leaving, Ricky,’ Steve announced rather superfluously.

‘Okay, missie,’ smiled the little Siamese. ‘This way, please, Sir Graham…’

When they had gone and Ricky had carefully closed the door, Temple turned to Steve.

‘I say,’ he murmured, ‘he’ll have to stop this “okay, missie” business.’

Steve laughed.

‘Poor Ricky! You must admit, darling, he makes the place seem more colourful, somehow.’

‘If his cooking’s up to the same standard,’ grinned Temple, ‘we’re on velvet.’

‘What’s this appointment of yours tonight at ten-thirty?’ asked Steve, becoming serious at once.

‘I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I told you it was with an extremely attractive, sophisticated woman in the early thirties,’ smiled Temple.

‘I might.’

‘Oh, well, I’d better start at the beginning. I had a chat with Doctor Kohima about the car that bumped us. It was his all right.’

‘But – but – hadn’t he any explanation?’

‘He had. A very plausible one, too. You know, Steve, there’s something damned queer about that affair.’

‘In what way exactly?’

‘Well, in the first place, his car is supposed to be at a garage in Bicester Square, where it’s being repaired. The doctor said it would be ready today, and asked me to check that with the garage. They said it was actually ready yesterday, and, what’s more, that Doctor Kohima’s chauffeur took the car out of the garage last night at seven-thirty and brought it back at nine forty-five.’

‘Then, there you are!’ exclaimed Steve. ‘That was when the accident happened. The chauffeur must be mixed up somehow—’

‘That’s just the point,’ interrupted Temple. ‘You see, Doctor Kohima doesn’t happen to have a chauffeur.’

Steve was momentarily nonplussed, then rallied with: ‘But it’s quite simple. Someone pretended to be the doctor’s chauffeur.’

Temple nodded thoughtfully.

‘In which case, how did he get the car? They’re pretty smart at that garage – they told me the system they have, and it’s fairly foolproof. There’s only one way he could have got it, by producing a ticket, and that ticket must be the same as the one originally given to Doctor Kohima.’

‘So that means the doctor was lying?’

‘Seems like it. But it doesn’t mean that he drove the car himself. In fact, I’m sure he didn’t. What’s more, his being a psychiatrist doesn’t simplify matters. You always have a feeling that he’s one jump ahead of you, and it’s rather an uncomfortable feeling.’

Steve wrinkled her forehead thoughtfully.

‘Surely he realises that this is a very serious business?’ she said. ‘Doesn’t he propose to do anything? I mean, after all it was his car, and if you notify the police—’

‘No, I don’t propose to do that just yet,’ replied Temple. ‘He was quite helpful up to a point. Seemed to be telling me all he knew.’

‘But where does this beautiful woman come into the picture?’ demanded Steve suddenly. ‘Or doesn’t she?’

‘She comes into it all right. The woman in question is Doctor Kohima’s secretary – and her name is Mrs. Trevelyan.’

Steve dropped the bundle of knitting she had just picked up.

‘Darling, you’re joking!’ she cried.

Temple slowly shook his head.

‘So your appointment tonight is with Mrs. Trevelyan?’ continued Steve.

‘I’m afraid so. D’you mind?’

‘It doesn’t look as if I shall have much say in the matter.’

‘Oh, but you have, darling. I wouldn’t dream of going without you. I told you that Mrs. Trevelyan is a very attractive woman. And my experience is that if a very attractive woman means mischief, she is far less dangerous if another very attractive woman happens to be present.’

‘So even a detective’s wife has her uses,’ smiled Steve. ‘Well, where do we meet the lady?’

He passed over the slip of paper, and she read the address.

‘That’s not far from here,’ she commented. ‘Does Doctor Kohima know about this appointment?’

‘No, and she seemed pretty anxious that he shouldn’t get to hear of it. The woman is frightened, Steve. I don’t know what she’s scared of, but she’s as frightened as hell!’

‘Many actresses are very beautiful,’ said Steve softly.

‘The converse doesn’t necessarily apply.’

‘Still, acting is often instinctive to a good-looking woman. She knows how men fall for beauty in distress. Are you sure you want me to come with you?’

Temple looked at her earnestly.

‘Of course. But I ought to warn you that there may be a certain amount of danger.’

‘In that case,’ declared Steve decisively, ‘I’m most certainly coming.’

‘Good,’ smiled Temple. ‘Better bring your knitting. The needles might come in useful – I read somewhere that they can be dangerous weapons. Ah well, I think I’ll change.’ He yawned prodigiously and announced, ‘I feel like a bath.’

The door opened softly and Ricky stood there impassively with folded hands and imperturbable smile.

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