Francis Durbridge - Paul Temple and the Margo Mystery

He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone out in the hall. Temple exchanged a quick glance of hope with Forbes before he went out to pick the receiver up.

‘Hello?’

He could hear the bleep-bleep, indicating that the call was coming from a pay ’phone. There was a clunk as a coin was pushed into the slot. Then Temple heard a man’s voice, muffled but obviously in the same call-box.

‘All right. Go ahead. Talk to him now…’

‘Hello!’ Temple repeated impatiently. ‘Hello, who is that?’

There was a pause, and then: ‘Is that you, Paul?’ The woman’s voice was so weak that he hardly recognised it as Steve’s.

‘Steve! Is that you, Steve?’

‘Paul, can you hear me?’

He could tell from her voice that she was very frightened. ‘Steve, where are you?’

‘Don’t worry, dear.’ Scared though she was, she was trying to reassure him. ‘There’s nothing to worry about…’

‘Yes, but Steve,’ Temple cut in, unable to mask his impatience, ‘where are you speaking from?’

‘I’m…perfectly all right…’

‘Steve, listen!’ Temple was gripping the receiver. ‘There was a man on the ’phone, I heard his voice…Who was it?’

‘Paul, don’t try and…’ Steve’s voice was fading, as if someone were pulling the receiver away from her.

‘Darling, please tell me…Where are you?’

‘Oh, Paul…’ The cry was barely audible. Before Temple could speak again the maddening bleep-bleep had started once more.

‘Oh, my God!’

‘What’s happened?’

Temple looked round to find Raine at his shoulder. ‘The line’s gone dead.’

‘Replace the receiver, Mr Temple – in case she rings back.’

Temple realised that he was still trying to squeeze some response out of the telephone. With deliberate control he replaced it on the cradle.

Forbes had come to the doorway of the sitting-room to listen to Temple’s side of the brief conversation. ‘You said something about a man, Temple. Was there someone with Steve?’

‘Yes. I heard a voice just as I picked up the ’phone. It sounded as if someone was in the call-box with her and was forcing her to…’

The ’phone shrilled and Temple scooped it up with one quick movement.

‘Take it easy, Temple,’ Forbes cautioned.

Temple put a finger into his free ear. ‘Hello?’

‘Paul—’ Steve’s voice was a little stronger, but she was still tense.

‘Steve,’ Temple said, speaking slowly and deliberately but with all the urgency he could muster. ‘Where are you calling from?’

‘I don’t know the number.’

‘Darling,’ he told her very gently, ‘look at the dial.’

‘It’s a call-box.’

‘Well, where is it?’

‘Paul, I’m trying to concentrate,’ she was evidently dazed and confused, ‘but somehow I can’t—’

He asked: ‘Is there anyone with you?’

‘No. Not now, darling.’

‘Well,’ he tried again, still as if coaxing a frightened child, ‘where is the telephone box, Steve?’

‘It’s at Euston. Just inside the station.’ She was near to tears and her voice was beginning to break. ‘Please come and fetch me, darling. I’ll wait for you in the station near the bookstall.’

‘I’ll be there in ten minutes!’ This time Temple rammed the receiver down on the cradle. His face was grey as he turned to Forbes and Raine. ‘She’s at Euston Station.’

‘Right! Come on, Temple!’ Forbes was already heading for the front door. Raine started to follow, but the older man put a finger to stop him and nodded at the telephone.

‘Get through to the Yard. Warn all cars in the area but tell them to stay clear of the station. Follow as soon as you can. We’ll see you at Euston.’

Knowing that Raine would have no problem with transport, Forbes commandeered the police car waiting down in Eaton Square. The superintendent had chosen as his personal driver a young constable who had passed out of the Police Driving School at Hendon with a Class A. Authorised to use the blue light and siren he made his tyres squeal as he careered round Belgrave Square. The carousel of traffic at Hyde Park Corner yielded to the white police Rover as it squirmed between taxis, buses and private cars. On the Hyde Park ring road they touched a hundred miles an hour and the houses along Park Lane flashed past in a blur. An obstinate Daimler limousine blocked them for a long ten seconds at Marble Arch and received a horn-blasting that sent him rabbiting on to the pavement. As the Rover sped along the Marylebone Road, Forbes and Temple were thrown from side to side when their driver swerved round the slow-moving vehicles, sometimes cutting boldly across to the wrong side of the road and forcing the oncoming traffic to give way to him.

A quarter of a mile from Euston Forbes called out: ‘Cut the siren now, Newton.’

Temple glanced at his watch. He had automatically checked the time of Steve’s call. It looked as if he was going to keep his promise of being at the station within ten minutes. As if in confirmation the clock of the church across the road began to chime the quarters. Raine’s driver braked and swung in through the entrance reserved for buses, slowing behind a Number 14 as it circled the memorial to London and North Eastern Railway personnel killed in the 1914–18 war. Temple, all his senses at full stretch, noted the four statuesque figures guarding it, heads bent over, hands folded on their reversed rifles – an attitude of permanent mourning.

‘Well done,’ Forbes told the driver, as he deposited them at the kerb. ‘Wait for us here.’

Outpacing the passengers who had alighted from the bus, Forbes and Temple hurried across the broad, almost deserted forecourt, past the statue of Robert Stephenson and through the glass doors into the main hall. Both men were wary and watchful. There seemed no good reason why Steve should be kidnapped and then released after only five hours without some sort of pay-off. She could still be in grave danger. At this time of night the bookshop at the east side of the main hall was closed and only a lone vendor of newspapers was doing business.

Temple shook his head. ‘She’s not here.’

The loudspeakers boomed out some announcement about a train shortly due to depart for Edinburgh. The panels on the indicator-board flapped as a new set of departure times was rung up. From one of the platforms a posse of travellers just in from the North spilled out, dazedly lugging suitcases.

‘Is there another bookstall?’ Forbes was turning his head this way and that, searching for a slim woman in a blue suit. Charlie had told them what Steve was wearing when she’d set off for the airport.

‘There may be.’ Temple had started across the spacious hall, his eyes checking the entrances to the bars, restaurants, information desks. People were still crowding up and down the moving staircases leading to the Underground. Half a dozen skinheads were sitting disconsolately in front of the marble plaque commemorating the opening of the new station by Queen Elizabeth II on 14 October 1968. But no sign of Steve.

He stared at the flower-sellers packing up what was left of their stock. The bunches of spring daffodils reminded him vividly of her. So often he had bought her a huge bunch on his way home. Then suddenly, he knew what had happened.

‘Sir Graham, you wait here. It’s just a thought, but—’

Temple quickly located the sign pointing to the ladies cloakroom. Dazed and scared as she was, Steve would still have been thinking about her appearance. It would be just like her to believe she had time for a quick check-up in front of a mirror. He had entered the opening of the passageway that led to the toilets and was bracing himself to invade the women’s domain when he saw a figure in a blue suit coming out through the door. Three seconds later they were in each other’s arms.