Paul Temple and the Madison Case

‘I’d like you to drop in for a few moments.’

‘Yes, all right. Shall we say eleven o’clock?’

‘That will do nicely. Good-night, Mr Temple.’

‘Good night, Mrs Portland.’ Thoughtfully Temple put the receiver down. ‘You heard all that?’

‘I couldn’t help it, Paul. Why did Greene lie to you about it?’

‘I don’t think he was lying, darling. He really did think it was lost.’

The Temples’ flat was fitted with Banham double mortise locks on the front door and the latest burglar-proof double-glass windows. But Steve always insisted on having a window slightly open in the bedroom. She could not sleep unless she knew that there was an inlet for fresh air, even on the chilliest nights.

She had been the first to put her light out and soon afterwards Temple had closed his book and followed suit. But his sleep was not deep. In his subconscious mind he kept running over the short conversations he had had with Forbes and Greene and checking back on his encounter with Sam Portland. He heard the gentle chimes of the clock in the sitting-room striking two and soon after that he must have dropped off completely.

Perhaps an hour later he woke up. The only sound was the muted hum of the radio-alarm on his bedside table and the echo of a car in the square below. He tried to recall the faint noise that had alerted him, more like a furtive creak than a sharp crack. He felt a stronger current of air on his face and the rustle of the curtains stirring at the window. Opening his eyes he saw pale moonlight slanting across the balcony outside. Was the chink in the curtains wider than when he had gone to bed?

Then for a moment the shaft of moonlight was broken as a shadow passed across.

Very quietly Temple pushed the covers back and swung his legs out of the bed. His movement woke Steve.

‘Paul …’

‘Sh,’ he whispered. ‘There’s someone on the balcony. Don’t talk.’

She froze. He could sense her fear as she held her breath. There was no further movement at the window. Temple sat completely motionless for five minutes. Through the wall he could just hear a faint sound like waves on a pebbly beach. It was Charlie, snoring in his sleep.

At last that creak came again. The curtains swung slightly. Again the moonlight was broken by a shadow. Someone had come through the window and was standing behind the curtains. Temple still made no movement except to put a reassuring hand on Steve’s arm. All his antennae were on full alert. He sensed rather than saw the intruder move out from behind the heavy curtain, into the pool of darkness in the corner beside the door. He could smell the faint tang that always clings to clothes of a heavy smoker.

Reaching towards the bed-head he pulled the string to switch on his reading lamp. Sudden light flooded the room.

The man who already had his hand on the door-handle whipped round, blinking and momentarily dazzled. He was tall, fiercely moustachioed, heavily built, fortyish and scared. In his hand he gripped a stubby automatic.

Temple said, in his normal conversational tone, ‘Are you looking for anything in particular, my friend – or is this just a social call?’

‘Stay where you are! Don’t move either of you!’

Temple had faced men with guns before and he already had the measure of this one. By the way he was holding his weapon he was no trained marksman. But he was scared and that was always the danger.

Temple did not obey the command. He shuffled his feet into the slippers he had discarded before going to bed, stood up and put on his dressing-gown.

‘Paul, he’s got a gun!’

‘Yes, darling. I can see it.’

‘Now don’t try anything!’ the man warned. ‘I’m prepared to use it.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ said Temple. ‘Just tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll try to help you.’

‘You can help me by putting your hands up and standing against that wall. No, facing it. And keep your hands up!’

‘Paul, for God’s sake do as he says!’

Temple did as he was told, feigning submission. He heard the man padding across the room behind him, suspicious that he had some weapon in the pocket of his dressing-gown. This was almost too good to be true. The man was obviously a novice. He smelt the whisky on his breath as he came close. The nose of the automatic was pressed hard against the small of his back. A hand groped in the pocket of his dressing-gown.

At that critical moment and in a lightning movement Temple’s arm flailed down like the blade of a propeller. The side of his stiffened hand connected brutally with the man’s wrist, knocking his hand sideways and loosening his grip. The automatic clattered to the floor. Temple’s movement had swung his body round to face his assailant.

Paradoxically he was more dangerous now. Deprived of his gun he had to rely on weapons with which he was more familiar – his fists.

Temple, himself no mean boxer, had aimed an uppercut at his jaw. The man parried it expertly, then jabbed Temple viciously low in the stomach. The blow doubled him up gasping for breath and he felt the side of an open hand smash down on his neck behind the ear.

He saw a white flash and slumped to the ground.

‘I thought you were never coming, Paul! I’ve poured your coffee out.’

‘Oh, thanks, darling.’

‘I’ve told Charlie to make you an omelette. Is that all right?’

‘Yes, that’s fine.’

‘How does your head feel this morning?’

‘It’s not too bad. I could kick myself for letting that chap get away!’

‘Do you know, Paul,’ she said now, remembering her behaviour with shame, ‘although I was worried I had a most terrible fit of the giggles. I just couldn’t help myself.’

‘I don’t know why the devil you didn’t hit him with something! I’m afraid you didn’t come up to scratch, darling!’

‘You didn’t exactly come up to scratch yourself!’ Steve flashed back. Then she relented and put a hand on her injured husband’s arm. ‘Have you been in touch with the Yard?’

‘Yes, I spoke to Superintendent Vosper. He’s calling round after breakfast.’ Paul cocked his ear at the sound of the front door bell. ‘Perhaps that’s him now.’

A minute later Charlie appeared at the door of the dining-room. He looked haggard after his broken night’s sleep. ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs T.’

‘Yes, what is it, Charlie?’

‘There’s a Mrs Portland’s called – she wants to see Mr Temple.’

Steve turned to Temple in surprise. ‘I thought you’d arranged to see Mrs Portland at her hotel?’

‘I did. I said I’d drop in about eleven.’ Temple shrugged. ‘It’s all right, Charlie, you can show her in.’

Steve would hardly have recognised the woman who walked in as the Stella Portland she had met on her second evening on board ship. She was wearing a dark grey costume, the nearest thing to black that she possessed, and had aged by ten years. Gone was her confident, contented manner. She clearly felt it was no longer worth while taking trouble over her make-up and her eyes were red from weeping.

Steve rose to meet the American, her face showing concern.

‘Good morning, Mrs Portland. We’re just having some coffee, won’t you join us?’