Francis Durbridge - Send for Paul Temple Again!

FRANCIS DURBRIDGE

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by

LONG 1948

Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1948

All rights reserved

Francis Durbridge has asserted his right under the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2015

Cover image © Shutterstock.com

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 978-0-00-812564-6

Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 978-0-00-812565-3

Version: 2015-06-04

Contents

Cover

Title Page FRANCIS DURBRIDGE

Copyright An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by LONG 1948 Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1948 All rights reserved Francis Durbridge has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2015 Cover image © Shutterstock.com A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 978-0-00-812564-6 Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 978-0-00-812565-3 Version: 2015-06-04

CHAPTER I: Death at the Brains Trust

CHAPTER II: Paul Temple Takes Over

CHAPTER III: Steve Finds a Treasure

CHAPTER IV: Rex Strikes Again

CHAPTER V: Concerning Doctor Kohima

CHAPTER VI: Canterbury Tale

CHAPTER VII: Cyanide Is no Tonic!

CHAPTER VIII: Carl Lathom Is Perturbed

CHAPTER IX: The Girl in Brown

CHAPTER X: Ordeal for Mrs. Trevelyan

CHAPTER XI: Doctor Kohima Intervenes

CHAPTER XII: Enter Leo Brent

CHAPTER XIII: Mr. Lathom Receives a Visitor

CHAPTER XIV: No Picnic at Claywood Mill

CHAPTER XV: Forbes to the Rescue

CHAPTER XVI: Appointment With Rex

About the Author

Also in This Series

About the Publisher

Footnotes

ARTHUR MONTAGUE WEBB had occupied the position of ticket inspector for over fifteen years. It was a position of which he was more than a little conscious, as those unfortunate passengers who tried travelling ‘first’ on a third-class ticket had reason to aware. Even during the war years, when he fought his way endlessly down jammed corridors, his attitude seldom relaxed. Very occasionally, he might install a harmless old lady in a first-class compartment, with an apologetic and slightly anxious glance at the other occupants.

Mr. Webb’s raucous, ‘Tickets, please!’ echoed down the corridors of the Manchester–Euston express one rough night in the late autumn. He paused to pull up a window in the corridor which was admitting a half-gale, then opened the door of a compartment which had a single occupant who was stretched full length along the seat. The occupant of the carriage was rather a dark young man of about twenty-seven, with unruly black hair and glistening white teeth, which he exposed in a pleasant smile. He seemed in no way upset at the inspector’s intrusion.

‘Sorry to wake you, sir,’ said Mr. Webb mechanically. It was his inevitable formula on night trains.

‘That’s all right,’ yawned the young man, fumbling in his pocket for his ticket. ‘Lordy, I was hard on!’

Mr. Webb’s ears, attuned to dialects from every corner of the country, immediately registered the young man as being of Welsh origin.

‘What time is it now?’ asked the passenger, inserting a finger and thumb in his upper waistcoat pocket.

‘It’s half past ten, sir,’ announced Webb, producing a large silver watch, and glancing at it for corroboration.

The Welshman yawned again.

‘About another hour before we get into Euston?’ he queried.

Webb nodded, and waited while the young man found his ticket.

‘Not many people travelling tonight,’ said the young man, his Welsh accent as pronounced as ever.

‘Haven’t had it as quiet as this for months,’ the inspector informed him, clipping the ticket and handing it back. ‘Thank you, sir. Good night.’

The young man nodded and composed himself to sleep again as the door of the compartment slid softly to, and Mr. Webb went on his way.

Webb muttered a soft imprecation to himself as he came out into the corridor again, for the window he had closed had slid down, and once more he got the full force of the biting wind. He snatched at the strap, pulled up the window and passed on to the next compartment. There was no light in this compartment and the blinds were drawn, but in the faint glow reflected from the corridor Webb could discern the figure of a woman slumped in the far corner with her back to the engine.

‘Ticket, please, miss!’ called the inspector. At that moment the express began to rattle noisily over a viaduct, and she gave no sign of having heard him. Webb repeated his request and advanced a step into the compartment.

‘Cor blimey!’ muttered Webb, who never ceased to marvel at the way people slept on trains. The girl remained indifferent to his presence, so he moved across and shook her shoulder vigorously.

‘Come along, miss, wake up!’ he urged in an authoritative tone. ‘Wake up now! I want to see your ticket.’ He shook her again. Suddenly and quite without warning her head jerked forward.

Webb released her shoulder and, turning, switched on the lights in the compartment. The girl was in the early thirties, with red-gold hair and large eyes. Beneath an elaborate makeup the face was ashen.

‘Strewth!’ murmured Webb expressively under his breath. Then, without any further ado, he turned and went back to the compartment he had just visited.

The young man looked up in some surprise as the inspector’s head appeared.