Francis Durbridge - News of Paul Temple

‘We don’t serve dinner after a quarter to,’ he announced.

‘We shall bear that in mind,’ replied Temple, politely holding the door for him.

‘All right,’ said the landlord, retreating reluctantly.

Temple watched him down the corridor, then carefully closed the door. Steve sank on the bed with a sigh of relief, while Sir Graham perched on the arm of a chair.

‘Sir Graham, I’m most terribly sorry,’ Temple apologised. ‘It was extremely stupid of us both to blurt out like that.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Forbes gruffly. ‘You covered it up well.’ He ruminated rather gloomily for a few seconds, then suddenly asked: ‘What the devil are you two doing here?’

Temple and Steve exchanged a brief smile.

‘Well, if it comes to that—’ began the novelist.

‘I know, I know!’ Forbes forestalled him. ‘Don’t ask me, Temple. Don’t ask me!’ He drew a hand across his forehead rather wearily, then continued: ‘But seriously, what made you two visit Inverdale? You couldn’t have had an inkling…it isn’t possible…’

‘You remember we told you we were coming to Scotland,’ Steve reminded him.

‘So you did. Yes, I’d forgotten about that,’ Sir Graham admitted. But there was a dubious note in his voice.

‘Sir Graham, don’t you think you might tell us why you are staying here under the name of Richmond?’ suggested Temple mildly.

‘Yes, that’s another thing, Temple. You asked to see Mr John Richmond. I am John Richmond, though how the devil—’

‘Paul, give him the letter,’ interrupted Steve. ‘Then we can go down to dinner.’ There was a note of urgency in her voice.

‘What letter?’ demanded Forbes quickly, looking from one to the other.

‘A letter from a young man named Lindsay—David Lindsay,’ explained Temple.

‘For me?’ queried Forbes in some surprise.

Temple nodded.

‘I don’t know anyone named David Lindsay. There must be some mistake.’

Steve was quite taken aback. ‘You don’t know anyone called Lindsay?’ she repeated in amazement.

‘No,’ said Forbes decisively.

‘Is there another John Richmond staying here?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘Then this letter must be for you,’ declared Steve.

Temple, who had been pacing the room, his hands deep in his trouser pockets, looked up and smiled.

‘This gets brighter and brighter!’ he said. ‘First of all I meet the delightful Mrs Moffat, then the excitable Mr Lindsay, and later—’

‘Mrs Moffat?’ interrupted Forbes. ‘You mean the woman in the village?’

‘That’s right,’ nodded Temple. ‘The dark-eyed beauty with a sister in Peckham.’ Sir Graham pondered upon this for a moment, then asked: ‘How did you meet Mrs Moffat?’

Temple was gazing thoughtfully out of the window at the view so highly praised by his hostess, so Steve began to explain.

‘On our way here, Sir Graham, we got lost. We stopped in the village, and to make absolutely certain of getting on the right road—’

‘I popped into Mrs Moffat’s,’ put in Temple suddenly becoming aware of the conversation once more. ‘Just as I was on the verge of leaving, in barged the young fellow I was telling you about – David Lindsay. He was obviously excited and rather worried about something. To cut a long story short, he asked me if I was coming into Inverdale, and whether I’d deliver a letter for him to a Mr John Richmond, who happened to be staying at the “ Royal Gate ” . Naturally, I agreed to do so. On the way here, however, two men stopped us—’

Sir Graham looked up sharply. ‘Can you describe them?’

‘There was a man who called himself Doctor Laurence van Draper, and another, rather military-looking chap, who said that he was Major Lindsay, father of the young man who gave me the letter. They told us a rather one-sided story about the young fellow being a bit mental, and more or less demanded the letter. They were quite nice about it, but obviously meant business.’

‘What happened?’ demanded Forbes eagerly.

‘Well, Paul happened to buy a packet of postcards, which Mrs Moffat fortunately popped into an envelope,’ smiled Steve.

‘You don’t mean you gave them the postcards?’ asked Forbes, jumping up.

‘I’m afraid so,’ Temple replied evenly.

‘Well, I’m damned!’ Forbes sank back and slapped his thigh in approval. Temple wandered off to the window again.

‘Now listen, Temple. This is most important. I want you to describe that young man as closely as possible.’

Temple swung round.

‘You mean Lindsay? Oh, he was about five feet ten – dark – good-looking—’

‘Rather like Frank Lawton, the film actor,’ supplied Steve.

‘My God, it’s Hammond all right!’ ejaculated Forbes, thumping his fist on the table. ‘Now, of course, I understand.’

Temple had crossed to a chair and picked up the jacket he had been wearing earlier in the day. As he dived into an inside pocket, a look of concern spread over his features.

‘Darling, what is it?’ asked Steve.

‘The letter…’ gasped Temple.

Forbes went across to him quickly. ‘Temple, you don’t mean to say—’

‘It’s gone,’ announced Temple quietly.

‘Gone!’ echoed Steve. ‘But, Paul, it couldn’t possibly—’

‘You didn’t make a mistake about those postcards, Temple?’ suggested Sir Graham.

‘No. I had the letter when I arrived here. I’m absolutely certain of that. When I was unpacking, I changed into this old sports coat and left the other on the chair.’

‘That letter’s important, Temple,’ said Sir Graham in some anxiety. ‘It’s desperately important, and we’ve got to get it back.’

Temple’s brain was working quickly.

‘Those men – van Draper and the fellow who called himself Major Lindsay – they must have contacted someone here at the “Royal Gate”…’

Forbes nodded thoughtfully.

‘Who did you see when you arrived?’ he asked.

‘A porter helped us with the luggage, then Weston and his wife brought us upstairs.’

Temple carefully examined the contents of every pocket without result.

‘Paul, there’s Doctor Steiner,’ Steve suddenly reminded him. ‘He came in here after Weston and—’

‘By Timothy, yes! And he stood over by that chair for quite a while. But how could he possibly know—’

‘Steiner?’ put in Forbes. ‘Who exactly is Doctor Steiner?’

‘He’s a Professor of Philosophy at Philadelphia University,’ said Temple. ‘We met him on the Golden Clipper , coming over here.’

‘What’s he doing in Scotland?’

‘He’s on holiday. As soon as he spotted our names in the register he came up here.’ Temple paused and puckered his brow.

‘By Timothy! I’m a prize jackass if you like!’ he ejaculated.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Steve.

‘Steve, don’t you remember? I didn’t sign a register. The book was full. Weston made me sign on a sheet of notepaper. He put the paper in a drawer, so I don’t see how Steiner could possibly have—’

‘Then he knew you were coming here,’ cried Forbes. ‘He was waiting for you – waiting for the letter!’

‘Just a minute. Not so fast, Sir Graham,’ softly interposed Temple.

‘Why should Doctor Steiner, a respectable university professor, want that letter?’ asked Steve.

‘I presume you have only his word for his identity,’ said Forbes. ‘What’s his nationality?’

‘Oh, obviously Austrian, I should say. Most probably Viennese,’ said Temple.

‘Well, it seems a remarkable coincidence that he should be staying here the very night that Noel Hammond—’