Francis Durbridge - Paul Temple Intervenes

‘A dry Martini,’ decided Steve, promptly.

‘Not here, it isn’t done,’ he reproved her. ‘We’ll begin with two pints of their Extra Special.’

‘One and a half – in case I don’t like it.’

He beckoned to the barmaid, who was standing with her back to Steve, engaged in lively repartee with a group of young men. As she swung into view, he recognised her at once.

‘God bless my soul, if it isn’t Dolly Fraser!’ he exclaimed.

The girl’s heavily made-up features showed the merest trace of fear before they resumed their former brazen expression.

‘The name’s Smith – Betty Smith,’ she answered, sullenly.

Temple smiled whimsically.

‘Not one of the Shropshire Smiths?’ he demanded, with the merest flicker of an eyelid in Steve’s direction.

‘And what if I am one of the Shropshire Smiths?’ challenged the girl, with a toss of her coppery hair.

‘Would it, in that case, be too much to ask you to bring us a tankard and a glass of your Extra Special?’ demanded Temple, politely.

‘Special’s off – been finished months ago,’ replied the girl, brusquely, pushing back a lock of hair. ‘I’ll bring you some Old Ale if you like. That’s the best we’ve got.’

‘Thank you, that would do nicely,’ said Temple, suavely. With an insolent lift of the shoulder, the barmaid vanished. When she was out of earshot, Steve asked: ‘Do you know that girl, or was that merely a sample of your sales talk?’

Temple grinned.

‘I know her all right. Her name is Fraser – Dolly Fraser. She was one of the shining lights of the Reagan crowd a few years ago. One of the most useful decoys in the game – she’s quite an actress in her way.’

He spoke in a carefully modulated tone, but apparently he was overheard by a tall, thin man who could not find a seat, and was leaning against a partition nearby.

‘That’s quite right, Mr. Temple,’ confirmed the stranger. ‘Her name is Fraser, and she was with the Reagan mob about two years ago when they pulled off the Charteris kidnapping.’

Temple and Steve swung round. The newcomer suddenly found a high stool and perched himself on it, apparently quite at ease.

‘Forgive me if I am intruding, but I couldn’t help overhearing your remark, Mr. Temple. My name is Ross – Inspector Ross of the C.I.D. I think we met just before you sailed for America.’

‘Why of course, Inspector! I’m afraid I didn’t recognise you,’ said Temple, pleasantly. ‘Have you met my wife?’ When the introductions were complete, Temple invited the Inspector to join them in a drink, but he shook his head regretfully.

‘No thanks, Mr. Temple. I’ve had my allowance. I really ought to have been home hours ago. This is an off-duty visit.’

‘All the more reason for a little relaxation,’ urged Temple, but Ross would not be persuaded to change his mind, and eventually bade them good night. ‘I’m keeping an eye on Dolly Fraser,’ he assured Temple in an undertone just before he turned to go.

‘Is he one of the new people at the Yard?’ asked Steve, when the lanky form had disappeared.

‘No. He’s been there for longer than I care to remember. He used to be attached to the Fingerprint Department till Bradley took over. I don’t think they get on very well together. Anyhow, Forbes decided to transfer Ross; gave him a sort of roving commission, and he’s turned up trumps several times. He has the reputation of being a pretty shrewd sort of fellow.’

By this time, Dolly Fraser had returned, and was placing their beer on the table. As Temple fumbled for half-a-crown, she seemed about to speak, hesitated, then finally ventured:

‘I’m sorry I was rude just now, Mr. Temple. It was that Ross – he’s always hanging round here – gets on my nerves. Why can’t he leave me alone?’

‘Take it easy, Dolly. No harm done,’ smiled Temple.

‘It was silly of me to say my name’s Smith. I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of,’ she added with a touch of defiance.

‘Of course you haven’t.’

‘I knew you’d spotted me the moment you came in,’ she continued, rather nervously. ‘And what with Ross being there as well – it sort of got under my skin.’

‘You thought we’d come to get you for adulterating the Extra Special,’ suggested Temple, and Dolly laughed. Then her eyes narrowed slightly, and she could not suppress the curious tone in her voice.

‘This is the first time you’ve been here for ages, Mr. Temple. I suppose you wouldn’t be looking for somebody special?’

Temple eyed her, disarmingly.

‘Why of course, Dolly. I’m waiting for an old friend of mine. You remember Sammy Wren.’

‘Sammy Wren!’ she echoed, thoughtfully. ‘I haven’t set eyes on him for ages.’ She paused, then added, significantly: ‘Nothin’ wrong, I hope?’

‘Nothing at all,’ he assured her. ‘Just a small matter of business. Now, how about having a drink with us?’

‘Well, I think a pink gin would calm me down a bit,’ Dolly admitted, now much more at ease. She returned almost immediately with the drink and Temple’s change. Then she fulfilled two more orders and presently drifted over to their table once more.

‘So you haven’t seen Sammy Wren lately,’ said Temple.

‘Not for a week or two, maybe more. He used to be in ’ere every day at one time.’

‘Is that so? With alcohol taxed as it is, Sammy must be doing pretty well.’

‘Maybe,’ she replied, indifferently. ‘He never tells me his business, and I’m sure I’ve no wish to know.’

Temple accepted the rebuke. ‘You look fairly prosperous yourself, Dolly,’ he said, meaningly.

Some of her former uneasiness returned.

‘I’m all right,’ she retorted, with a trace of her old defiance. ‘The boss ’ere is very good. Quite the gent, if you know what I mean. Only last week, ’e give me a rise. That’s the third in eighteen months.’

‘That’s splendid!’

Dolly relaxed once more. ‘Let me get you a gin and tonic, Mrs. Temple,’ she suggested, noticing that Steve was not making much impression on the Old Ale. ‘We’ve had a few bottles of real good gin come in this morning.’

As she picked up Steve’s glass, Temple suddenly looked up at her and asked: ‘Ever heard of this fellow who calls himself The Marquis?’

Dolly almost spilled the beer in the glass, as she dropped it a few inches back on to the table.

‘I only know what I read in the papers, and I don’t always believe that,’ she snapped, glaring down at him. ‘Why the ’ell should I know anything about this man? What are you gettin’ at?’

‘I was only making conversation, Dolly,’ apologised Temple, quite meekly.

‘Is this a game or what?’ she demanded, challengingly. ‘You’re the second bloke this week who’s asked me if I know the ruddy Marquis.’

Temple straightened in his chair.

‘Oh? Who was the other fellow?’

She sniffed. ‘A young chap called Roger Storey. He’s been snooping round here for days asking all sorts of questions. I wouldn’t stand for it only, well, he’s got a way with ’im, and ’e’s lousy with money.’ She smiled reminiscently.

‘Roger Storey,’ repeated Steve. ‘That was the young man who identified Rita Cartwright when—’

She stopped speaking as the Smoke Room door swung open vigorously to admit a flashily-dressed little man, who would have looked far more comfortable in a cap and scarf. Sammy Wren came jauntily over to them. From the points of his yellow-brown shoes to the crown of his tilted derby hat, Sammy Wren exuded an air of reckless opulence.

‘Hello Mr. Temple, sorry to ’ave kept you waiting.’ His was the perkiest brand of Cockney. ‘Didn’t get your message till late last night.’