Francis Durbridge - Paul Temple Intervenes

Then he caught sight of Dolly and dug her in the ribs.

‘How’s tricks, old gel?’ he demanded in a hoarse whisper. She slapped his hand and turned her back on him to take an order from another customer.

Temple introduced Sammy to Steve, who rung her hand fervently.

‘Glad to meet your good lady, Mr. Temple. Privilege, I’m sure! I hope you keeps an eye on ’im, Mrs. Temple, and see ’e don’t get mixed up in no funny business.’ He winked, knowingly.

‘Suppose we go into the back parlour,’ suggested Temple. ‘It’s a little more private.’

Sammy consulted an expensive wrist-watch.

‘Look ’ere, Mr. Temple, I’m supposed to meet a bloke up West at eight, and it’s gone that now. Mebbe you and me could get together tomorrer for a bit of a chat?’

Temple hesitated.

‘Where you meeting your friend?’ he asked.

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

‘Then I’ll run you up there in the car,’ Temple decided. ‘We can talk on the way. Have a drink before we start?’

Sammy shook his head. He was obviously in a hurry, and seemed a little worried. ‘Have to be gettin’ on, Mr. Temple, if you don’t mind,’ he decided, and after wishing Dolly good night, they made their way to Temple’s car which was parked at the corner of the street. Sammy clambered into the front with Temple, while Steve got into the back seat.

As he settled down at the wheel, Temple reviewed in his mind the salient facts about his companion. Sammy Wren was considered somewhat unique in the underworld, in so far as he did not specialise in any one particular type of crime. Yet he was successful not only in his evasion of the police, but also in the financial reward he derived from his various enterprises. Temple knew that he had tried his hand at blackmail, dope smuggling, passing ‘slush,’ and forgery. So far, he had only served two short terms of imprisonment, having been able to convince the judge on each occasion that he was a mere accessory to some other unfortunate. There were no flies on Sammy Wren.

As they were heading for the Waterloo Road, Sammy asked: ‘What was it you wanted to see me about, Mr. Temple?’

Temple changed gear and passed a large lorry.

‘Can’t you guess?’ he parried.

‘Search me,’ said Sammy. ‘Soon as I got your note, I says to myself: “Allo, something’s in the wind, or ’e wouldn’t be writin’ to a blinkin’ tea-leaf like Sammy Wren.”’

Temple deftly extracted a cigarette from his case and lighted it with his left hand.

‘First of all, Sammy, tell me what happened to Rita Cartwright,’ he demanded.

‘Cartwright?’ repeated Sammy, in genuine bewilderment. ‘I don’t know anybody o’ that name.’ Temple gave him a suspicious look out of the corner of his eye.

‘I hate to call you a liar, Sammy,’ said Temple mildly, ‘but I have first-hand information that you made an appointment for her last night at 79A Bombay Road.’

Sammy stiffened in his seat.

‘Oh, that little so-and-so,’ he muttered. ‘I didn’t know that was her name.’

‘Then you do remember?’

Sammy licked his lips.

‘Yes,’ he admitted, at last, ‘I remember.’

‘No doubt the boss was very annoyed with you, Sammy, when he found out she was a private detective?’

‘So that’s what he wants to see me about,’ breathed Sammy, in some dismay.

‘Oh – so you have an appointment with him up West, eh?’

‘’Ere, what’s this, third degree?’ demanded Sammy, truculently.

Temple slowed down to avoid a tram.

‘You knew, of course, that Rita Cartwright’s body was picked out of the Thames last night,’ he said in a casual tone.

‘No, I didn’t – straight, I didn’t!’ Sammy protested, hoarsely, and indeed it did appear as if the news surprised him. ‘I ain’t ’ad nothin’ to do with that. You know me, Mr. Temple. I draw the line at murder …’

‘All right, Sammy,’ said Temple, softly. ‘If you don’t know anything about Rita Cartwright’s death, perhaps you can enlighten us about The Marquis.’

In the faint blue light from the dashboard, Sammy’s features were distorted with doubt and fear.

‘The Marquis?’ he repeated. ‘I don’t know nothin’ about ’im. I don’t want to know nothin’ about ’im. And if you takes my tip—’

Temple snatched at the wheel as they lurched dangerously towards a bus that was running down from Waterloo Bridge.

‘Do be careful!’ cried Steve, in considerable alarm.

‘This steering seems to be playing tricks,’ murmured Temple, gently easing the wheel. ‘Ah, that’s better …’ The car was now proceeding quite normally across the bridge.

‘What were you saying, Sammy?’

‘I was saying I don’t know a thing about this ’ere Marquis – and that’s the truth.’

‘The whole truth and nothing but?’

‘You know me, Mr. Temple. I wouldn’t ’old out on you; not for all the bloomin’ gold in America.’

‘I’ll take your word for it, Sammy,’ replied Temple, a trifle puzzled nevertheless.

‘Funny you should ask me about The Marquis,’ mused Sammy. ‘I bumped into a bloke at the Black Swan only a week ago, who asked me the same question. Smart lookin’ young feller, took him for a “con” man at first, but I was wrong.’

‘He didn’t tell you his name?’

‘Yes, an’ I got it on the tip of me tongue! – Storey! – that’s it – Roger Storey.’ A new thought seemed to cross Sammy’s mind.

‘Look here, Mr. Temple, he wouldn’t be a rozzer, would he? Because if he is, I’ll—’

‘Paul!’ interposed Steve, urgently. ‘Pull over for that lorry.’ They were rushing along the embankment at thirty miles an hour, but the lorry was rapidly overhauling them. Temple accelerated a trifle, and they drew away.

‘This boss of yours, Sammy,’ he said. ‘Who is he?’

‘I don’t know, Mr. Temple – honest, I don’t. Never set eyes on ‘im before. I just got me orders from a feller named Dukes …’

‘Then you don’t know that 79A Bombay Road was raided?’

‘Raided?’ Sammy was patently scared.

‘It’s all right, Sammy – the police didn’t find a thing to incriminate you. All the same, I’m coming along to take a look at this boss of yours. Just in case it’s—’

‘The Marquis?’ queried Sammy, with a gulp. ‘But I tell yer it can’t be, Mr. Temple. The Marquis has got—’ He broke off and clutched Temple’s arm. ‘Look out, sir, or that three-tonner’ll bounce us right into the river!’

Temple tugged at the wheel, but the steering seemed to be completely out of action. As the lorry came level, he snatched at the handbrake, but the front wheels of the overtaking vehicle suddenly swung into the car. To the accompaniment of breaking glass, screaming brakes, and the crash of metal they smashed into the wall of the embankment. Sammy Wren was thrown hard against the windscreen, which immediately collapsed, precipitating him between the embankment wall and the bonnet of the car. The driving wheel saved Temple from a similar fate, though the sudden blow in the chest winded him for some time.

Just before the crash, Steve had flung herself on the floor at the back, and so escaped with a shaking.

‘Paul!’ she cried. ‘Are you all right?’

For a minute he was too breathless to reply. Then he wiped the blood from a cut on his cheek, felt his limbs carefully and shook bits of glass from his clothes.

‘I’m O.K., Steve,’ he announced, eventually. ‘How about you?’

When she had reassured him, he suddenly realised that Sammy had vanished. Leaping out of the car, he quickly discovered the little man. By now, the lorry had backed on to the road again, two policemen had arrived on the scene, and a crowd was gathering, avid for details of the accident.