Francis Durbridge - Paul Temple and the Margo Mystery

‘But didn’t they give you any idea what this was all about – why they’d abducted you?’

‘Not the slightest. Don’t you know, Paul?’

‘I haven’t a clue. I’m not investigating a case at the moment. I’m not mixed up in anything – you know that, Steve.’

‘If only I could remember more details…What the people looked like…’

‘Don’t worry about it, darling.’ He released her hand and stood up. ‘You’re all right, that’s the main thing.’

‘Yes, well – you must have been pretty worried.’

‘Oh, not really, darling.’ He kept his expression dead-pan. ‘I just went berserk.’

Steve laughed, watching him affectionately as he moved towards the hanging cupboard that filled one whole wall.

‘By the way, I put your new coat in the wardrobe.’

‘My coat?’

‘Yes. We found it in the back of the car when we collected it from the airport.’

‘But I didn’t take a coat with me,’ Steve said, puzzled.

‘Yes, you did, darling. Here it is.’ Temple slid the white door back on its runners, reached inside and took out an overcoat on a hanger.

He held the coat up for her to see. It was in classic style, of fawn cashmere, with a tie-belt and sleeves trimmed with leather buttons. What surprised him was the weight of the material.

‘That’s not my coat!’ Steve exclaimed.

‘But it is, Steve! It was in the back of your—’

‘I don’t care where it was! It’s not my coat!’

Temple found it hard to understand why she was so vehement in repudiating this fashionable garment.

‘Are you sure, dear?’

‘I’m positive!’ More quietly she asked: ‘Is there anything in the pockets?’

He carefully checked both pockets. ‘No, nothing.’

Steve pointed a finger towards the top of the coat. ‘There should be a maker’s name on the back of the collar somewhere.’

‘Yes, I’m just looking for it.’ Temple took the coat off the hanger and looked inside the collar. ‘Ah, here we are!’

He turned the label towards the light to read the name. ‘Margo…’

Superintendent Raine took his mackintosh off and handed it to Charlie, who hung it up in the little cloakroom. Through the closed door of the sitting-room he could hear someone playing the piano – one of Chopin’s Nocturnes. Despite his air of businesslike efficiency Raine was a sensitive man and a lover of music. From the style of the playing he was able to recognise a woman’s touch.

The music stopped when Charlie knocked on the door and went in to announce the visitor. A moment later Temple himself appeared.

‘Hello, Superintendent!’ he welcomed Raine warmly. ‘Come along in!’

The Temples’ coffee cups had been put back on the silver tray and a brandy glass was on the table beside Paul’s chair. The book he had been reading had been placed on the arm, with the cover uppermost. It was the novel that had recently won the Booker McConnell prize.

Steve had come out from behind the baby grand piano.

‘Good evening, Mrs Temple.’ Raine gave her a courtly bow. ‘You look better than you did a week ago.’

‘Yes,’ Steve smiled. ‘I’m fine now, thank you very much.’

‘I just happened to be passing and I thought I’d drop in and have a word with you.’

‘Glad to see you.’ Temple indicated a chair. ‘Sit down. Can I get you a drink?’

‘No, thank you. I’m afraid my day’s work is not done yet.’ Raine sat down, as usual leaning slightly forward. ‘Well, we don’t seem to have got very far during the past week. We’ve made enquiries about the coat, but we’ve drawn a blank. We’ve failed to find the owner, or even the shop where it was bought.’

‘What about the makers?’

‘We can’t even locate the makers. According to all accounts, there isn’t a coat firm called Margo – not in this country, at any rate.’

‘I see.’ Steve and Paul exchanged a glance. ‘Did you check with the airport people?’

‘Yes, and we’ve had no luck there either, I’m afraid. I suppose you haven’t had any bright ideas, Mr Temple?’

‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t, except that…Well, I think the people who kidnapped Steve were labouring under the delusion that I was just about to investigate a case of some kind.’

‘And you think the Mrs Temple incident was a warning to keep out?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Well, that’s a possible explanation, I suppose,’ Raine conceded dubiously. ‘But what’s the case?’

‘You tell me.’ Temple tapped his pipe out and reached for the tobacco jar. ‘I never interfere in anything without an invitation. What’s your biggest headache at the moment?’

‘Oh, our biggest headache is The Fence – trying to find out who the devil he is. But we’ve had that headache for some time now. I doubt whether we’ll ever solve it.’

Steve had gone back to the piano stool and was leafing through some sheet music, obviously intending not to intrude on the conversation; but she was drawn into it in spite of herself.

‘What do you mean – The Fence?’

‘Well, you know what a fence is, Mrs Temple?’ Raine had to shift his position to face her.

‘Yes – a man who receives stolen property.’

‘That’s right. Well, during the past twelve months there’s been several robberies. I mean, really big stuff. The two jewellers in Leicester Square…the fur warehouse in Bond Street…’

‘Lord Renton’s place in Eaton Square,’ Temple put in, as Raine hesitated.

‘Yes, that’s right. Well, it’s our opinion that these particular jobs were all done…’

‘…by the same gang!’ Steve supplied, determined not to be outdone.

Raine laughed good-humouredly. ‘No, Mrs Temple. Nothing quite as simple as that. We think – in fact, we know that the various jobs have been done by different people. We feel pretty confident, however, that the stolen property was, in every case, handled by the same person.’

‘The Fence?’

‘Yes, Mrs Temple. So far we’ve failed to find out who this fence is – or where he operates from. But sooner or later we’ve got to find him, because, at the moment, he’s indirectly responsible for a great many of the robberies in this country.’

‘Then I can see why you’ve got to find him,’ Temple remarked drily.

‘Still, we’ve no reason for thinking – no proof, as it were that Mrs Temple’s experience had anything to do with The Fence.’

‘No, Superintendent,’ Temple said thoughtfully. ‘No proof.’

There was a short silence, but Raine made no move to go. ‘There was one thing I wanted to ask you. The day Mrs Temple disappeared you said something about a note – a telephone message – which was on the pad by the side of the bed.’

‘Yes, of course!’ Temple struck his brow with the flat of his hand. ‘I forgot all about that! There was a note, Steve. It said: “Tell P. about L.”’

‘Oh, that was Laura Stafford,’ Steve said dismissively. ‘She telephoned one morning and said she wanted to see you. She seemed awfully disappointed when I said you were in New York.’

‘Who’s Laura Stafford?’ Temple enquired.

‘She’s a journalist – or rather she was several years ago.’ Steve forsook the piano stool and moved over to the sofa. ‘We used to see quite a bit of each other when I worked in Fleet Street. Then she left and married a man called Kelburn.’

‘Kelburn?’ Temple echoed, with surprise. ‘George Kelburn?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Very wealthy. North country. She’s his second wife.’

‘That’s right.’ Steve leaned back and crossed her legs. Raine bent his head and dutifully studied his fingernails. ‘Anyway, when I said you were in New York she said she’d get in touch with you later. I thought nothing of it at the time, but a couple of days later I bumped into Laura in Freeman and Bentley’s and naturally, I mentioned the telephone call, and to my amazement she said she hadn’t ’phoned.’