Francis Durbridge - Send for Paul Temple Again!

He did not seem inclined to talk any more, but thoughtfully drank half a pint of ale and then ordered another. Half an hour slipped by; people drifted in and out, some eyed them suspiciously, others seemed intent only upon quenching their thirst, and minding their own business. Temple fetched Steve another pink gin and grinned at her cheerfully.

‘You don’t seem very impressed by this establishment,’ he said.

‘Is one supposed to be?’ asked Steve.

‘Of course! It’s one of the most famous pubs in London. At least it was, before the brewery decided to modernise it. Since then, the place has lost its tone. I don’t suppose there’s been a free fight here for months. Of course, they still get a few of the old-timers, but you have to know when to catch them – and they never use this bar.’ He grinned reminiscently. ‘That’s why Spider sounded surprised when I told him I’d be in here.’

‘What sort of man is this Spider Williams?’ inquired Steve, rather more intrigued.

Temple shrugged.

‘Oh, he’s just a little chap who knows most of the answers.’

‘Why do they call him Spider?’

‘Possibly because his web explores most of the corners of the underworld as far as his own particular line is concerned.’

Steve smiled somewhat wistfully. ‘I can’t understand you, darling. I really can’t. Surely Sir Graham could have found out about the car?’

Temple took a gulp at his beer.

‘If I’m going to investigate this business, I’ll do it in my own sweet way,’ he announced calmly. Then the door swung open and he said, ‘Ah, here’s our friend. Now don’t laugh – he takes himself very seriously.’

Under the large peak of his cloth cap, the beady eyes of Spider Williams swiftly surveyed the room. Then he caught sight of Temple and came over at once. He was the type of man familiar to habitués of racecourses, where his prototypes abound in hundreds – hangers-on who somehow contrive to make a living at the game.

‘Ah Mr. Temple!’ he began breezily. ‘Sorry I’m late. ’Ad a bit of a job gettin’ ’ere.’

‘Sit down Spider,’ smiled Temple, turning to introduce his wife.

‘You don’t ’ave to tell me who this is!’ grinned Spider. ‘Could spot her a mile off. Glad to know you, Mrs. Temple. Sorry I’m late, Mrs. Temple. ’Ope you ain’t tired of ’angin’ about. I ’ad a bit of a job gettin’ ’ere.’

Temple obtained a drink for the newcomer.

‘Any luck, Spider?’ he asked, when they had gathered round the table.

Spider shook his head. ‘Not a blamed thing, guv’nor,’ he replied, taking a swig at his beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I bin through to five or six what’s in the know, but they ain’t ’eard nothin’. What sort of car did yer say it was?’

‘I told you,’ said Temple rather impatiently. ‘So far as I could see, it looked like a Milford.’

‘And what time was this?’

‘I couldn’t say to the minute. I left Broadcasting House soon after seven-thirty, and we were on our way down to Piccadilly.’

‘It couldn’t have been much after eight when you ’phoned me,’ said Spider. ‘You’ll ’ave to gimme a bit more time, guv’nor. Maybe something’ll turn up. These cars ain’t so easy to trace, yer know—’

He was interrupted by the barmaid, with whom he seemed on be on rather more than familiar terms. She told him that he was wanted on the telephone, and with a knowing wink at Temple he went out to take the call.

Temple took the opportunity to order another drink, and was about to make some remark to Steve when he noticed her looking at someone behind him. The next instant he felt a resounding smack between the shoulders, and a voice said in a pronounced Welsh accent: ‘Hello, Simon! Who would have thought of seeing you here!’

Temple looked round inquiringly, and saw a dark young man who now appeared highly embarrassed.

‘Lordy!’ he exclaimed in a half whisper. ‘You’re not Simon!’

‘I’m rather afraid I’m not,’ smiled Temple, not a little amused at the other’s dismayed expression. It was, in fact, the little Welshman who had been present at the discovery of Norma Rice’s body, though Temple was not yet aware of this.

‘Well now, just fancy my patting you on the back like that. Good gracious me, what a stupid thing to do! I can’t think what came over me.’

‘This is the first time I’ve heard that I’ve got a double,’ smiled Temple.

‘But you have indeed! When your back was turned towards me I was sure it was Simon Phipps.’

‘I should like to meet Mr. Phipps sometime. By the way, my name is Temple.’

‘Temple!’ cried the little Welshman, with a dramatic gesture. ‘Not Paul Temple?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Why, yes, of course – I recognise you now. I have seen pictures of you on your novels.’

‘No wonder you didn’t know me!’ grinned Temple.

‘It’s very sporty of you to take it like this, I must say. But I do feel such a fool! And to think I’ve only just finished reading one of your novels.’

‘Oh?’ murmured Temple, in a somewhat indifferent tone.

‘Yes indeed,’ continued the Welshman with gathering enthusiasm. ‘The one called Murder on the Mayflower .’

‘I hope you liked it.’

The other nodded vigorously.

‘It was most ingenious. There was only one thing I didn’t quite like – when that man jumped off the boat so suddenly. Of course, you know I go in for that sort of thing quite a lot.’

‘Jumping off boats?’ asked Temple.

‘Oh no, no! I mean detective novels.’

‘You write them too?’

‘Mercy, no! I read them. I have always got one with me.’ He fumbled in his coat pocket and produced a shabby paperbacked specimen. ‘I read them all day long. Why, in the last two years I have read four hundred and sixty-three detective novels. That’s pretty good going, isn’t it?’

For a moment Temple seemed quite stunned. ‘Yes,’ he agreed at length in a subdued voice, ‘whichever way you look at it, that seems to be pretty good going. You must be fully qualified to embark upon a career of crime.’

‘You will have your little joke, Mr. Temple. But I am an absolute glutton for anything to do with murder, crime or criminology. It is very strange for a docile man like myself. I could not hurt so much as a fly.’

‘Anyhow,’ said Temple, ‘I hope you haven’t remembered quite everything you’ve read, or your brain must be in a considerate state of turmoil.’

At that moment Spider Williams loomed up once more, and the Welshman again made his apologies and withdrew. As he was moving away, he turned and said to Temple in a serious voice, ‘If it’s any consolation to you, Mr. Temple, my friend Phipps is a very good-looking man. Good night, Mr. Temple. Goodnight, Mrs. Temple.’

When he was out of earshot, Steve said, ‘Now what made him think I was Mrs. Temple? You never introduced me.’

‘You look like Mrs. Temple,’ her husband assured her. ‘But, what’s more to the point, what made him think I was Simon Phipps?’ He hesitated a moment, then added thoughtfully, ‘If he really did think I was Simon Phipps.’

But he had no further opportunity to speculate upon this, for Spider was breathing hoarsely in his ear.

‘Bit o’ luck we’ve ’ad, guv’nor,’ he wheezed. ‘One of my blokes, Bert ’Arris struck oil, as yer might say.’

‘Go on,’ nodded Temple.

‘That car was a six-cylinder Milford. Black saloon. DVC629 like you said – ’ad a G.B. plate on the back.’

‘Yes, I seem to remember that,’ said Temple, wrinkling his forehead.

‘I saw it too,’ agreed Steve. ‘Whose car is it?’