Paul Temple and the Madison Case

‘Sales? Statistics?’ Temple prompted.

Portland paused, then said slowly ‘No, no, no, nothing like that. Purely a private investigation. He’s trying to find out who I am.’

Temple stared at him. ‘Who you are?’

‘Yes,’ said Portland, nodding.

‘But you know who you are! You’re Sam Portland.’

‘Sure. Sure, I’m Sam Portland. Samuel L. Portland, President of the Portland Yeast Company. New York, Chicago, Detroit, Michigan and all points west. I’m one of the wealthiest men in America, Mr Temple, did you know that?’

Temple laughed. ‘I had a shrewd suspicion.’

‘Right now I could lay my hands on four hundred million dollars. It’s an awful lot of dough.’

‘It’s an awful lot of dough, Mr Portland.’ Temple agreed seriously. He drew his legs in as another group of joggers, more elderly ones this time, ambled past.

‘Four hundred million bucks and I don’t know who I am! Mr Temple, would you like to hear my story?’

Too late Temple was regretting the encouragement he had given the American.

‘Well, as a matter of fact I did promise my wife …’

‘You’re going to hear it anyway, so you might just as well relax!’

Temple echoed Portland’s laugh. The American leant on the arm of his chair and spoke in a confidential tone.

‘Thirty-five years ago, on October 9th 1952 to be precise, a Chicago policeman by the name of Dan Kelly arrested a young man for jay walking – you know what I mean, trying to beat the traffic. The young fella turned out to be something of a problem. He was suffering from what the doctors called amnesia, or to put it bluntly, just plain loss of memory.’

Portland waited for a couple who had paused in front of them to move on.

‘Go on …’ said Temple, intrigued in spite of himself.

‘The young man was acquitted and the policeman – Kelly – took him under his wing. Kelly was convinced that sooner or later the young man’s memory would return, Mr Temple, but the young fella never established his true identity.’

Portland’s cigar had gone out. He gave it an accusing look then laid it on the deck beside his chair.

‘Go on, Mr Portland.’

‘I lived with Kelly for the best part of seven years. We got along famously together. I guess he was like a father and the proverbial big brother rolled into one. In 1958 I moved to New York and started the Portland Yeast Company. The rest you can guess. It was just a long, long trail leading to four hundred million dollars.’

‘What made you choose the name Portland?’

‘Well, I had to call myself something.’ Portland laughed and a gold tooth flashed. ‘I was on Portland Avenue when Kelly arrested me.’

‘But couldn’t you remember anything?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘Hadn’t you any marks of identification?’

‘No. When I was arrested I had three dollars in my pocket, a white handkerchief, a fountain pen and curiously enough an English penny.’

‘An English penny?’

‘Yes. I’ve still got it. Look, it’s on my watch-chain.’

Portland was wearing a waistcoat. Temple wondered if he did so purely in order to accommodate a gold watch and chain. He inserted two fingers in the left-hand pocket and withdrew one of the big old-fashioned pennies. The copper glittered in the morning sunlight. Either it had been treated with some lacquer or he polished it every day. Temple leant over to study it but Portland had quickly slipped the coin back into his pocket.

‘How does this fellow Madison fit into the picture?’

‘I’ll tell you.’ He hitched himself round in his chair to face Temple more squarely. ‘For years now I’ve been making inquiries in the hope of finding things out about myself. If you were in my shoes wouldn’t you want to know who your parents were, where you came from and why on a certain afternoon in the year 1952 you were suddenly discovered wandering down Portland Avenue in Chicago?

Well, two weeks ago Hubert Greene, my London representative, ’phoned through to New York. He told me that a man called Madison – a well known private inquiry agent in London – had discovered certain facts concerning my identity. As you can imagine this sort of thing wasn’t exactly new to me so I told Hubert to look into the matter.’

‘Did he?’

‘Yes he did. Three days ago he telexed me. He said he was convinced that Madison was on the level.’

Portland leant forward and gripped the arms of his deck chair. ‘I’m finding this sea breeze a little too healthy for my liking. What do you say we move into the Midships Lounge? I hear they serve a very good hot bouillon there at eleven o’clock.’

The two men stood up and began to stroll down the starboard side of the ship.

‘Frankly,’ said Portland, ‘I was rather surprised just now when you told me that you’d never heard of Madison.’

‘Well, I can soon check on him for you. I’ve got some very good friends at Scotland Yard.’

‘I hope that won’t be necessary, but if it is I’ll let you know.’ Portland laid a hand on Temple’s arm. ‘Oh, by the way, if you happen to meet Mrs Portland don’t mention this Madison story. She doesn’t know anything about it.’

‘No?’

‘No, you see my wife takes the attitude that I should let the past take care of itself. “Why should you worry, Sam,” she says, “you’re sitting pretty anyway”.’

‘Well, that’s certainly a point of view,’ said Temple, laughing. ‘Is your wife an American, Mr Portland?’

‘No, she’s English although she’s lived in America for a great many years. As a matter of fact we’ve only been married six weeks.’

‘Oh!’ Temple quickly controlled his surprise. ‘Congratulations!’

‘Thanks,’ said Sam, accepting the congratulations with the satisfied expression of a cat that had scooped the milk.

‘Why are you making this trip – for business reasons or simply to meet Madison?’

‘Well, my wife thinks I’m making it because of Moira. Oh, Moira’s my daughter – by my first marriage, of course. She works in my London office. Actually, however, I must confess I’m coming over simply because of Madison. I’m sold on Madison, Temple. I really think he’s found something. Hello, here’s George.’ Portland had spotted a man pushing his way towards them beckoning excitedly with one arm. ‘Now what does he want?’

Temple estimated George Kelly’s age as about forty. He was wearing sneakers, jeans and a brightly coloured sports blouse. All in all he seemed an unlikely appendage for the multi-millionaire.

‘There’s been a ’phone call from the New York office,’ he announced excitedly. ‘I couldn’t find you so I told ’em you’d ring back. They seemed to be all steamed up about something.’