Francis Durbridge - Paul Temple Intervenes

Someone caught Temple’s arm, and swinging round he saw, by the limited light from the headlamps, a breathless young man in dark grey flannels.

‘I say, are you all right?’ demanded the newcomer.

‘Help me to move the car,’ urged Temple, indicating the spread-eagled form of Sammy Wren.

‘Why yes – yes, of course,’ agreed the young man. They were joined by the two constables, who assisted them to extricate the unfortunate Sammy Wren, now unconscious and bleeding from a gash at the back of the head. Neither of the constables had a first-aid outfit, but the young man proved surprisingly efficient in contriving a temporary bandage with the help of a couple of handkerchiefs.

When at last the ambulance arrived, and the inert form of Sammy Wren was carried away, Temple turned to the young man.

‘Thanks for helping us out,’ he said.

The other smiled, a very pleasant, engaging smile, and pushed a strand of fair wavy hair back from his forehead.

‘Not at all, I was only too glad to help. I hope the poor devil will be all right. It must have been a shock for you. Your wife, too.’ He switched his infectious smile in Steve’s direction.

‘If you’ll excuse me, sir,’ he continued, politely, ‘your face seems familiar. Aren’t you Paul Temple?’

‘Yes.’

The young man smote his right fist into the palm of his left hand.

‘What an amazing coincidence! I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all the evening.’

‘Indeed?’ said Temple, somewhat surprised.

‘It’s quite providential we should meet like this,’ went on the young man exuberantly, reminding Temple rather of an excited undergraduate. ‘If you will permit me to introduce myself …’ He paused to get his breath, then said: ‘My name is Storey—Roger Storey.’

As SOON as Sammy Wren had been safely extricated, Temple’s next objective had been to discover the driver of the lorry. But the intervention of Roger Storey had temporarily diverted him, and it was Storey himself who gave him a reminder.

‘I say, where the devil is the fellow who drove the lorry? I haven’t seen him, have you?’ Storey spoke in a public school accent that was as unmistakable as his old Harrovian tie.

Temple’s brows contracted.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘And I have a hunch we shan’t.’

‘But surely the fellow can’t run away and leave his lorry. I mean to say it could be traced to his boss and—’

‘It’s just an idea of mine,’ put in Temple, gently, ‘that the lorry was stolen. However, we can soon check up on that.’ He indicated a police sergeant who was approaching them from the other side of the lorry.

‘Nasty smash, sir. Anyone else hurt?’

‘Just the one case, sergeant. Pretty hopeless, I’m afraid.’

The sergeant nodded. ‘I’ll have to make one or two enquiries, sir, if you don’t mind,’ he continued.

‘Yes. I’m rather anxious to make some myself,’ said Temple. ‘If you’ll flash your torch, I’ll show you my identity card.’

The sergeant complied, and even before he read the name, was duly impressed by the special card.

‘Sorry I didn’t recognise you, sir, in this confounded blackout,’ the sergeant apologised.

‘That’s all right. I don’t suppose I look exactly presentable with this blood all over my face. Is there a hotel anywhere near?’

‘Yes, sir, the Regency. Fifty yards up this turning on the right-hand side. You can’t miss it.’

Temple turned to the other two.

‘Would you mind taking my wife along to the Regency, Mr. Storey?’ he asked. ‘She’s a little upset by the accident.’

‘Why of course,’ agreed Storey, taking Steve’s arm. ‘I know the Regency – we’ll be in the front lounge if you should want us, Sergeant. Though I expect Mr. Temple will be able to give you all the details.’

The sergeant grinned knowingly.

‘I shan’t be long, darling,’ Temple told his wife. ‘Just one or two small matters to clear up.’

‘Don’t forget, we’ll be in the lounge,’ called Roger over his shoulder as they disappeared into the night. ‘Now, what you want, Mrs. Temple, is a jolly good double brandy. Pre-war strength, if they’ve got it. And by gad, I could do with one myself …’

Temple smiled as the voices slowly faded. Then he turned to the sergeant, who was peering round the car with the help of a torch.

‘Now Sergeant,’ said Temple, ‘what about this lorry driver?’

‘That’s just the mystery, sir. Neither of my men saw him. First of all, they were busy helping with your friend, and by the time they’d finished the man seems to have vanished. Funny business, if you ask me.’

He directed his torch on the steering column of Temple’s car, jerked the wheel from side to side, and finally pulled the steering rod out of the socket. At the base of the rod were the unmistakable scratches made by a heavy file.

‘Funny sort of accident, this, Mr. Temple,’ murmured the sergeant. ‘I don’t like the look of it.’

‘I’m not exactly delighted myself,’ said Temple, dryly. ‘But I haven’t time to investigate now. If you have any questions to ask, sergeant, perhaps you’ll come with me …’ He signalled a passing taxi. ‘I have an urgent appointment.’ The sergeant entered the taxi and Temple paused to give the address.

‘Percy’s Snack Bar, just off the Haymarket.’

By the time the sergeant had taken down the routine details concerning the accident, they had arrived at their destination. Percy’s Snack Bar seemed to have a similar decor to the old-time coffee houses, which had no doubt been the inspiration of its designer.

‘I’d be glad if you’d come in with me, sergeant, and see if you recognise anybody,’ said Temple.

It was evidently a slack time of the evening for no one was sitting at the small tables, although a few people occupied the high stools at the counter.

There was a shabby middle-aged woman moodily consuming a milk-shake, two coltish girls vying for the attentions of a youth, a very old man was noisily drinking soup, and a slim, well-dressed man in the late thirties looked up at them over the top of the evening paper he was reading.

‘D’you know that man?’ asked Temple of the sergeant.

‘Why of course, sir,’ replied the latter in some surprise. ‘It’s Inspector Street! He’s one of the new men at the Yard.’

Street leisurely got down from his stool and joined them at the door.

‘What’s the trouble, Sergeant?’ he asked.

‘Blessed if I know, sir. Better ask Mr. Temple, here.’

‘Oh – so you’re Paul Temple,’ said Street, eyeing him shrewdly. ‘I’m Street – came to the Yard while you were in America.’ He spoke in a guarded whisper.

‘I can only conclude we’re here on the same errand, Inspector,’ said Temple quietly. ‘How did you get your information?’

‘We managed to tap a ’phone call to Sammy Wren.’

‘H’m.’ Temple looked round the room once more, noting that the clock behind the counter pointed to eight-thirty.

‘Any luck yet?’ he asked.

Street shook his head. ‘Sammy must have got wind of us. He hasn’t put in an appearance.’

Temple told him about the accident.

‘Then it looks as if this rendezvous is a washout,’ decided Street, folding his paper.

‘You haven’t seen anyone you recognise?’ queried Temple.

‘Not a soul, except …’ he hesitated. ‘I did know one old josser – it seems he often comes in here for a snack. He left about ten minutes ago. Quite well-known in his own line, though I can’t say I know much about that sort of thing.

‘And what is his line?’ asked Temple.