Send for Paul Temple

Both men began to laugh. To Temple, at least, it was amusing to see this lovely girl displaying so sudden and rather startling an interest in the Midland Mysteries. And Diana was so very serious as well as persistent.

‘You know, Mr. Temple,’ she said, ‘I should really like to know what you think about it all?’

‘Well, Miss Thornley, if I were Scotland Yard—’ and Paul Temple paused.

‘Yes?’ she exclaimed eagerly.

‘If I were Scotland Yard…’ he repeated with dramatic emphasis, then with an amused twinkle in his eye he added, ‘I should send for Paul Temple!’

They were still laughing when the door opened and Pryce, Paul Temple’s manservant, came in. ‘Superintendent Harvey of Scotland Yard would like to see you, sir,’ he said.

CHAPTER III (#u05eab5b0-84fc-5c0c-977f-f3ad5a12ac4b)

Death of a Detective (#u05eab5b0-84fc-5c0c-977f-f3ad5a12ac4b)

His words cut off the laughter in that drawing-room with strange abruptness. For a moment no one spoke. The coincidence was too striking. All three sensed drama in the air.

Yet Temple and Harvey were old acquaintances, if not friends. Harvey had often called on the novelist to discuss some complicated case or other over a tankard or two of beer. And often enough, Harvey was brought nearer a solution while Temple was provided with material for yet another of his detective stories.

Their acquaintance dated from Temple’s newspaper days when he had once been called on to interview the detective. After that, they had often pooled their knowledge on some case both were investigating and discussed possibilities together. Temple’s own peculiar logic, if logic it could be called, often saw the short cut to a solution while Harvey was still lost in side paths.

Whenever Temple was in town, the two would explore Soho together, both its better places of eating and its less reputable clubs, Harvey not caring for the recondite forms of Continental cooking and infinitely preferring ‘a good, bloody steak,’ but sacrificing himself to Temple’s tastes for the sake of his company. Then they would sit through a show or go into Hoxton or the Elephant and Castle areas to hear the latest gossip among the criminal fraternity.

Nevertheless, this visit was unexpected and almost unprecedented.

‘Superintendent Harvey—’ said Temple softly. ‘All right, Pryce, show him in.’

General introductions were effected, and Harvey very soon found himself a deep armchair into which he sank with a sigh of relief. He lit one of his host’s cigars, before explaining that, feeling in urgent need of a break, he was taking a fortnight’s holiday. He was staying near Evesham, and had taken the first opportunity of calling on his old friend.

The doctor laughed. ‘So glad this isn’t a professional visit, Superintendent!’

Milton and Temple lit fresh pipes and talked aimlessly for half an hour or so, until Diana Thomley suddenly suggested it was time to leave.

‘No, really, Mr. Temple!’ exclaimed Dr. Milton when his host started to protest, ‘Diana’s right. I never like to be later than ten-thirty if I can possibly help it. And it’ll take us at least a quarter of an hour.’

‘Very well, doctor,’ replied his host. ‘But don’t let the inspector frighten you away!’

Diana Thornley began to laugh. ‘It does look rather like a guilty conscience, doesn’t it?’ she exclaimed.

As the door of the drawing-room closed, Superintendent Harvey walked slowly over to the sideboard, thoughtfully poured himself out a whisky, touched the lever of a soda water siphon, then returned to his seat.

‘I say,’ he started, as Temple came back into the comfortably warm drawing-room, ‘who did you say that fellow was?’

‘Which fellow?’ pondered his host. ‘Oh, Dr. Milton? He’s a retired medico. He bought Ashdown House about six months ago. You probably remember the place – used to belong to Lord Snaresdon.’

The detective frowned. ‘Thought I’d seen him before somewhere,’ he said uneasily.

‘You’ve probably seen his photograph,’ the novelist explained. ‘He’s only been in this country since last September. He was a specialist in Sydney, I believe, or somewhere like that.’

Rather abruptly Temple changed the topic of conversation. ‘Well, what brings Superintendent Harvey to Bramley Lodge?’ he asked.

It did not need much of the acumen Temple normally kept so carefully hidden to realize that the real reason was the disturbing series of jewel robberies which Harvey was investigating.

‘During the last six months, nearly £50,000 worth of diamonds have been spirited away from under our very noses,’ said Harvey quietly. ‘And you can take it from me, Temple, this is only the beginning. We’re up against something we’ve never even experienced before in this country. A cleverly planned, well-directed, criminal organization.’

Temple smiled at his earnestness.

‘Oh, I know it sounds fantastic,’ the detective rejoined. ‘I know just what you’re thinking, but it’s the truth, Temple. You can take it from me – it’s the truth!’

‘Does Sir Graham know that you’ve come to see me?’ Temple asked.

Harvey was slightly embarrassed by the question. Sir Graham did not like outsiders. Least of all the outsiders did he like the man the newspapers and their readers were advising him to consult.

‘I thought that with you being in the actual district,’ Harvey was saying apologetically, ‘we might—er—well, sort of—er—’

Temple came to his rescue.

‘Sort of have an unofficial chat about that matter, is that it?’

Harvey apologized. After all, a dilettante or connoisseur in criminology could hardly be expected to be officially asked for help by the Chief Commissioner! Nevertheless, Harvey’s mind had begun to whirl slightly, and he had decided to benefit by a little of his friend’s – unofficial – clear thinking!

True, he possessed some scattered facts and a few suspicions, but there was as yet no path for him to follow. He had ploughed his way through trees and bracken to find one, and had only succeeded in entangling himself the more. There was just a chance that Temple, with that uncanny foresight of his, might spot the way. He began to outline in detail what he knew of the Midland Mysteries, concluding with the recent Birmingham robbery.

‘Tell me, Harvey,’ asked Temple, ‘did you see the night watchman on the Birmingham job, the fellow who died?’

‘Yes,’ Harvey replied. ‘His name was Rogers. He was an ex-con.’

‘Did he say anything before—’

‘I only saw him for a few seconds,’ the detective interrupted; ‘the doctor wouldn’t let me stay any longer. But whilst I was there, he said very quietly, “The Green Finger.”…At the time, I thought the poor devil was delirious and talking nonsense. Now, however, I’m not so sure.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Well, about a month ago, Dale fished a fellow out of the Thames. A man by the name of Snipey Jackson. He was wanted in connection with the Leicester job. The poor devil was practically gone when they dragged him into the boat – but Dale is absolutely certain he said exactly the same words as the night watchman.’

‘The Green Finger—’ repeated Temple quietly; then suddenly he looked up. ‘Where are you staying, Harvey?’

Harvey explained that he had booked a room at ‘The Little General’, a small inn about two miles from Bramley Lodge.

‘Don’t be silly, old boy!’ laughed Temple. ‘You must stay here. We’ll pop round to the inn for your luggage.’

Pryce was sent to start the car, and ten minutes later the two men were swinging their way down the drive, the brilliant headlamps of Temple’s long black coupé cleaving a passage between the great beeches that flanked the drive.

There was no great hurry and Temple did not drive fast. It was fairly cold and he kept the roof of the car closed, although both men had opened their windows and were savouring the keen night air. An exhilarating experience after the warm confinement of the drawing-room. Although the inn was only some two miles away, it was almost ten minutes before they arrived. Neither said very much beyond a non-committal word or so about the rabbits which scurried out, drawn by the car’s headlamps, or about the smooth, fast running of Temple’s car and the easy way she crested the long slope leading up to ‘The Little General’.

Harvey got out of the car alone, explaining that he would only be absent long enough for him to collect his bags and break the news of his sudden departure to the innkeeper. Temple remained in the car, drawing away at his great briar. He heard the door of the inn close, and fancied he heard Harvey talking.

Two or three minutes passed by. Then Temple heard footsteps crunching in the gravel by the roadside. Somebody was approaching the car from the back. Through the driving mirror he could see a man gradually coming nearer. He turned round and recognized the burly figure of Ben Stewart, owner of Battington Farm, and a near neighbour of Temple’s. He stopped at the window of the car.