Francis Durbridge - Send for Paul Temple Again!

Spider Williams chuckled.

‘Quite the little detective, ain’t she, guv?’ Then he became confidential once more. ‘That car belongs to a bloke named Doctor Kohima, 497 Great Wigmore Street.’

‘You seem to have it all off pat,’ said Temple. ‘Has this doctor ever been mixed up in anything?’

‘Not that I know of, Mr. Temple. All you asked me was to find whose car bumped you – and I’ve got you the lowdown.’

‘Are you sure of this, Spider?’ asked Temple rather dubiously.

The little man nodded emphatically.

‘We don’t make mistakes in our racket, Mr. Temple. You know that.’

‘Doctor Kohima,’ repeated Temple thoughtfully. ‘I seem to recall the name. I believe he’s an Egyptian nerve specialist – some sort of psychiatrist.’

‘That’s right,’ nodded Steve. ‘He’s very fashionable just now. I’ve overheard women talking about him at the hairdresser’s or somewhere.’

Temple opened his wallet and passed a couple of banknotes over to Spider, who stowed them away in an inside pocket.

‘If it was Doctor Kohima driving that car,’ said Temple, ‘there doesn’t seem to be much wrong with his nerves.’

They bade Spider good night and went out.

Temple was very silent as he drove back, turning over in his mind the startling events of the evening. Could there be any connection between Sir Ernest’s death and the attempt to smash up their car? And who was that little Welsh fellow? And Doctor Kohima…he found himself more intrigued by that name than any of the others. Why should a fashionable psychiatrist spend his evening charging around the streets in his car? And why should he have homicidal intentions towards Paul Temple?

He was still more than a trifle puzzled the following day when Steve drove him slowly down Great Wigmore Street.

They drew up outside a Georgian mansion and noted the neat brown plate with ‘Charles Kohima’ in white lettering.

‘Did you make an appointment?’ asked Steve.

‘Yes, I ’phoned through this morning. What are you going to do – wait for me in the car?’

She considered this for a moment, then decided that she would pay a visit to a servants’ registry office which was just round the corner.

‘Still looking for a maid?’ smiled Temple. ‘By Timothy! You are an optimist!’ He slowly climbed out of the car and said, ‘I don’t suppose I shall be very long. If you’re not outside, I’ll probably go straight back to the flat.’

She nodded and drove off.

A young maid answered Temple’s ring and conducted him into the waiting-room, which looked much more like a private sitting-room. Lounging on the settee was a fair-haired, sensitive-faced man of about forty-five, carelessly glancing through an expensive American fashion journal. He wished Temple good afternoon in a rather agreeable sort of voice, and started the usual aimless sort of conversation about the weather. As he was obviously waiting to see the doctor, Temple began to wonder if his own appointment would take place at the agreed time.

‘Our friend seems as busy as ever,’ said the man on the settee, when the conversation was showing some signs of lagging.

‘Our friend?’ repeated Temple, slightly puzzled.

‘Doctor Kohima.’

‘Oh!’

The man on the settee eyed Temple keenly. ‘Oh, I’m afraid I was rather jumping to conclusions,’ he said. ‘This is your first visit, perhaps?’

‘Well, yes,’ smiled Temple, ‘I suppose in a manner of speaking it is.’

The other leaned forward and said in an earnest voice, ‘You won’t regret it.’

‘I hope not,’ said Temple, secretly wondering if the other man was quite normal.

‘Kohima’s a brilliant man. Really brilliant. Absolutely first class. Take my word for it.’

Temple did not speak for a moment, but quietly eyed the fair-haired man very carefully. Then he said, ‘Forgive my asking, but haven’t we met before somewhere?’

The other shook his head, and with just a shade too much emphasis replied, ‘I don’t think so. My name is Lathom – Carl Lathom.’

‘I thought so,’ nodded Temple, whose memory for faces was as reliable as a card index. ‘It was about six years ago, at Lady Forester’s.’

Carl Lathom frowned.

‘I’m afraid I don’t actually remember the occasion,’ he admitted.

‘Then you’d hardly remember me. My name happens to be Temple.’

Lathom’s face cleared.

‘Oh yes, of course. You write detective novels and things.’

‘Chiefly detective novels.’

‘Oh, please forgive me,’ said Lathom apologetically. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude.’

‘That’s all right,’ laughed Temple.

‘But I really must apologise. I know how sensitive one feels about one’s work. You see,’ he added, with a rueful sort of smile, ‘I once wrote a play myself.’

‘I remember it very well,’ Temple assured him.

‘Yes,’ nodded Carl, in a more indifferent tone, ‘it had quite a good run. Made me a lot of money.’

‘Congratulations.’

Carl Lathom shrugged.

‘Oh, that was a long time ago,’ he murmured, as if the memory was not entirely pleasant.

But Temple had suddenly recollected something else.

‘Tell me,’ he went on, in a casual tone, ‘wasn’t Norma Rice in your play?’

‘Yes, she had the lead. It was her first big chance in the West End. She was awfully good, too. Awfully good. The play was quite hopeless without her.’ After a brief pause, he added, ‘I say, did you see that in the newspapers? About Norma? It was a hell of a shock to me.’

‘A most distressing business,’ agreed Temple.

‘Oh, most distressing. A charming girl, too. Temperamental, of course, but that’s understandable. I got to know her quite a bit during rehearsals of the play, and it seemed to me that she had a morbid streak in her nature which might run away with her one day. When I first read about her death I should have been willing to lay ten to one that it was suicide.’

Temple smiled.

‘But surely she would hardly have taken an overdose of Amashyer and then gone to the trouble to scrawl “Rex” on the carriage window…’

Lathom shook his head.

‘That’s just the sort of crazy thing Norma would do – specially if she had happened to read about the Rex murders.’ He sighed. ‘There’s no accounting for some women. All the same, she was a great actress.’

‘Have you written anything else since that play?’ asked Temple.

‘Not a single word. I got caught up in the advertising game and then I had a sort of breakdown. I’ve been very ill during the past three or four years.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ sympathised Temple.

Lathom smiled. ‘Oh, I’m much better now, thank you.’

‘Thanks to Doctor Kohima?’

‘Entirely. He’s really first class. It’s difficult to explain without sounding rather schoolgirlish, but he is really, quite frankly, such a distinctive personality. Something keeps telling you that he is doing his utmost to work with you and straighten out all the kinks.’ He laughed a trifle self-consciously and added, ‘You can imagine that’s rather important with a psychiatrist.’ Opening a slim gold cigarette-case, he passed it over to Temple.

After they lit their cigarettes, Lathom went on in a conversational tone, ‘Yes, I’ve been very groggy. Had one or two very nasty turns – the brain can play some devilish queer tricks, you know, Mr. Temple. As a matter of fact, strictly between ourselves, I’ve been suffering from – well – hallucinations.’

Temple managed to conceal his surprise by taking a draw at his cigarette and slowly expelling a stream of smoke.

‘Of course, I’m cured now,’ continued Lathom rather more assertively. ‘But it was distinctly unpleasant while it lasted.’