Francis Durbridge - Paul Temple Intervenes

‘I’ve been lucky so far,’ she said, lightly. ‘Maybe my luck will hold.’

But there was a look in her pale blue eyes which seemed to doubt her words.

Sir Graham Forbes stirred his coffee and reflected that Paul Temple and Steve had changed very little since the days when they had joined him in the relentless pursuit of the Front Page Men. If anything, Temple was perhaps a trifle more sunburnt and had possibly lost a little in weight.

During dinner they had talked mainly of Paul Temple’s visit to the United States, and Forbes had many questions to ask concerning the F.B.I, and other officials whom he knew out there. It was not until he had half-drained his cup of coffee that Forbes suddenly demanded: ‘What did you mean exactly by that postscript?’

Temple knocked the ash off his cigar and frowned thoughtfully. At length, he said:

‘Out in the States, Sir Graham, I was attached to the “C” branch of the M.O.I.’

‘I gathered you were up to something of that sort from what Colonel Randall told me,’ nodded Forbes.

‘While we were there,’ Temple continued, ‘the newspapers started spreading their front pages with a story about this fellow called The Marquis. At first, I thought the whole business was grossly exaggerated, but one evening about a week ago I received a special radio message from the Home Secretary’s office that rather changed my ideas, and I knew then …’ He hesitated.

‘You knew then that, to put it mildly, things were getting pretty serious.’

Paul Temple smiled in some relief as he realised that Forbes knew rather more than he had anticipated. ‘I didn’t particularly want to leave the States, Sir Graham. It was interesting work out there – always something moving, and I was beginning to show some results. But I could hardly ignore that message.’

Sir Graham placed his cup on the table and leaned forward.

‘The Home Secretary had a very good reason for sending for you, Temple,’ he declared quietly. ‘I realised a month ago that you were the only man for certain aspects of this job. We need your help, Temple, that’s the long and short of it. We need your help pretty badly.’

Temple and Steve exchanged an understanding glance.

Temple said: ‘I’m very relieved to hear all this from you, Sir Graham. You know I’ve never had any desire to intervene in any of your cases, and I’ve no intention of doing so now if—’

‘Don’t talk nonsense, darling,’ interrupted Steve, refilling Sir Graham’s cup. ‘You know perfectly well that you have every intention of intervening. And you still haven’t answered Sir Graham’s question about Rita Cartwright.’

‘Yes,’ said Forbes, ‘I want to hear more about that young lady.’

Temple scratched a match and applied it to his cigar.

‘I’ve only a few sketchy sort of facts, Sir Graham, but I gather that Rita Cartwright is a girl who always wanted a career that was “different.” So, heaven help her, she became a sort of private inquiry agent. She’s had a certain amount of luck, including a commission to inquire into one of The Marquis murders. The next time I see her however, I intend to advise the—’

‘There’ll be no next time,’ put in Forbes gloomily. ‘The body of Rita Cartwright was picked out of the Thames last night. A few hours later, it was identified by a young fellow named Roger Storey.’

Temple wrinkled his forehead. ‘That name’s familiar.’

‘Yes, he’s Lady Alice Mapleton’s fiancé. Rather an interfering young devil, but we let him down lightly as a rule. The poor fellow’s had a bad time. They were to have been married in a few months.’

‘There’s one thing I haven’t mentioned about Rita Cartwright,’ said Temple, slowly. ‘When she left me last night, she was going to keep an appointment with the leader of a dope-running organisation …’

Sir Graham looked up quickly. ‘Eh? Where?’

‘At 79A Bombay Road. I’m given to understand that she has been going there for several weeks.’

Sir Graham was plainly impressed, and going over to the telephone, dialled a number and gave some rapid instructions.

‘I’m afraid your men won’t find very much there,’ said Temple, as Sir Graham replaced the receiver.

‘Oh – why?’

‘Isn’t it obvious that Rita Cartwright met The Marquis last night? And I have an idea he’s much too clever to leave any clues behind.’

‘M’m, maybe you’re right,’ murmured Forbes, biting hard on the stem of his favourite pipe. For a few minutes they smoked in silence, each busy with his thoughts. Steve went into the dining-room to make up the fire. After a while, Forbes said: ‘There are certain aspects of this case which remind me of the Carson blackmail affair! And talking of the Carson business, what’s happened to Sammy Wren? He was pretty deeply concerned in that set-up.’

‘Oh yes,’ agreed Temple, ‘I remember Sammy Wren.’

‘I’ve been thinking quite a lot about him just lately,’ continued Forbes. ‘As a matter of fact, I told Bradley to pick him up about a fortnight ago, thought he might be able to give us a line on this case. But he doesn’t seem to be around his old spots. Sam’s a queer little devil, but he covers a lot of ground. Seems to know everybody and everything. Probably knew Bradley was after him, and thought we’d caught up on him over some job or other.’ He paused as he noticed Temple was smiling, and asked, ‘Have I said anything funny?’

‘I’m sorry,’ apologised Temple, ‘I was just thinking about The Golden Cage.’

Forbes was obviously mystified. ‘The Golden Cage?’

‘Yes, it’s a public house near the Elephant and Castle. D’you know it, Sir Graham?’

‘No, I can’t say I do.’

‘It’s in one of those narrow back streets,’ Temple explained. ‘You’ll find it’s frequented by quite an old friend of yours.’

Forbes removed his pipe and slowly smiled. He realised that Paul Temple was referring to the illusive Sammy Wren.

UNLESS you knew the district fairly well, you could easily pass The Golden Cage without noticing that it was a licensed house. True, there was a sort of drab signboard over the front door, but the paint had long since faded and the lettering was quite indistinct. However, this in no way deterred the supporters of this little hostelry, who were emphatic in their insistence that no better beer was to be found south of the river.

Paul Temple agreed with their verdict. He had discovered The Golden Cage years ago when seeking material for his second novel. Someone had told him that it was a popular rendezvous for members of the criminal fraternity. He had discovered that this was an exaggeration, but, by way of compensation, he also discovered that the Extra Special home-brewed beer which was so much in demand actually tasted of hops. Temple had never forgotten the tang of that rich brown beverage.

‘So this is where you used to spend your leisure moments, Mr. Temple,’ said Steve, jokingly as they settled in a murky corner of the Smoke Room. The room was crowded with that strange mixture of humanity peculiar to the Elephant and Castle neighbourhood. There were only two other women present, but the regulars did not seem to notice Steve, who was wearing, especially for the occasion, an inconspicuous costume and a somewhat shapeless felt hat.

Temple laughed at his wife’s remark, lighted a cigarette, and retorted: ‘Don’t be silly, darling. All my leisure moments were spent with an exotic blonde from Pimlico. Didn’t I confess all that before you married me?’

‘It must have slipped your memory, darling!’

‘In that case, I’d better buy you a drink. What would you like?’