Send for Paul Temple

CHAPTER V

Room 7

‘“The Green Finger”!’ echoed Paul Temple, intense astonishment showing on his face.

He paused.

‘Are you sure of this?’ he said suddenly.

‘Oh, quite sure,’ replied Miss Parchment brightly. ‘It’s all in the book I’m reading, Mr. Temple. A most interesting book.’

Again Temple started pacing up and down the room, thinking over this new surprise. The coincidence was far too striking. Yet where was the connection? He decided that events must show for themselves exactly where this quaint old inn fitted in with these widespread robberies. He took a cigarette from his case and thoughtfully fitted it into his cigarette holder.

Suddenly the door to the little hall opened and Daley reappeared. Over his arm he carried the sheet for which he had been searching the linen cupboards upstairs.

‘’Ere’s the sheet, Guv’nor!’ he started. ‘Now we can cover him up a bit.’

He unfolded the sheet carefully, displaying two large holes, several smaller ones, and a number of rust stains, which showed that he had no intention of wasting one of the inn’s best sheets. He knelt down beside the body of the superintendent, at the same time keeping up a running commentary on his own feelings.

‘If there’s anything I ’ates the sight of,’ he was saying, ‘it’s a fellow that’s gone an’—’ He broke off with sudden alarm in his voice as the sound of footsteps came through the window, and men could be heard talking. ‘’Ello, what’s that?’ he exclaimed.

‘It sounds to me like the sergeant and Dr. Milton,’ replied the novelist.

The voices and the footsteps grew louder, and presently feet could be heard brushing against the mat in the hall, while Temple recognized the suave tones of Dr. Milton, in a litany with the harsher country voice of Sergeant Morrison. Then the door opened and the two men came in, followed by the stolid form of Police Constable Hodges, in every way typical of the village constabulary.

‘Good evening, Mr. Temple.’ There was a clear, impressive note of authority in the sergeant’s voice. ‘Evening, Daley!’

He looked round the room and at the recumbent figure of Superintendent Harvey, his legs now covered with the innkeeper’s sheet, while his trunk, arms and head projected incongruously, almost as if the dead man were just getting out of some strange bed. The worthy sergeant bristled with pride and self-importance as he made it plain that he was in full command of the situation. It is not an everyday occurrence for one of the big Chiefs of Scotland Yard to meet his death under strange circumstances, and Sergeant Morrison felt that here, at last, was the long awaited personal appearance of opportunity.

‘Thank heavens you’ve come,’ the innkeeper said, with a sigh of relief. ‘I was just about to—’

A gasp of astonishment broke from Dr. Milton’s lips. He had been looking at the tragic scene before him, but only now had he suddenly become aware of the victim’s identity.

‘It’s Superintendent Harvey!’ he exclaimed. ‘Good gracious, why—’

Sergeant Morrison cut him short. ‘If you please, Doctor,’ he said, and his voice clearly indicated that there was work to be done.

The doctor accepted the rebuff. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant.’

He knelt down by the side of the body. With deft fingers he loosened the clothing and started his examination. After a few moments, he looked up.

‘Could we have another light on, please,’ he asked curtly. ‘I can’t see very clearly.’

Daley hastened to the switch. The benefits of the electric grid had extended out even as far as “The Little General”. Swiftly, yet carefully, the doctor carried out his examination.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Morrison was taking stock of his surroundings. He made notes of the exact positions of the chairs, the benches and tables, and of the general layout of the room. Already the sergeant was beginning to picture a better uniform than the one he was wearing, indeed, he was actually throwing increased authority into his voice and bearing. Fortunately, this did not detract from his efficiency. He was leaving nothing to chance.

‘Hodges!’ he commanded, indicating with a wave of his hand one of the doors behind the counter. ‘Take a look at the back of this place. I think there must be some sort of courtyard.’

‘Very good, sergeant,’ replied Police Constable Hodges, and disappeared into the outer darkness.

For a while there was silence in the room. Temple was sitting patiently on one of the old forms. Sergeant Morrison remained standing, watching Dr. Milton as though fascinated by him.

‘Well, Doctor?’ he asked, as the latter started rearranging the clothing on the superintendent’s body.

Dr. Milton replaced the instruments in his black leather attaché case and stood up.

‘He’s been dead about a quarter of an hour, I should say,’ was the doctor’s verdict. ‘He must have died almost instantly.’ Certainly it was far too late for the doctor to be of any assistance.

Sergeant Morrison grunted. Then he pulled out his notebook and made a laborious note.

‘Now I’d like a few details, if you don’t mind,’ he said, his writing finished. He turned towards the novelist. ‘Was the deceased a friend of yours, Mr. Temple?’ he asked.

‘Well, not exactly what one would call a friend, Sergeant. But I knew him fairly well.’

Again the sergeant laboriously copied the words into his notebook. Then he turned towards Horace Daley.

‘Was he staying the night here?’ he asked.

‘Well, ’e was an’ ’e wasn’t, as yer might say, Sergeant.’

‘Answer the question!’

Mr. Daley looked alarmingly as if he might splutter forth something even more unintelligible, but the novelist intercepted him.

‘Perhaps it would be better if you allowed me to explain, Sergeant,’ he said, as he rose from his bench and joined the little group.

‘Well?’

‘Superintendent Harvey was on holiday,’ said Temple quietly. ‘He called in to see me about ten-fifteen this evening. Dr. Milton and his niece had been dining with me and were on the point of leaving. Harvey gave me to understand that he was staying the night here at “The Little General”. Unfortunately, I persuaded the poor devil to change his mind and stay the night with me. We came down here to get his luggage and—’

‘What time would that be?’ interrupted the sergeant.

‘Oh, about eleven-fifteen, I should say. Certainly no later.’

‘Go on,’ commanded Sergeant Morrison, preparing to make a note of the details.

‘Well,’ continued Temple, ‘I waited outside for him in my car. After about five minutes or so, Mr. Daley came running out. He was very excited and obviously upset. He told me that Harvey had shot himself.’

The sergeant finished scribbling the sentence down, drew a heavy line across the page, then turned back to the innkeeper.

‘Now let’s hear your side of the story, Daley,’ he asked.

Horace was determined to stand on his dignity. ‘Mr. Daley, if you don’t mind,’ he said, by way of prefix. ‘Well, I was standin’ behind the bar doin’ me crossword puzzle when this fellow comes in and says ’e’s changed ’is mind about staying ’ere the night. ’E pops upstairs and brings down ’is suitcase. Then ’e asks me if I could change ’im a quid. I says “yes!” and goes into the back parlour to get the money. When I gets back, I sees ’im just like ’e is now. Coo, it wasn’t ’alf a nasty shock, I can tell you!’

Sergeant Morrison knew very little shorthand, but he could write quickly and with fair legibility, and rarely had to ask anybody to repeat something they had said.

He finished writing what Daley had just told him, before asking: ‘Had you seen him before?’

‘Yes, of course I had,’ replied the innkeeper impatiently. ‘I was ’ere when ’e first arrived.’

‘What time would that be?’

‘Oh, I dunno. About five perhaps.’

‘Was there anyone in here tonight, when he returned for his luggage?’

Perhaps the question was a little obvious, at any rate it certainly seemed to annoy the little Cockney.

‘Yes, dozens o’ people,’ he retorted, with a wealth of broad sarcasm in his voice. ‘About fifteen platinum blondes and a couple o’ film stars. We had our gala night, Sergeant. You must join in the fun some time.’

The cheeks of Sergeant Morrison gradually suffused to a delicate hue of pink. From pink they changed as gradually to carmine and then, more rapidly, to a perilously deep purple.

For a moment a serious explosion seemed imminent. Then the danger passed.

‘Don’t try an’ be funny!’ was all he could growl at the innkeeper. ‘And answer the questions!’ he suddenly snapped out.

‘Anyone ’ere at a quarter past eleven,’ the little Cockney replied unperturbed. ‘Coo! Why, the perishin’ place is dead after ’alf-past eight.’

‘Is there anyone else staying here at the moment?’

‘Yes, Sergeant,’ answered Temple. ‘This lady, Miss Parchment.’

Miss Parchment had been sitting quietly on the chair Paul Temple had offered her some time before. She had not moved. Nor had she spoken. But with her bright blue eyes she had been following everything very intently. There could have been little that she had missed. Nobody had noticed her in the excitement of the moment, and it was with a start of quite real surprise that Sergeant Morrison became aware of her existence.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, taking in the fact that here was possibly a source of much-needed information, and corroboration. ‘Well, Madam, can—er—you throw any light on this matter?’

‘I’m afraid not, Sergeant,’ replied Miss Parchment calmly. ‘I was in my room reading when Mr. Daley arrived with the news that this gentleman had shot himself and that a Mr. Temple wished to see me. Naturally, I was dreadfully upset about the matter and so of course—’

This was more than Horace Daley could stand. ‘You didn’t look very upset to me,’ he interrupted.

‘I have learnt to control my emotions,’ answered Miss Parchment sweetly.

For once, the innkeeper had nothing to say in return. Miss Parchment, when she chose, could silence him very effectively with a few polite words, whereas all Sergeant Morrison’s abuse, and for that matter anybody else’s, only served to stimulate him the more.

Nothing seemed to ruffle Miss Parchment. Even the present tragedy had affected her less than some queer discovery she might have made about one of the old English inns that interested her so much. She had been sitting there in her chair, regarding the scene with a completely dispassionate interest. Now and then a slight smile flickered across her face. Then it vanished again. She clearly had a delicate, almost evanescent sense of humour. Cruder sallies left her unmoved. As unmoved as did the corpse on the bar parlour floor in front of her. The harsher realities of life, and death, appeared to have no part in her scheme of things. From the police point of view, she made an admirable witness in that she was so calm and collected, an advantage even if she had little of any value to tell him.

‘Well, Miss Parchment, how long have you been staying here?’

‘I arrived yesterday afternoon, Sergeant,’ she replied. ‘I’m on a walking tour of the Vale of Evesham. I’m interested in old English inns,’ she explained with a smile. ‘Very old English inns.’

‘Yes—er—yes, just so,’ replied the sergeant, not too intelligently. He felt perplexed and, for some strange reason, Miss Parchment embarrassed him.

‘Could I have your full name and permanent address?’ he asked gruffly, trying to make his voice as formal and official as possible, but with little success.

‘Amelia Victoria Parchment,’ said Miss Parchment, as the sergeant commenced to write, ‘47B, Brook Street, London, W.1.’ With a word of thanks, that was more a sigh of gratitude that this part was all over, he turned back to Horace Daley. There was still the point to be cleared up of how the murderer, if any, could have made good his escape.

Temple had been sitting in his car immediately outside the inn during the actual tragedy, and he was certain that nobody had left or entered from the front of the inn. And the back was apparently impossible. Was it, after all then, a question of suicide?

‘Now, Mr. Daley,’ the sergeant said, this time with slightly more respect in his voice, ‘could anyone have come in here whilst you were in the back parlour?’

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘They could ’ave come from either upstairs or from the street.’

‘What about from the back,’ the sergeant persisted; ‘there’s an open courtyard, isn’t there?’

‘Yes, but there’s no way o’ gettin’ into the inn except through the back parlour, an’ I was in there all the time.’

Sergeant Morrison grunted heavily. The mystery was too much for him.

At that moment the door behind the bar counter opened, and Police Constable Hodges reappeared. He pushed open the flap, waddled through rather than walked, and finally came to rest in front of his superior officer.

‘There’s nothing in the courtyard, sir,’ he reported, ‘except a lot of blessed pigeons.’

Horace Daley suppressed a smile.

The sergeant again started an examination of the room. He peered out of the window and went into Daley’s sitting-room next door. He stayed about five minutes, not knowing what he expected to find, but nevertheless diligently searching every corner. Close on his heels followed Horace Daley, while the rest of the party stayed in the parlour, talking quietly of the tragedy that had suddenly enveloped them.

It seemed clear that the murderer, whoever he was, could not have entered by the sitting-room. Next, the sergeant opened the door to the hall and slowly mounted the stairs. There was little the sergeant did not examine. He inspected every room, opened every window, looked into every cupboard, almost as if the murderer might still be hidden on the premises somewhere.

At length he returned downstairs, feeling that it was all far more than he could tackle by himself and that the inspector ought to be consulted before anything further was done. He was, at any rate, sure that the murderer – if murder it was – was no longer on the premises, and for the moment there seemed little else to be done. Fingerprints might be taken as a matter of routine, but the bar parlour was used by many different people every day, including chance motorists who felt attracted by the inn’s inviting old exterior, and stopped for some refreshment. They could therefore expect to find only a confused medley of fingerprints which it was unlikely would help them very far. The fingerprints on the revolver itself he felt certain would prove to be exclusively Harvey’s.

‘I wonder if you’d mind running me back to the station, Mr. Temple?’ he asked. ‘I feel that I ought to have a word with Inspector Merritt about this.’

The novelist agreed. He walked over to the bench in the corner of the room where he had flung down his overcoat, and prepared to face the outer coldness of the night. Then, taking his leave of the others, he left the room to start up the car and warm the engine for the run down to the police station. Meanwhile, the sergeant was apologizing to Dr. Milton.

‘The police “doc.” is down with the “flu”,’ he explained, ‘and Mr. Temple suggested that you might—’

The doctor cut short his apologies. ‘Only too glad to be of service, Sergeant. Think nothing of it.’