Francis Durbridge - Send for Paul Temple

‘Oh, no,’ replied Miss Parchment. ‘Oh, dear, no! It goes back much farther than that.’

‘Then why should it be called “The Little General”?’ asked Temple. ‘Surely the—’

But Miss Parchment was now thoroughly at home on what appeared to be her favourite topic, and she interrupted the novelist to explain.

‘It was renamed “The Little General” about 1805,’ she said. ‘Before that it had a much more interesting name.’

Daley was looking up at her in wonderment. ‘You seem to know a dickens of a lot about this place.’

‘It’s all in the book I’m reading, Mr. Daley,’ said Miss Parchment patiently. ‘It’s all in the book.’

Horace Daley had for some little while been paying as much attention to the body as he had to Miss Parchment. Horace Daley had a peculiar aversion to dead bodies. And he told them so. He thought it was high time the police came to remove it. Then another idea occurred to him.

‘Can’t—can’t we cover him up or something till the sergeant arrives? ’E looks ’orrible just laid there staring up at the ceiling.’

‘Yes, yes, all right,’ agreed Temple.

‘I’ll get a sheet from the linen cupboard,’ said Daley. ‘Won’t be a minute.’

They heard him going upstairs and presently moving about in one of the bedrooms.

For perhaps two minutes they sat in silence.

‘Was he a very great friend of yours, Mr. Temple?’ asked Miss Parchment suddenly.

‘Not exactly what one would call a great friend. He was more a sort of business acquaintance.’

‘I see.’ Miss Parchment hesitated. ‘You know, when I first saw him, I had a vague sort of suspicion that I’d seen him before. Of course, one meets so—’

Temple interrupted her. ‘His name’s Harvey. Superintendent Harvey, of Scotland Yard.’

Miss Parchment looked up.

‘Scotland Yard!’ she said softly. ‘Oh, dear! Oh, dear!’

There was another long pause. Then Temple said: ‘You say this inn wasn’t always called “The Little General”?’

‘No.’

‘Then what was it called?’

Miss Parchment looked at him and there was a peculiar look in her eyes.

‘A most intriguing title, Mr. Temple,’ she replied at length. ‘I’m sure you’ll like it.’

Temple waited.

‘Well?’

‘It was called “The Green Finger”,’ said Miss Parchment quietly. And she smiled.

‘“The Green Finger ”!’ echoed Paul Temple, intense astonishment showing on his face.

He paused.

‘Are you sure of this?’ he said suddenly.

‘Oh, quite sure,’ replied Miss Parchment brightly. ‘It’s all in the book I’m reading, Mr. Temple. A most interesting book.’

Again Temple started pacing up and down the room, thinking over this new surprise. The coincidence was far too striking. Yet where was the connection? He decided that events must show for themselves exactly where this quaint old inn fitted in with these widespread robberies. He took a cigarette from his case and thoughtfully fitted it into his cigarette holder.

Suddenly the door to the little hall opened and Daley reappeared. Over his arm he carried the sheet for which he had been searching the linen cupboards upstairs.

‘’Ere’s the sheet, Guv’nor!’ he started. ‘Now we can cover him up a bit.’

He unfolded the sheet carefully, displaying two large holes, several smaller ones, and a number of rust stains, which showed that he had no intention of wasting one of the inn’s best sheets. He knelt down beside the body of the superintendent, at the same time keeping up a running commentary on his own feelings.

‘If there’s anything I ’ates the sight of,’ he was saying, ‘it’s a fellow that’s gone an’—’ He broke off with sudden alarm in his voice as the sound of footsteps came through the window, and men could be heard talking. ‘’Ello, what’s that?’ he exclaimed.

‘It sounds to me like the sergeant and Dr. Milton,’ replied the novelist.

The voices and the footsteps grew louder, and presently feet could be heard brushing against the mat in the hall, while Temple recognized the suave tones of Dr. Milton, in a litany with the harsher country voice of Sergeant Morrison. Then the door opened and the two men came in, followed by the stolid form of Police Constable Hodges, in every way typical of the village constabulary.

‘Good evening, Mr. Temple.’ There was a clear, impressive note of authority in the sergeant’s voice. ‘Evening, Daley!’

He looked round the room and at the recumbent figure of Superintendent Harvey, his legs now covered with the innkeeper’s sheet, while his trunk, arms and head projected incongruously, almost as if the dead man were just getting out of some strange bed. The worthy sergeant bristled with pride and self-importance as he made it plain that he was in full command of the situation. It is not an everyday occurrence for one of the big Chiefs of Scotland Yard to meet his death under strange circumstances, and Sergeant Morrison felt that here, at last, was the long awaited personal appearance of opportunity.

‘Thank heavens you’ve come,’ the innkeeper said, with a sigh of relief. ‘I was just about to—’

A gasp of astonishment broke from Dr. Milton’s lips. He had been looking at the tragic scene before him, but only now had he suddenly become aware of the victim’s identity.

‘It’s Superintendent Harvey!’ he exclaimed. ‘Good gracious, why—’

Sergeant Morrison cut him short. ‘If you please, Doctor,’ he said, and his voice clearly indicated that there was work to be done.

The doctor accepted the rebuff. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant.’

He knelt down by the side of the body. With deft fingers he loosened the clothing and started his examination. After a few moments, he looked up.

‘Could we have another light on, please,’ he asked curtly. ‘I can’t see very clearly.’

Daley hastened to the switch. The benefits of the electric grid had extended out even as far as “The Little General”. Swiftly, yet carefully, the doctor carried out his examination.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Morrison was taking stock of his surroundings. He made notes of the exact positions of the chairs, the benches and tables, and of the general layout of the room. Already the sergeant was beginning to picture a better uniform than the one he was wearing, indeed, he was actually throwing increased authority into his voice and bearing. Fortunately, this did not detract from his efficiency. He was leaving nothing to chance.

‘Hodges!’ he commanded, indicating with a wave of his hand one of the doors behind the counter. ‘Take a look at the back of this place. I think there must be some sort of courtyard.’

‘Very good, sergeant,’ replied Police Constable Hodges, and disappeared into the outer darkness.

For a while there was silence in the room. Temple was sitting patiently on one of the old forms. Sergeant Morrison remained standing, watching Dr. Milton as though fascinated by him.

‘Well, Doctor?’ he asked, as the latter started rearranging the clothing on the superintendent’s body.

Dr. Milton replaced the instruments in his black leather attaché case and stood up.

‘He’s been dead about a quarter of an hour, I should say,’ was the doctor’s verdict. ‘He must have died almost instantly.’ Certainly it was far too late for the doctor to be of any assistance.

Sergeant Morrison grunted. Then he pulled out his notebook and made a laborious note.

‘Now I’d like a few details, if you don’t mind,’ he said, his writing finished. He turned towards the novelist. ‘Was the deceased a friend of yours, Mr. Temple?’ he asked.