Send for Paul Temple Again!

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.’