Francis Durbridge - Paul Temple and the Front Page Men

‘You’re telling me!’ said Temple with a short laugh. ‘It was certainly in the wrong place when he beat up that poor old Chelsea pensioner.’

Chubby was still very uneasy. His yellow streak was never very far from the surface.

‘Have you seen Basher lately, Mr. Temple?’ he blurted out at last.

‘No, Chubby, I haven’t. So he hasn’t done any talking. Not to me at any rate.’

Chubby brightened up at once.

‘I’m going to America at the end of the week, Mr. Temple,’ he announced. ‘Wonderful country, America.’

Temple leaned forward somewhat aggressively.

‘Chubby, you haven’t answered my question.’

‘What question?’ The little man tried vainly to avoid the issue.

‘What do you know about the Front Page Men?’ repeated Temple deliberately.

‘I’ve told you, nothin’. Why the ’ell should I know anythin’ about ’em?’ cried Chubby, hysterically. He spread out his hands pleadingly. ‘I’ve bin a lot of things in me time, Mr. Temple, but if there’s one thing about me to the good—’

‘There isn’t!’ snapped Temple, ‘so you can cut the cackle. You’re a dirty-minded little crook, with about as much backbone as a filleted plaice – but I like you.’

After this outburst Temple took a wallet from his inside pocket.

‘I want information, Chubby, and I’m willing to pay for it.’

‘How much?’ demanded Chubby, licking his lips.

Temple pocketed the wallet again.

‘That’s better,’ he approved. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’

‘Mind you,’ whispered Chubby guardedly, ‘I don’t say I’ve got anything to tell.’

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