Francis Durbridge - Paul Temple and the Front Page Men

Andrew Brightman opened the window of the car about two inches and tossed the cigarette into the road. At precisely that moment, Sir Norman fell from the seat across the brown leather suitcase.

‘Why Mayfair?’ several of Paul Temple’s acquaintances had demanded when they heard he had taken a flat in that exclusive and somewhat ‘Michael Arlenish’ neighbourhood.

‘Why not?’ urbanely replied the novelist. ‘We’ve got to live somewhere, and one might as well start married life in the best possible surroundings. Besides, I adore seeing Steve in a riding habit, and living so near the Row encourages her.’

Paul Temple was confounding the sceptics who declare that a bachelor is too settled in his habits to make a success of married life. Nowadays he took more exercise, had lost a certain amount of weight, and looked all the better for it. His wife had even persuaded him to cut down his smoking, thereby disconcerting various other cynics who hold the opinion that a man never changes after he is married.

So far, Paul Temple had only one complaint against married life – he was so immersed in the novelty of its routine after his bachelor existence that he found little time, and not a great deal of inclination, to concentrate upon his latest novel.

When Gerald Mitchell, his publisher, brought his wife, Ann, to see the new flat one day, Temple was only too well aware that the visit had a dual purpose. Gerald Mitchell was anxious to discover if the new book was likely to be completed to schedule.

Mitchell was an exceptionally tall, dark man, a distinct Varsity product, and apt to worry himself unduly over matters which he could not control, and which had a habit of straightening themselves out without his assistance.

His wife, Ann, was in some ways a useful sort of antidote. Self-centred and sophisticated, she waved aside all his fears and petty worries until he eventually began to see them in their correct proportion. Almost ash-blonde, and extremely good-looking, Ann Mitchell obviously spent as much on her appearance as would maintain a fair-sized, working-class family.

It was not long before the conversation veered round to the subject of The Front Page Men , and Mitchell was obviously more than a little troubled about the mystery surrounding this, his most successful publishing venture. Temple did his utmost to reassure him, but Mitchell was feeling the strain of the police inquiries and constant cross questioning.

Temple was sorry that Steve was not present to divert the conversation to more cheerful channels in that delightful way she had. She was out shopping, and Temple’s mind wandered away from the conversation occasionally to picture her roaming around Selfridges’, her small mouth set in determined fashion, as from time to time she consulted her shopping list.

‘So you honestly don’t think there’s any need for me to worry about this business?’ Mitchell was saying.

‘Of course not, Gerald. If you hadn’t published The Front Page Men , somebody else would have done so.’

‘That’s exactly what I’ve been telling him all along,’ put in Ann. ‘Isn’t it, darling?’

‘Yes, I know. But these detectives get me rattled. After all, my story does sound a bit thin, doesn’t it? When a woman writes a best-seller like The Front Page Men , she doesn’t usually go out of her way to keep her identity a secret. Not from her publisher, at any rate.’

‘My dear, darling husband, don’t be silly,’ scoffed Ann Mitchell, screwing her head a little, to get a better view of herself in the full-length mirror that stood at one end of the drawing-room. ‘It’s as obvious as daylight. The woman who wrote the book is scared to death because some gang is putting her ideas into practice. I know I’d keep in the background if it were me – and I’ve never objected to publicity. Why, goodness, if she revealed herself, the police would be down on her right away. They’d immediately jump to the conclusion that she was the master mind behind these robberies.’

This idea seemed to intrigue Temple.

‘I don’t think the police are as stupid as all that,’ he smiled. ‘I have a feeling that Miss Andrea Fortune has a better reason than that for keeping her identity a secret. Still, there’s nothing for you to worry about, Gerald.’

‘Of course not. Come along, darling, we really must be going,’ decided Ann, moving over to the mirror and adjusting a Suzy hat, which appeared to be in perpetual danger of dislodgment.

Temple saw his visitors to the door, and had just closed it when the phone rang. It was Sir Graham Forbes. Rather to the novelist’s surprise, Sir Graham declared himself greatly interested in the new flat, and wondered if he could come round. Temple was inclined to feel a trifle dubious of this sudden enthusiasm, but his invitation was convincing enough.

As he replaced the receiver, there was a sound of someone lightly kicking the outer door He opened it, and there stood Steve, almost obscured by a huge pile of parcels, which seemed to hang from every part of her person.

‘I couldn’t ring or knock,’ she informed him, her dark-blue eyes twinkling with glee. ‘Quick, Paul, help me with these before I drop them.’

‘What on earth have you been doing?’ he asked, taking several parcels and carrying them into the lounge.

‘Only a little shopping, darling,’ she answered placidly. ‘Just a few odds and ends.’

‘But you’ve been away all afternoon,’ he pointed out.

‘Have I? Then you’ve had a good opportunity of getting on with the book … oh, do be careful with that box—’

‘What is it?’ demanded Temple. ‘An infernal machine?’

‘It’s a new contraption for peeling oranges. You’ve never seen anything like it. It’s absolutely marvellous! You put the orange in at one end, turn the handle, and—’

‘But, Steve, we don’t like oranges!’

‘I know, darling, but it was so frightfully cheap.’

‘By Timothy, you are the limit!’ laughed her husband, appraising her trim figure in its neat, dark-brown costume, and unconsciously making comparisons to the detriment of Ann Mitchell.

‘And besides peeling oranges,’ continued Steve, ‘Carol Forbes says it will—’

‘Have you been with Carol this afternoon?’ he interrupted, quickly.

‘Yes, why?’

‘Her father was on the phone a moment ago. Invited himself to tea, in fact. He should be here at any minute.’

Steve looked surprised.

‘Sir Graham? What does he want?’

‘Presumably, a cup of tea,’ grinned Temple.

‘I do hope you were polite to him,’ she murmured rather apprehensively. ‘You’ve been in a fearful mood since you started the novel.’

‘Nonsense! I was politeness personified. Why, his own pet detectives couldn’t possibly have …’ His voice trailed away as he glanced through the window.

‘Phew! Talking of detectives—’

‘What is it?’ asked Steve, following his gaze.

‘Look! See those two men at the corner of the avenue?’

‘Yes,’ said Steve, peeping over his shoulder at the stalwart individuals who stood on the pavement. ‘They were there when I came in. I’ve seen them before somewhere, haven’t I?’

‘They’re from the Yard,’ Temple told her. He went right up to the window and looked out in all directions.

‘Good Lord, there’s Hunter – and Reed over the other side! Now what the devil are they up to?’

‘They seem to be watching that telephone-booth,’ decided Steve, after they had observed the Yard men for some time. Temple nodded rather reluctantly. The cream of Scotland Yard playing sentry to a telephone-box didn’t seem to make sense.