Paul Temple and the Harkdale Robbery

‘What do you think of this circus?’ Paul asked the MI5 or 6 agent.

‘I think everybody’s terribly talented and sincere,’ he said absently. His brightly attractive young lady was keeping him primed with a continuous supply of whisky. ‘Terribly professional.’

Paul nodded and wondered whether to talk instead to Freddie the Drummer. But Freddie was sprawled in an armchair, sprawling lower and lower in an attempt to get a better view of Andrea’s mini skirt.

‘I think it’s time we went onto the set,’ said Andrea Turberville. ‘It’s a few minutes early, but we ought to see you under the lights. I’ll take you to Richard Cross. He’s the director.’

The set was the usual table surrounded by armchairs. There was water in carafes and there were ashtrays everyone was told not to use while on camera. Andrea sat them all down to face a tiered audience of two hundred people. There was a stage over to the right where the dancers would dance, and behind the stage a dance band was playing to warm up the audience.

‘Paul Temple, eh?’ barked the MP. He had sat in the next armchair. ‘I suppose you writer chaps have been hit by the abolition of capital punishment. No dragging off the villain at the end of the piece. Who cares who dun it when the fellow just goes and spends the rest of his life in comfort at the expense of the ratepayer?’

Richard Cross scurried across the studio to welcome them all. He said that it should be a terribly controversial programme and Brian was thrilled to have them all on the show. ‘I think we’ll start with Paul’s thesis about big business, is that all right, Paul? And then we’ll talk about how the police aren’t really equipped to cope with such streamlined organisation, and we’ll talk about spies and undercover work. It’ll be riveting. The milk will boil over in a million homes. Any questions?’

‘Yes,’ said the man from Intelligence. ‘What happened to that little dolly with the whisky?’

Richard Cross gave a faintly distraught laugh.

The Melody Girls had been rehearsing on the stage to the right, and Paul noticed that one of them had remained on the set. She was a tall redhead with strikingly troubled green eyes. Paul thought that she was coming across to them, but somebody called her, and after a moment’s hesitation she went away. Her green flaired chiffon costume was too brief to be hanging around in draughts.

‘Sir Michael,’ the director said to the MP, ‘I wonder whether you’d change places with Paul? Your spectacles are upsetting camera number two. Miss Benson! Where’s Miss Benson? Freddie the Drummer needs some powder on his bald patch –’

The audience suddenly applauded as a dark, moodily intense young man walked onto the set. He was dressed in a dramatic black suit with white frills, and the one touch of colour was his floppy red bow tie. Without looking across he waved a languid hand in acknowledgment of the clapping. ‘Hi,’ he said to his guests in general. ‘Great to see you, marvellous. It’ll be a great programme.’ He was Brian Clay.

‘We’re on in ninety seconds, Brian,’ said the director.

‘Great.’ The super-cool young man sat in the centre seat behind the desk and smiled dramatically. ‘Hi,’ he said to Freddie the Drummer, ‘great to have you out in time for the programme. Paul! How nice to have you on the show.’ He leaned across and offered a languid hand. ‘I thought your last book was great.’

Paul beamed complacently. The nice thing about being flattered by Brian Clay was that he bothered to do it. Clay had the art of seeming to bestow a royal favour, which was warming for the brief moment it lasted. He was terribly sincere. But while Paul was grinning at the military intelligence agent in private amusement they had gone on the air.

‘Hi,’ Brian Clay was saying, ‘and good evening. Tonight we’re going to discuss one of the central, most real threats to our health and security, one of the most dramatic aspects of the world today. I’m talking about crime, and the way it is likely to touch us all in the next ten years, because it’s the fastest growing disease in our society. It no longer only happens to other people –’

His voice was faintly rasping, as if the menace were there among them. ‘And here to discuss it with us tonight –’ He was a professional. He had all the sensational statistics on cards before him, and his intensity would have quite a few old ladies glancing over their shoulders at the back door. ‘Mr Paul Temple, crime writer and in his own way, criminologist!’

A man over to the right waved and the audience applauded. Paul glanced down in sudden apprehension at his trousers.

‘Paul, tell me what’s so different about this present situation. Is it simply that crime is better organised, or is it different? Change or development?’ He stared so innocently that Paul felt a serious answer was required. ‘Mm?’

‘What is different is that the people who get caught these days are not the real criminals. In the past if you caught a gang of bank robbers and sent them to gaol that was it, those criminals were out of harm’s way for several years. But these days – these days the gang gets caught if you’re lucky, but the brain behind the crime is left free to plan his next big job. The men behind organised crime are never caught. So no matter how many petty villains you send to gaol you don’t improve the situation. You only fill up the gaols with petty villains.’

‘That’s a disturbing thought, Paul.’ He turned dramatically to the MP. ‘Sir Michael, I know you think our present laws make it all too easy for the criminals.’

The MP began with heavy facetiousness about his role as a Clay pigeon, and then he laughed lugubriously. On the stage to their right The Melody Girls were assembling for their routine. Paul found his attention straying. He didn’t think that the fervour with which MPs held their opinions indicated their profundity. Sir Michael was a bore. Yet the red-headed girl was watching them without a thought for the coming dance number.

‘Paul, what do you think about that?’

‘Eh?’ The wretch had sprung it on him deliberately. ‘I think Sir Michael is very sincere,’ Paul said, ‘but he knows very little about criminals.’ He wished he had heard a word Sir Michael had said. ‘A prominent MP’s life may be very worthy, but it doesn’t equip a man to understand what makes a criminal tick. There’s a fantastic difference between the lives of the law givers and the law receivers, and I think Sir Michael personifies that difference.’

Brian Clay perked up at the prospect of some real television, while Sir Michael spluttered with astonishment.

‘I keep in touch with the people,’ he shouted, ‘through my constituents! I know my people and what they think! This weekend I’ll be back there holding my monthly clinic, and what will you be doing, writing a novel?’

Paul nodded happily. ‘I’m going off to the cottage, actually, and I hope to start on my new book –’

‘Cottage? You retreat to a cottage in the country and talk to me about crime? What happens in your part of the country? They probably don’t know what crime is!’

‘Freddie, where do you sit on this fence?’ Brian Clay asked.

‘Yes, well, I mean, they’re right, aren’t they? What happens in country cottages? And how would an MP know about crime?’

‘Does that worry you?’ Brian Clay asked the man from Intelligence. ‘Did you used to feel there was a gulf between the life of the pursuer and the pursued?’

‘Never.’ The impeccably dressed man smiled beatifically. ‘What I always say is that if you’re still alive then you haven’t much to worry about, have you?’

That was a conversation stopper. While Brian Clay worked out how to begin again the director waved to the dancers. They were all in place and the music began its introduction.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Brian murmured into the microphone, ‘we give you The Melody Girls!’

The show went out live at ten o’clock on a Friday evening. Doing it live ensured spontaneity and the extra charge of tension which Brian Clay thought so essential to real television. It also meant it was damned late when Paul left the studios. The clock in the gatekeeper’s lodge showed two minutes past eleven. Paul waved in farewell to the man from Intelligence, who tottered off in search of a drink, and looked about for his car.

‘Paul! Over here!’

His wife waved while the gatekeeper raised the barrier. She was looking brightly enthusiastic, so presumably she had approved of his performance. Paul slipped into the passenger seat and kissed her on the cheek.

‘Was I all right?’ he asked.

‘Marvellous, darling. You were terribly sincere.’

‘Oh my God.’

Steve had insisted on watching the programme in the saloon bar of the pub round the corner from the studio. It was her idea of a public opinion sample. And the pub had a colour set.

‘The people in the saloon bar enjoyed the way you made Sir Michael look ridiculous. But of course they all agreed with him.’

Paul sighed. ‘Well, let’s get moving. We’ve a long way to go tonight.’

Steve pressed the accelerator and they moved out into the traffic. By the main entrance to the studios Paul saw the red headed dancer struggling with her suitcase. As they drove past the girl swung round to look at them, tripped over the case and fell.

‘Pull up!’ Paul exclaimed.

‘I thought,’ Steve said with an ironic glance at the girl, ‘we had a long way to go.’

‘Something’s bothering that girl.’

‘I remember the feeling when I first met you.’

Paul hurried back along the pavement and helped the girl to her feet. She was more embarrassed than hurt. Paul picked up the suitcase and watched while she brushed the dust off her coat.

‘Are you all right now?’

‘No, I’ve laddered my stockings.’

‘Perhaps we can give you a lift somewhere?’

She smiled gratefully. ‘I was hoping to catch the eleven thirty from Paddington. It’s the last train –’

‘We’ll make it.’ Paul put the suitcase in the boot of the Rolls and then held the door while she climbed into the back of the car. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Oxford,’ she said. ‘My parents live near there and I promised to spend the night with them. For a change. I haven’t seen them in months.’

‘This is your lucky night,’ murmured Steve. She drove into the main flow of traffic going out to the Western Avenue. ‘We’re off to the Cotswolds, so we can drop you off at your door. We’ve a house near Broadway.’

‘It’s awfully kind of you.’ The girl relaxed, removed her hat and tossed the red hair free, then she smiled. ‘I’m Betty Stanway, by the way. I’m a dancer.’

‘Steve Temple. And the man with the charming manners is my husband.’

‘I know, I was in the Brian Clay Show with him. I was meaning to talk to him all evening, but my nerve kept failing me. I know it must be tiresome for celebrities to have complete strangers button-holing them; I don’t usually do it.’

‘What did you want to talk to him about?’ Steve asked. ‘Paul enjoys being button-holed by attractive young dancers.’

‘I wanted to ask his advice. Or at least, well, I wanted to give him some information. You know, I just felt I needed to talk to someone, and after I read that series of articles in the newspaper –’ She had become incoherent. ‘I was worried, that’s all.’

‘Have you eaten today, Miss Stanway?’ Steve asked, briskly maternal and down to earth.

The girl was startled. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Neither has Paul. He pretends to be absolutely blasé about his television appearances, but he’s so nervous he doesn’t eat for two days beforehand. We’ll stop at the Coach Club. We can have supper, and they serve drinks there until three in the morning. All right, Paul?’

‘Good idea.’ Paul watched the lights of the oncoming traffic. ‘But I wasn’t nervous. I had two hamburgers at half past seven this evening.’

The Coach House was an eighteenth century building on the outskirts of Oxford. It had its legends as a meeting place for the literary establishment from Byron to Beerbohm, but it was now the haunt of motor car executives and the more pampered undergraduates. Paul led the two women into the dining room. It was only half full, but the aroma of rich food and cigars hung in the air. The oak beams and brass looked decently timeless in the half light. It could have been any time since 1732, apart from the clothes.

‘Good evening, Mr Temple. Will your party stay at the bar while we take your order?’

‘Thank you, Bilson, I think we will.’ He turned to Betty Stanway. ‘What would you like, Miss Stanway?’

‘Oh, Betty, please,’ she gasped. ‘A dry martini, please. Everyone calls me Betty.’

‘Three dry martinis, please, Bilson.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They sat in comfortable leather armchairs. Paul hoped he wouldn’t become too comfortable and fall asleep. It had been a full day, and the mood of the Coach House was calculatedly euphoric.

‘Talk to me, Betty,’ he said. ‘Tell me all your worries.’

As Betty took her drink from the bartender the slightly red light turned her eyes into a dramatic violet colour. ‘I read all those articles you wrote about the recent bank robberies and the way crime has changed. Like you were saying tonight. You said that the people who actually committed the robberies were not the people –’

Paul nodded his encouragement. ‘Not necessarily the people who organised them. That was what I said in the paper, and after this Harkdale affair I’m more than ever convinced that I’m right. Because most of the people who committed that robbery are dead, and the money is still missing.’

‘I know.’ She put her glass down in a sudden, unladylike gesture. ‘I know something about what happened at Harkdale. Not much. It isn’t enough to go to the police with, and I’m not the kind who goes to the police in any case. But I think I heard the robbery being planned.’

‘Go on, Betty.’ He wasn’t tired any more. ‘Start at the beginning.’

‘Well, for the last six months I’ve been working at a club called The Love-Inn. That’s where The Melody Girls were formed. I don’t suppose you would know it –’

‘It’s in Soho; owned by a woman called Rita Fletcher.’

‘That’s right. You are well informed. Although actually it’s run by Rita for the man who really owns it. He’s an American, a horrible little dipso. Rita runs it for him. But anyway, one night, about three months ago, Rita introduced me to a man called Desmond Blane –’

Chapter Three

One night about three months ago Rita Fletcher had introduced her to a man called Desmond Blane. He was a wealthy man, or he lived like one, which amounted to the same thing. Betty had already noticed him in the club several times and she encouraged his friendship. Betty Stanway wasn’t hoping to be a dancer all her life.

Desmond Blane was in his early thirties, a powerfully built dark haired man. He lived in Knightsbridge, which seemed to Betty the height of aristocratic living. He called it a penthouse and it overlooked the park. Betty was too impressed to ask what he did for a living. She assumed it was something in the City.

The third time she spent the night at his penthouse she developed doubts about the City. They had gone to bed rather late even for her, she was exhausted and high on vodka. She scarcely remembered going to bed, and when she woke up it was daylight and Desmond was not beside her.

She lay there for a few minutes trying to piece together what had happened the night before. She was afraid she might have fallen asleep while they were making love. Betty wasn’t terribly good at the fast life. She needed a cup of coffee.

When Desmond appeared in his silk dressing gown and matching silk scarf, looking like a bachelor from a more serious 1920s musical, he was reading the morning’s mail.

‘Good morning,’ she murmured with an anxious smile.

‘Oh, you’re awake.’ He confirmed her worst imaginings; instead of reassuring her Desmond ripped open a letter with obvious displeasure.

‘I’d love some coffee.’

‘I made some,’ he said absent mindedly. ‘It’s in the kitchen.’

When Betty returned with a cup of coffee Desmond was still sitting on the foot of the bed with the letter in his hand.

‘What’s the matter, Des?’ she asked. ‘Bad news?’

‘No, it’s nothing.’ He put the letter in his dressing gown pocket. ‘Just business. Isn’t it time you put some clothes on?’

‘I’m sorry, Des.’ Something told her it was all spoiled. Last night they had talked of going away for the weekend. It was her first long weekend free in ages, and they were going to spend it together. But that had been last night. Betty picked up her clothes and went into the dressing room. Now it was morning.

She was twenty-eight, and she was beginning to dread the mornings. She was too often hung over, and every morning the crow’s feet looked more noticeable around her eyes. She touched her toes twelve times, splashed cold water on her breasts and breathed deeply by the open window. It would be nice to be young again, or middle aged and past all this. It would be nice to be a shorthand typist.

She was massaging her neck with cream when she realised that Desmond was talking in the bedroom. Her natural curiosity triumphed over discretion.

‘I’m not happy about it,’ he was saying. ‘You know damned well why. In my opinion we’re pushing fate.’

Betty crouched and peered through the keyhole but she could only see his feet tapping in agitation on the floor. His large blue slippers looked absurdly like separate beings, dancing together, nothing to do with the man.

‘Have you spoken to Renson? And what about Skibby? What does he think?’ There was a pause. ‘He would, the greedy bastard. But I still think the twenty-third is too soon after the other jobs. And why Harkdale? I don’t even know where Harkdale is!’

Betty went through into the bedroom. Desmond Blane didn’t even look up at her.

‘All right, we’ll talk about it tonight. Yes, yes, we’ll discuss it. I’ll see you about eight o’clock.’

Betty went across to him and put her arms round his neck from behind. ‘Who was that,’ she asked with a laboured attempt at humour, ‘another one of your girlfriends?’

‘Mm?’ He suddenly smiled at her. He was back. ‘Yes, an impatient Spanish bird. I call her my flaming flamingo.’ He kissed her neck. ‘But she can’t dance the way you dance, Elizabeth, and she lacks your stamina.’

Betty laughed delightedly. ‘Do you really love me, Des? You said last night – Well, you said we could go away together for the weekend.’

‘We’ll have the wildest weekend of your life,’ he said deliberately. ‘Be here on Friday morning at ten o’clock sharp, and bring your passport. It will be a weekend to remember.’

Friday mornings in Knightsbridge are pretty crowded and the taxi pulled up outside the block of service flats at four minutes past ten. Betty emerged from the taxi in her smart little powder lemon suit and carrying her weekend case. She paid off the taxi and hurried into the entrance. Desmond Blane’s flat was on the fifth floor and she waited for the lift.

‘Good morning, miss,’ said the porter. ‘Going up?’

‘Fifth floor, please. It’s a beautiful morning. It’s going to be a beautiful weekend.’

‘Yes, miss.’ The old boy slammed the gates and they shot up in a vertical take-off. He clearly enjoyed his work. ‘If you’re wanting Mr Blane I don’t think he’s in.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Betty, ‘he’s expecting me.’ She had received a note from Desmond the day before, urging her to be on time and reminding her to bring her passport.

‘Fifth floor,’ he announced defiantly. ‘But Mr Blane isn’t in.’

Betty went along the corridor to the front door of Desmond’s flat and rang the bell. She rang again almost immediately. The elderly porter had remained with the lift and he was watching with satisfaction. She banged on the door with her fist.

‘He hasn’t been here since Monday night!’ the porter bawled.

Betty walked slowly back to the lift.

‘And he’s not coming back neither,’ the old boy added, ‘not never.’

‘Are you sure?’ She went into the lift; the clang of the gates and then the plunge to the ground seemed absurdly symbolic to her. ‘There must be some mistake.’

‘No, miss. The head porter, he had a note from the agents this morning. We got the keys back, and there’s talk of another tenant moving in on Monday. There isn’t no mistake.’

‘But his clothes – the furniture – I mean, did he move out?’

The old man shrugged. ‘These flats are all let furnished. I suppose he just took his clothes and personal belongings.’ He watched her leave the lift and walk unhappily back to the street and his satisfaction waned. ‘I’m sorry, miss,’ he said finally. ‘It came as a bit of a surprise to us as well. He’d been here three years. It was a bit sudden.’

‘Never mind,’ she murmured. ‘I’ve been stood up before.’ She tried to smile. ‘I suppose you’re working this weekend?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ He grinned. ‘But you’ll have a beautiful weekend.’

During the next three weeks Betty Stanway forgot Desmond Blane. She was a resilient girl and men still noticed her. The shoulder length auburn hair and the lithe dancer’s body attracted enough admiration to make the evenings fun. And then all the girls were going to appear on television, which meant extra rehearsals and a lot of hard work. They had been on television several times in the past five years, but Betty still experienced a naive feeling of excitement: maybe this would be her breakthrough, the girls featured on a regular show each week, eventual main billing, stardom. At one o’clock in the morning the fantasy would take hold, and it did no harm. She even began to feel fit, almost human, when she woke up. Until the morning when she saw a report in the newspaper about a robbery in Harkdale.

Then she remembered the telephone call which Desmond had been making that morning before he disappeared. He hadn’t even known where Harkdale was! Betty glanced at the date on the newspaper. It was the twenty-fourth, and the robbery had been on the twenty-third. She read through the report again. It just couldn’t be coincidence.

While she was dressing she turned on the radio. The rehearsal had been called for ten o’clock so she had no time to worry about ex-boyfriends. She put Harkdale out of her mind until the news came on.

‘Another of the men whom the police wished to question in relation to the bank robbery yesterday afternoon at Harkdale has died, it was reported early this morning. The man was forty-three-year-old Oscar Thorne –’

Betty went to work in a trance. She caught the tube at Belsize Park as usual, accepted a seat with a smile from an elderly business man, and sat staring at the black pipes in the tunnel. She wondered whether to go to the police, but she had nothing to tell them except a name, and that might seem like malice against the man who had jilted her. She lit a cigarette and read unseeingly through the rest of the newspaper. Protest demonstrations, war in Asia, a couple of sexual assaults, politicians denouncing racialism. Nothing to capture the attention. Her mind wandered on to an article about the new brains behind organised crime.

‘What Rothschild did to banking and Woolworth did to shopkeeping Al Capone did to crime, but Al Capone was not a brilliant man. Today the rewards of crime are comparable to those of other big business careers, and a brilliant tycoon might waver before deciding to become a property developer. And at least three tycoons have decided otherwise –’

Betty read with total absorption and almost forgot to change trains at Tottenham Court Road. She knew that Desmond wasn’t a tycoon of crime, because he had been protesting against the instructions he had received from someone. But she was pleased to have it confirmed that he was a business man. The article went on to question the effectiveness of a police force drawn from a basically underprivileged section of society, who could no more cope with modern crime than they could cope with irregularities in high finance.