Francis Durbridge - Paul Temple Intervenes

An empty crate bumped into the side and vanished in their wake. Briggs cursed softly and changed the course a fraction.

‘A hell of a night!’ he shuddered, as the shower of rain developed into a sudden torrent.

‘Not fit for a dog! Have to slow her down.’

‘If you go much slower, we’ll get swept away by the tide,’ chuckled Hanmer, who seemed to be enjoying himself. They were making about four knots by this time, and the rush of rain had obscured all sounds save the steady beat of the engine and the occasional hoot of a tramp steamer’s siren. The darkness seemed to have reached its maximum intensity, and Hanmer prepared his electric lamp ready for any emergency. Together, they steered unblinkingly through the sheets of rain. Once or twice, Briggs sounded his hooter in a tentative fashion. After a few minutes, the rain almost stopped and the sky lightened a little until they could see very faintly the dim outline of the right bank.

Sergeant Briggs shook the raindrops from his sou’wester and ruminated feelingly on the topic that was always in his mind at such moments as these. Had he been wise to turn down that offer of a job from his wife’s father? A nice, steady, nine-till-five job, with an office to himself and a chance of a partnership later on. If only it had been something a bit more exciting than dealing in grate polish! Still, there was a lot to be said for regular hours, leisurely meals, and slippers waiting at the fireside. Sergeant Briggs sighed wistfully.

Hanmer suddenly shook himself like a terrier, and pushed his sou’wester on to the back of his head. Then he took a blackened pipe out of his pocket and thrust it unlighted between his teeth.

‘How long have you been in the Force?’ he asked presently, in a casual tone. It was Hanmer’s stock conversational gambit. He didn’t really want to know. What he did want was an opportunity to embark upon an account of his own varied career.

‘Me?’ muttered Briggs, straining his eyes in the direction of the dim outline of a Norwegian freighter. ‘Seventeen years.’

‘Blimey!’ ejaculated the other, in some surprise. ‘You’ve got longer whiskers than I ’ave!’

Briggs nodded solemnly. ‘I joined in August, 1925. I was with the L.C.C. before that.’

‘Salvage?’ queried Hanmer, the twinkle in his eyes going unseen.

‘Not ruddy likely! I was a Grade One clerk,’ snapped Briggs. Then he heaved a sigh. ‘All the same, it was very tedious. I reckon I must have filled in best part of a million forms of one sort or another in the four years I was there.’

Hanmer laughed.

‘Talk about tediousness, you want this job reg’lar. Up and down the ole river night after night.’

He sucked at his pipe reflectively.

‘Before this I had a nice little beat in Hampstead. Not much doing, but plenty of good grub in one or two kitchens I could mention. I remember once when I—’

He broke off abruptly and leaned over the side of the boat, gazing intently at a grey object which was only just visible. His electric lamp flashed, startling Briggs.

‘Swing her round, mate,’ said Hanmer, softly. Briggs immediately shut off his engine, and the boat nosed its way silently towards the grey object which Hanmer kept focused in a circle of light from his torch. Retaining a cautious hand on the wheel, Briggs leaned forward.

‘Good God, it’s a woman!’ he exclaimed as they came within easy reach.

‘Not much more’n a kid, I reckon,’ grunted Hanmer, focusing his light on the face and hair. As they came alongside, Hanmer leaned over and managed to bring the girl’s head and shoulders almost into the boat. ‘Give us a hand,’ he gasped, and Briggs left the wheel to take care of itself for a moment.

Within a few seconds, they had laid the dripping figure of the girl along the well of the motor boat. Hanmer pushed back the sodden hair and whistled softly to himself.

‘Another of ’em. She’s a goner all right. Looks like she’s been in the river for hours.’

‘What about trying artificial—’ Briggs was starting to suggest, but the other cut him short.

‘She’s been dead hours. I know the signs. Not a bad looking kid,’ he decided. ‘We ain’t pulled out a real good looker since that houseboat murder – she was an actress – not that she looked much when we got her out.’

Briggs was paying no attention, but had stooped and unfastened the blue mackintosh that clung to the girl’s figure. His start of surprise distracted Hanmer who was busy extricating a bulky notebook from an inner pocket.

‘What is it? What’ve you got there?’

With clumsy cold fingers, Briggs was unfastening a small square of white cardboard which was pinned to the girl’s dress. Hanmer picked up his electric lamp, and together they examined the sodden pasteboard. Two words were carelessly scrawled in Indian ink. ‘Good God!’ whistled Hanmer. ‘The Marquis!’ It must be recorded that Sergeant Rupert Josiah Carrington Briggs experienced an extremely unpleasant sensation in the pit of the stomach.

SIR GRAHAM FORBES, Chief Commissioner at New Scotland Yard, was a firm believer in method – and an even greater believer in his own method. And his severest critics amongst the younger members of his staff had to admit that the Chief Commissioner’s methods, evolved over a period of many years’ experience, usually proved successful. They might provide a number of minor irritants; they might even appear to retard the incidence of Justice, but in the end they were invariably effective. Comparative strangers might deride his absorption in minor routine, but Forbes went his way entirely undeterred. His system had stood so many tests, that he had the utmost confidence in its efficiency.

True, he had encountered one or two setbacks recently in the case of The Marquis murders which were being accorded such extravagant publicity by the press. But Forbes was inclined to make allowances for the press-men. After all, they had to give their readers something lively to read over their breakfast tables and on their tedious journeys to and from work.

That his faith in his system was quite undiminished was demonstrated this fine autumn morning by the presence on his desk of seven folders of varying colours.

There was something reassuring about those folders. They contained every scrap of evidence so far retained in connection with The Marquis murders. It was merely a question of sifting facts in the light of new evidence, Forbes told himself as he listened rather vaguely to the argument which was developing amongst his subordinates. Each of them appeared to have his own theories and plans for substantiating them.

At length, Forbes tapped his desk with his paper-knife.

‘Gentlemen, when you’ve quite finished your little brawl, perhaps we can manage to document one or two more facts. Now Bradley, let’s hear what you have to say first. I don’t think you’ve given us a complete statement lately.’

Superintendent Bradley, a sandy-haired, dour individual in the late thirties, shrugged his shoulders impatiently. There was no more reliable man in a tight corner, but he was always inclined to take the law into his own hands, and was notoriously incapable of appreciating the law-breaker’s outlook on life.

‘There seem to have been too many statements made just lately, Sir Graham, if you want my opinion,’ he began, bluntly, indicating the folders. ‘You’ve got a packet of ’em there.’

The others smiled. They knew that Bradley’s favourite method was to seize his man and hammer the truth out of him.

‘What we want is action!’ announced Bradley, decisively. ‘And by God we want it now, before it’s too late!’