Paul Temple and the Madison Case

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by

Hodder & Stoughton 1988

Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1988

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

Cover image © Shutterstock.com

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: 9780008125783

Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008157869

Version: 2015-10-26

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

CHAPTER I: My Name Is Portland, Sam Portland

CHAPTER II: The Manila

CHAPTER III: Eileen

CHAPTER IV: Hubert Greene Entertains

CHAPTER V: Concerning Steve

CHAPTER VI: Just a Red Herring

CHAPTER VII: Four Suspects

CHAPTER VIII: Introducing Madison

About the Author

Also in This Series

About the Publisher

CHAPTER I

My Name is Portland, Sam Portland

‘I think I’ll go up on deck for a few minutes, Paul. I’d like to take a last look at the New York skyline.’

‘Isn’t it a bit late, Steve? You said you wanted to change your dress before going down to dinner.’

‘Yes, I know, but it will clear my head a bit.’

‘You’re not feeling off colour already, are you? It’s only ten minutes since we sailed.’

‘No, darling, I’m fine. It’s just that I feel a little sea air will do me good.’

‘Well, take a wrap or something. And for heaven’s sake don’t get lost. Do you know the number of this cabin?’

‘I know we’re on the Signal Deck and isn’t it eight hundred and something?’

‘We’re on the Sports Deck and it’s number 8020.’

Mr and Mrs Paul Temple were on their way back from a stay in New York. They had flown out by Concorde and were returning in more leisurely fashion on the newly refurbished Princess Diana. Temple had been attending the International Conference of Anti-Crime Agencies. As an eminent criminologist as well as an author of world renown, he had been invited to deliver the key-note address. His New York publishers had timed the publication of his new book to coincide with the conference and had offered to pay both his and Steve’s expenses. After a week of lectures and seminars, interspersed with book signings and television interviews, he was looking forward to five days crossing the Atlantic at 29 knots instead of the Mach 2 of Concorde.

Steve had not been telling the complete truth when she said she was feeling fine. She was a bad sailor and whenever she boarded a ship and knew that she had left terra firma she began to feel queasy. Even on this huge liner, the length of three football pitches, she had a sense of being somehow trapped and enclosed.

As always, coming out on deck made things better. She was glad that she had not missed this magical moment. The great liner, dwarfed by the soaring skyscrapers on Manhattan Island, was just passing between the upraised arm of the Statue of Liberty and the twin towers of the World Trade Centre. Already the city was beginning to sparkle as lights were switched on in offices where staff would be working till the small hours. She tried to pick out the Waldorf Astoria in the closely packed muddle of buildings. The hotel had been their home for the last six days.

‘Isn’t that just the most fantastic skyline?’

Steve did not turn round at once. The voice was American but she was not sure whether the remark had been addressed to her. She was adept at dealing with approaches from strangers who could not resist the lure of an attractive woman on her own.

‘The Big Apple. It’s a sight that always brings a lump into my throat.’

Steve turned. The man leaning on the rail beside her was wearing a white suit and a gaily coloured tie. His hair was grey and thinning on top, but she did not put him at much more than fifty. His colour was high but whether from recent sunshine or blood pressure she could not tell. There was an unmistakable air of prosperity about him and she guessed that his corpulent build was a consequence of good living.

‘I was just trying to make out the Waldorf Astoria. That’s where my husband and I stayed.’

‘Say, you’re English! I just love that accent. How long you been over here?’

‘Only a week. We flew over on Concorde but decided to make a holiday of the return journey.’

‘You’re dead right. No better way to spend five days than in a ship like this.’

The American leant a hand against the rail and stared up at the single red smoke stack. The wisp of pale blue vapour from the three diesel turbines was tugged westwards by the fresh sea breeze.

‘It’s funny,’ Steve said. ‘I can’t see the Empire State Building.’

‘I guess it just slipped behind the World Trade Centre. You’ll see it in a minute. You spend your week in New York?’

‘Most of it. My husband was attending the ICACA conference.’ His expression had not changed at these mentions of a husband.

‘How did you like it?’

‘New York? I liked it enormously.’

‘It’s some city, isn’t it?’ He gave her an infectious grin. ‘You know, I’ve heard a lot of English people say they wouldn’t like to live in New York, but I just can’t imagine why they say that. It’s got everything.’

‘That’s probably why they wouldn’t like to live there.’

‘Yeah?’ His voice had become a little suspicious, wary. ‘That’s too subtle for me.’

‘Is this your first trip to England?’ Steve asked, deciding to keep the conversation on more conventional lines.

‘M’m-m’m, I guess it is.’ He nodded then added seriously, ‘At least I don’t think I’ve been there before.’

‘You don’t think …?’ Steve laughed, taking it as a joke. ‘Don’t you know?’

‘Well, you see, I only …’ He hesitated, then abruptly his manner changed. He held out his hand. ‘Maybe we ought to introduce ourselves. My name is Portland, Sam Portland.’

Steve took the proffered hand, which grasped hers strongly.

‘I’m Mrs Temple.’

‘Was that your husband I saw you with – the tall, tired-looking gentleman?’

‘Yes, that was my husband.’

Sam Portland was looking at her with renewed interest. ‘I’ve read quite a lot about your husband, Mrs Temple, but somehow I never imagined he looked like that.’

‘Confidentially he doesn’t.’ Steve smiled. ‘He’s suffering from an overdose of American hospitality.’

‘Oh, so that’s it,’ Portland said with a conspiratorial chuckle.

‘He’ll look quite different tomorrow.’ Steve assured him.

‘Maybe we’ll all look different tomorrow.’

‘Why, is it going to be rough?’

Hearing Steve’s tone of alarm Portland put his hands up, palm towards her. ‘No, no! Aren’t you a good sailor?’

‘Not very,’ Steve admitted.

‘Well that’s O.K. I’ll fix it,’ Portland promised with a twinkle. ‘I’ll have a word with the Captain. Don’t worry Mrs Temple, it’ll be as smooth as a glass of milk.’ Then he added, as an afterthought, ‘I hope.’

‘Look!’ Steve exclaimed. ‘There’s the Empire State coming into view now.’

As if to salute it, the Princess Diana gave two blasts of her horn. A few seconds later a multiple echo came back across the water from the impressive skyscrapers. Steve shivered and pulled the shawl tighter round her shoulders.

Thanks to the generosity of the American publishers the Temples had one of the special state rooms on the topmost deck of the liner. The suite consisted of a bedroom with bathroom en suite and a luxuriously appointed sitting room with VCR, TV, compact disc and radio plus a direct dial satellite telephone. A door gave access to their private veranda on the starboard side.

Temple was tying his bow tie in the bedroom mirror. Two cocktail glasses, delivered by room service, stood on the low table.

‘I ordered your usual dry Martini, darling. I hope that’s right.’

‘Perfect.’ Steve slid open the door of the long wardrobe where her dresses had been hung. ‘Now, what shall I wear?’

‘What about that Yuki you bought at Bloomingdale’s?’

‘No, I think I’ll keep that for the last night.’

Steve selected a dress, laid it on the bed and began to take off her tights.

‘Paul, have you ever heard of a man called Sam Portland?’

‘Sam Portland? Good lord yes! Why?’

‘He’s on board. I’ve just been having a chat with him.’

‘You’ve heard of Sam Portland. Portland’s Yeast … It’s all over America.’

‘Oh, is that him?’

‘Yes, that’s Mr Portland all right. What’s he like?’

‘I rather liked him, but …’

Temple gave his bow a final tweak and turned. ‘But what?’

‘He said rather a peculiar thing, darling. I asked him if he’d ever been to England before and he said, “No, I don’t think so”.’

‘He doesn’t think so? Surely he knows whether he’s been to England or not! He was pulling your leg.’

‘No, he wasn’t.’ Steve threw her discarded tights onto a chair. ‘He was serious.’

‘Must have been pulling your leg.’

‘Paul, he wasn’t,’ she insisted. ‘I simply asked him whether he’d ever been …’

‘Steve, for goodness sake stop arguing and get dressed, otherwise we’ll be late for dinner.’

Steve stood up and put a hand on the back of the chair.

‘Oh dear …’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘The cabin’s swaying … I hope it’s not going to be rough …’

‘You’re imagining things. We’re only just passing Ellis Island.’

Room service had brought the Temples breakfast in bed, served on two trays with short legs. The lavish spread was entirely wasted on Steve, who could only nibble a piece of toast and sip a cup of coffee. Temple had got up and dressed soon afterwards and taken the lift down to the Promenade Deck. He wanted to get some exercise and had made three circuits of the ship before he paused, leaning on the rail and looking out over the bows. The ship was sailing at her cruising speed of 29 knots.

It was a fine, sunny day and the sea was calm. America had long since slipped down over the horizon, somewhere beyond the straight white wake churned up by the twelve blades of the twin propellers.

‘Excuse me, sir … Mr Temple?’

Warily Temple turned to look at the man who had come up to lean on the rail beside him.

‘Yes?’

‘My name is Portland.’

Temple’s face relaxed into a warm smile. ‘Oh, good morning, Mr Portland.’

‘I had the pleasure of meeting your wife last night, Mr Temple …’

‘Yes, so she told me.’

‘I was wondering how the little lady was feeling this morning.’

‘She’s not too good, I’m afraid.’

‘On a diet?’ Sam Portland suggested tactfully.

‘Strictly on a diet,’ Temple replied with a straight face.

‘Well now, that’s too bad. If there’s anything I can do for Mrs Temple, please let me know.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’

A little posse of youngsters in jogging gear trotted past, laughing and joking amongst themselves. Temple pointed to the deck chairs which had been set out by the crew.

‘Won’t you sit down?’

‘Why thank you, sir!’ Sam Portland lowered himself carefully into a chair and held up his large half-smoked cigar. ‘Does my smoking bother you?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Would you like a cigar?’

‘Thank you, not at the moment.’

The American drew thoughtfully on his Havana cigar. ‘Mr Temple, I was very thrilled when I saw your name on the passenger list last night.’

‘Indeed?’

‘I’ve been an admirer of yours for some considerable time. As a matter of fact I once wrote you a letter.’

‘I can’t recall ever having received a letter from you, Mr Portland.’

‘No, you didn’t receive it, for the simple reason that I didn’t post it.’ Portland chuckled. ‘My wife persuaded me to change my mind.’

‘I see,’ Temple said, somewhat mystified.

‘Mr Temple, forgive me talking shop at this time of the morning but have you heard of a private investigator – a detective – by the name of Madison?’

‘Madison? No.’

‘I rather imagine he’s pretty well known in your country.’

‘Well, he can’t be very well known or I should have heard of him.’

‘Are you sure you haven’t? Madison.’ Portland spelt the name out letter by letter.

‘Quite sure.’

‘Well, now that’s very curious.’ Portland shrugged ‘Still, why should I worry if he gets the results.’

‘Is he working for you?’

‘Er-yes. Actually he’s employed by my London representative, a man called Hubert Greene.’

‘What is Madison doing exactly?’

‘He’s on a research job.’

‘Sales? Statistics?’ Temple prompted.

Portland paused, then said slowly ‘No, no, no, nothing like that. Purely a private investigation. He’s trying to find out who I am.’

Temple stared at him. ‘Who you are?’

‘Yes,’ said Portland, nodding.

‘But you know who you are! You’re Sam Portland.’

‘Sure. Sure, I’m Sam Portland. Samuel L. Portland, President of the Portland Yeast Company. New York, Chicago, Detroit, Michigan and all points west. I’m one of the wealthiest men in America, Mr Temple, did you know that?’

Temple laughed. ‘I had a shrewd suspicion.’

‘Right now I could lay my hands on four hundred million dollars. It’s an awful lot of dough.’

‘It’s an awful lot of dough, Mr Portland.’ Temple agreed seriously. He drew his legs in as another group of joggers, more elderly ones this time, ambled past.

‘Four hundred million bucks and I don’t know who I am! Mr Temple, would you like to hear my story?’

Too late Temple was regretting the encouragement he had given the American.

‘Well, as a matter of fact I did promise my wife …’

‘You’re going to hear it anyway, so you might just as well relax!’

Temple echoed Portland’s laugh. The American leant on the arm of his chair and spoke in a confidential tone.

‘Thirty-five years ago, on October 9th 1952 to be precise, a Chicago policeman by the name of Dan Kelly arrested a young man for jay walking – you know what I mean, trying to beat the traffic. The young fella turned out to be something of a problem. He was suffering from what the doctors called amnesia, or to put it bluntly, just plain loss of memory.’

Portland waited for a couple who had paused in front of them to move on.

‘Go on …’ said Temple, intrigued in spite of himself.

‘The young man was acquitted and the policeman – Kelly – took him under his wing. Kelly was convinced that sooner or later the young man’s memory would return, Mr Temple, but the young fella never established his true identity.’

Portland’s cigar had gone out. He gave it an accusing look then laid it on the deck beside his chair.

‘Go on, Mr Portland.’

‘I lived with Kelly for the best part of seven years. We got along famously together. I guess he was like a father and the proverbial big brother rolled into one. In 1958 I moved to New York and started the Portland Yeast Company. The rest you can guess. It was just a long, long trail leading to four hundred million dollars.’

‘What made you choose the name Portland?’

‘Well, I had to call myself something.’ Portland laughed and a gold tooth flashed. ‘I was on Portland Avenue when Kelly arrested me.’

‘But couldn’t you remember anything?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘Hadn’t you any marks of identification?’

‘No. When I was arrested I had three dollars in my pocket, a white handkerchief, a fountain pen and curiously enough an English penny.’

‘An English penny?’

‘Yes. I’ve still got it. Look, it’s on my watch-chain.’

Portland was wearing a waistcoat. Temple wondered if he did so purely in order to accommodate a gold watch and chain. He inserted two fingers in the left-hand pocket and withdrew one of the big old-fashioned pennies. The copper glittered in the morning sunlight. Either it had been treated with some lacquer or he polished it every day. Temple leant over to study it but Portland had quickly slipped the coin back into his pocket.

‘How does this fellow Madison fit into the picture?’

‘I’ll tell you.’ He hitched himself round in his chair to face Temple more squarely. ‘For years now I’ve been making inquiries in the hope of finding things out about myself. If you were in my shoes wouldn’t you want to know who your parents were, where you came from and why on a certain afternoon in the year 1952 you were suddenly discovered wandering down Portland Avenue in Chicago?

Well, two weeks ago Hubert Greene, my London representative, ’phoned through to New York. He told me that a man called Madison – a well known private inquiry agent in London – had discovered certain facts concerning my identity. As you can imagine this sort of thing wasn’t exactly new to me so I told Hubert to look into the matter.’

‘Did he?’

‘Yes he did. Three days ago he telexed me. He said he was convinced that Madison was on the level.’

Portland leant forward and gripped the arms of his deck chair. ‘I’m finding this sea breeze a little too healthy for my liking. What do you say we move into the Midships Lounge? I hear they serve a very good hot bouillon there at eleven o’clock.’

The two men stood up and began to stroll down the starboard side of the ship.

‘Frankly,’ said Portland, ‘I was rather surprised just now when you told me that you’d never heard of Madison.’

‘Well, I can soon check on him for you. I’ve got some very good friends at Scotland Yard.’

‘I hope that won’t be necessary, but if it is I’ll let you know.’ Portland laid a hand on Temple’s arm. ‘Oh, by the way, if you happen to meet Mrs Portland don’t mention this Madison story. She doesn’t know anything about it.’

‘No?’

‘No, you see my wife takes the attitude that I should let the past take care of itself. “Why should you worry, Sam,” she says, “you’re sitting pretty anyway”.’

‘Well, that’s certainly a point of view,’ said Temple, laughing. ‘Is your wife an American, Mr Portland?’

‘No, she’s English although she’s lived in America for a great many years. As a matter of fact we’ve only been married six weeks.’

‘Oh!’ Temple quickly controlled his surprise. ‘Congratulations!’

‘Thanks,’ said Sam, accepting the congratulations with the satisfied expression of a cat that had scooped the milk.

‘Why are you making this trip – for business reasons or simply to meet Madison?’

‘Well, my wife thinks I’m making it because of Moira. Oh, Moira’s my daughter – by my first marriage, of course. She works in my London office. Actually, however, I must confess I’m coming over simply because of Madison. I’m sold on Madison, Temple. I really think he’s found something. Hello, here’s George.’ Portland had spotted a man pushing his way towards them beckoning excitedly with one arm. ‘Now what does he want?’

Temple estimated George Kelly’s age as about forty. He was wearing sneakers, jeans and a brightly coloured sports blouse. All in all he seemed an unlikely appendage for the multi-millionaire.

‘There’s been a ’phone call from the New York office,’ he announced excitedly. ‘I couldn’t find you so I told ’em you’d ring back. They seemed to be all steamed up about something.’

‘Yes, all right, George.’ Sam answered him with an almost fatherly pat on the shoulder. ‘How’s Mrs Portland?’

‘About the same. She don’t look too good.’ Kelly’s high pitched laugh twisted his thin mouth. ‘I reckon she don’t feel too good either.’

‘O.K. I’ll be right down.’

Kelly nodded, glanced at Temple, then departed.

‘That’s George Kelly.’ Sam was watching the man’s receding back thoughtfully. ‘When poor old Dan died I promised to find his son a job. He’s my secretary. I guess you wouldn’t think so though to hear him talk. George is a drip! He hasn’t got the old man’s guts, personality or anything else. Still, what can you do?’ He shrugged resignedly. ‘Well, I’ll go down and see how my good lady’s getting on. Nice to have met you, Mr Temple,’ offering his hand. ‘Let’s all have a drink together sometime.’

‘Yes, let’s do that.’

‘Say we meet in the Princess Bar at seven o’clock? I’ll bring Mrs Portland along. How’s that?’

‘Fine.’

‘And don’t forget to bring Mrs Temple.’

‘Well,’ said Temple, laughing. ‘I will if she can make it.’

‘She’ll make it all right.’

Sam was lighting another cigar as he moved away in the wake of George Kelly. Temple gave him a minute’s start then made his own way to the door that led to the Midships Lounge. He was less interested in the bouillon than in locating the ship’s Business Centre with its telex, fax, up-to-date financial reports and secretarial facilities.

The Princess Bar, adjoining the Princess Grill, was on the Boat Deck, conveniently placed for the occupants of the prestigious suites just aft of the signals and communications tower. By seven o’clock it was already well filled and virtually everybody there had already changed into evening dress. The sun was sinking towards the horizon and the orange glow of its reflection on the sea cast a warm light on the ceiling of the bar. There was little movement on the well-stabilised ship. The tremor of the nine diesel engines in the belly of the liner was hardly detectable. Already they had thrust Princess Diana seven hundred miles out into the Atlantic.

Temple was shepherding Steve towards an empty table by the window. She was walking gingerly, not too sure of her sea legs. More than one pair of eyes rested on them with frank appraisal. They were a striking couple. With his tall build, clean-cut features and the confidence with which he wore his London tailored clothes, Temple looked as British as the ship they were travelling on. Steve always turned heads, for she kept her figure in marvellous trim.

‘Are you feeling all right, Steve?’

‘Yes, I’m all right now, Paul.’

‘You certainly look better than you did this morning.’

‘I certainly feel better!’