Francis Durbridge - Paul Temple and the Front Page Men

‘Yes, madam. It’s the piano-tuner. He called while you were with Sir Graham. I—I didn’t wish to disturb you.’

Pryce appeared to be unconscious that his announcement had any dramatic possibilities.

‘The piano-tuner … ?’ said Paul Temple softly.

‘Yes, sir. A Mr. Goldie … Mr. J. P. Goldie.’

Temple looked at Steve and hesitated. Then he said, ‘All right, Pryce, thank you.’

‘Shall I bring the tea now, madam?’

‘As soon as it’s ready,’ Steve replied. Pryce departed, noiselessly closing the door behind him.

‘Wait here – I’ll go and see if I can find out anything.’

Steve was obviously uneasy, but made no effort to restrain him. Temple went to the drawing-room, pausing for a moment outside, while the playing continued. Softly, he turned the door handle and entered. Though his back was to the door, and Temple imagined he had made no sound, the piano-tuner turned swiftly.

‘Good afternoon, sir. I trust I did not disturb you.’

He spoke in a mellow, quiet voice, with every evidence of culture. Temple regarded the piano-tuner curiously. He was apparently a little below average height, for he looked tiny, seated at the piano. His clothes were inclined to be shabby, his hair rather too long, and he wore a bow tie. His greyish eyes were obscured to some extent by slightly tinted rimless glasses.

‘You didn’t disturb us at all,’ said Temple in reply to his question. ‘You play very well.’

‘Thank you, sir. I could not resist the temptation – it’s such a beautiful instrument.’

‘Is this the first time you’ve been here?’

‘Oh no, sir,’ murmured Goldie, taking a large and somewhat soiled handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiping his hands. ‘I came in March and November of last year. I attend at most of the flats in this building, and I must say I rather look forward to it. They have some lovely instruments … there’s a Bechstein in Number Twenty-two … ’

‘I don’t think we can have met before,’ put in Temple.

‘No, sir,’ said the little man, whose memory appeared to be quite methodical. ‘On the last two occasions you have been away, if I remember correctly, and the janitor had the key.’

‘Oh, I see,’ smiled Temple rather lamely. Mr. Goldie’s manner was so completely disarming that he felt very like an intruder. ‘Well—er—I mustn’t interrupt you any longer,’ he stammered at length.

‘Not at all, sir. My work is finished. There is never much required on this instrument. It’s always nicely up to pitch. I was just amusing myself.’

‘By the way, your name’s Goldie, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right, sir,’ answered the little man, turning a fraction in Temple’s direction, and blinking mildly at him.

‘Weren’t you with Clapshaw and Thompson’s for a number of years?’

‘Yes, sir, almost fifteen.’

‘By Timothy, that’s a long time!’ commented Temple.

‘Yes, sir, but it passed quickly. I liked the work.’

‘By the way, do you ever see Mr. Paramore now?’ Temple went on, adopting a conversational tone, and doing his best to avoid any suspicion of cross-questioning in his manner. But something in Mr. Goldie’s expression changed immediately, and he was obviously on his guard.

‘Mr. Paramore?’ he repeated, rather coldly.

‘Yes, surely you remember Mr. Paramore. He used to be their general manager.’

There was a pause. Temple could almost feel the tension.

‘No, sir,’ said Mr. Goldie, finally, and there was almost a hint of reproof in his voice. ‘I’m afraid I do not remember a Mr. Paramore.’

‘Oh,’ subsided Temple, flatly. ‘Perhaps I am mistaking the firm. Er, if there’s anything you want, just ring. My man will attend to it for you.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Mr. Goldie with frigid politeness ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

He turned to the piano and began to play a melancholy study by Chopin about which there almost seemed to be an air of grievance. Paul Temple returned thoughtfully to the lounge, where Pryce was laying tea.

‘Well, what’s he like?’ was Steve’s greeting.

‘He seems rather a nice little fellow,’ Temple told her. ‘Apparently he’s been here before, when we were down at Bramley Lodge.’

‘Mr. Goldie is more or less the official piano-tuner for all the flats, sir,’ explained Pryce.

‘I see,’ smiled Temple. ‘Thank you, Pryce.’

‘Not at all, sir. Will there be anything else, madam?’

‘No, thank you, Pryce.’

‘Muffins!’ cried Temple. ‘That was a good afternoon’s shopping, after all. And what a treat Sir Graham’s missed.’ Steve passed him a large cup of tea.

‘You seem very curious about this business,’ she declared.

Temple stirred his tea reflectively. ‘Yes, it’s no use pretending that I’m not interested,’ he admitted.

‘I understand, darling.’ But she did not sound very enthusiastic.

‘There are one or two points which rather fascinate me,’ continued Temple. ‘For instance, this man Goldie … and Andrew Brightman … and Andrea Fortune …’

‘Andrea Fortune?’

‘Yes, the woman who wrote The Front Page Men . I’m not absolutely certain that she doesn’t fit into all this, somehow or other.’

Steve began to show some interest. Her reportorial instincts were slightly aroused.

‘Has it occurred to you that Andrea Fortune may be just a pseudonym?’ she suggested. ‘In fact, Andrea Fortune might even be a man.’

‘Yes, I had thought of that,’ said Temple, taking a large bite out of his muffin. ‘Pryce does these muffins to a turn,’ he murmured, inconsequently.

‘Yes, he is versatile for a man his age. He seems capable of anything from toasting muffins to throwing out inquisitive female reporters. Maybe he wrote The Front Page Men ,’ laughed Steve, rather delighted at the idea.

‘I wonder if he could get the heroine of this cursed novel of mine out of her present distressing situation,’ said Temple, thoughtfully.

They continued this light-hearted banter until tea was over. Then, rather casually, Temple said, ‘We haven’t anything special on tonight, have we?’

Steve wrinkled her brow for a moment. ‘No,’ she answered, ‘nothing important.’

‘Good. Then if you don’t mind my leaving you alone, darling—’

‘Not at all. I saw Morgan of the Daily Gossip this afternoon, and he asked me for an article.’

‘On what?’

‘He hadn’t the least idea. Editors never have.’

‘All right. Then I’ll take the opportunity of looking up an old friend of mine. A Mr. Chubby Wilson.’

‘Chubby Wilson,’ murmured Steve.

‘He’s a disreputable sort of devil, and I wouldn’t trust him with a brass farthing, but I’m really rather fond of him, and besides …’

Steve smiled. ‘I understand, darling. He talks!’

Any self-respecting stranger to Rotherhithe would have thought twice before entering the Glass Bowl for a drink, unless, of course, he was particularly hardened to the drab appearance of riverside taverns. It stood on the corner of an uninviting street leading up from the river; its creaking sign portraying a bowl of dejected goldfish was so faded that only the fish were now faintly visible.

There were usually half a dozen loungers, very much down-at-heel, reclining listlessly against its crumbling walls, waiting for an acquaintance to come along and invite them inside for a drink.

A good proportion of the Glass Bowl’s customers were seafaring folk; sailors from tramp steamers of every nationality, many of them looking every bit as desperate as their prototypes in the more bloodthirsty class of film.