Francis Durbridge - Send for Paul Temple Again!

‘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!’

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.