Paul Temple and the Madison Case

‘Yes of course.’

Temple was trying to attract the attention of the waiter when one of the ship’s officers came into the bar. He had his cap under his arm and his sleeve was braided with gold. His eyes searched the assembly and quickly spotted Mrs Portland and Temple. Her back was turned and she did not see him approaching.

‘Paul!’ said Steve, sotto voce. ‘This must be the Captain and he’s coming to talk to us!’

‘That’s not the Captain, darling. It’s the Purser.’

‘Excuse me, sir.’ The Purser already knew Temple, as he had prevented a television crew from filming his arrival on the ship. He turned to Stella. His face was grave. ‘Mrs Portland?’

‘Yes.’ Stella had paled. She already sensed that something was wrong.

‘The ship’s doctor would like to see you in the Health Centre, Mrs Portland.’

‘To see me?’

‘Yes.’

‘But why should I—? What is it? What has happened?’

The Purser licked his lips. He did not want to come out with the news. Then, with unintentional abruptness he announced, ‘I’m afraid Mr Portland’s met with an accident, madam. One of the passengers found him in the swimming pool. The doctor seems to think it was a heart attack.’

Stella’s eyes glazed immediately. She looked round wildly as if searching. ‘Where is he? Where is Sam?’

‘Well—?’

Temple cut through the Purser’s indecision. It was better to have the truth out and be done with the agony. ‘Is he dead?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The Purser’s answer was almost a whisper but Stella heard it.

‘Oh, no!’ Her cry stopped all conversation in the bar. Every head turned towards the group by the window.

‘Watch out, Paul! She’s …’

Temple had forestalled Steve’s warning. He had seen Stella sway and caught her as her eyes rolled upwards and her knees buckled.

The tragedy cast its shadow over the rest of the voyage, though deaths on board luxury liners were not uncommon. The average age of the passengers was high and it was not unknown for invalids to go on cruises merely for the sake of the excellent medical attention that was available. But the doctors had been unable to do anything for Sam Portland. He was dead before they hauled him out of the swimming pool and though the most modern techniques of resuscitation had been applied all was to no avail.

Temple had gone up to the Health Centre and in view of his reputation was allowed to see the body. He could find no reason to query the doctor’s conviction that the portly American had suffered a heart attack. He had been unable to ascertain whether he had any previous history of heart trouble. Stella Portland was prostrate with shock and grief and she had been sedated by the doctor. Steve, who felt very close to the tragedy, had gone to the Portlands’ suite next day to see if she could be of any comfort, but George Kelly had told her that Stella was either unable or unwilling to see anyone.

The Temples had tried to make the best they could of the remaining three days of the crossing. Steve had got her sea legs well enough to become a regular visitor to the shopping arcade where such firms as Harrods, Cartier, Turnbull and Asser, Gucci had displays. Temple spent some of his time in the well-stocked library and in the business centre and kept himself fit in between times in the health spa. The sea behaved itself until the very last night, when a storm blew up. Steve was glad when they sailed into the tranquil waters of the Solent on a predictably overcast October afternoon.

George Kelly had spoken to Portland’s London office on the telephone and informed his representative there of the tragedy. Hubert Greene would be coming down to Southampton to collect Mrs Portland by car. Rather reluctantly Kelly had passed on Temple’s request that Portland’s London representative should see him as soon as he came aboard the ship.

They met by arrangement in the library, which was disused, apart from the librarian, who was checking returned books. Temple whiled away the time of waiting by reading Stalker.

‘Mr Temple?’

Greene had come into the library through the door behind him.

Temple put his book down and stood up to face him.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Hubert Greene. I understand you want to see me?’

Hubert Greene was obviously a man of strong personality. He wanted to dispel any possible impression that he was at Temple’s beck and call. His tone was faintly challenging. He was tall, even taller than Temple, and wore his clothes well.

‘Yes. Do sit down, Mr Greene.’

Greene chose a leather-upholstered, fairly upright arm chair. He crossed his legs, tweaked one trouser-leg and checked the alignment of his cuffs.

‘This is a most distressing business. I’ve just been on the ’phone to Moira …’

‘Have you seen Mrs Portland yet?’

‘No. I came up here as requested by you.’

‘Moira’s Portland’s daughter?’

‘Yes – by his first marriage of course. The poor girl is heartbroken.’

‘I rather expected Miss Portland to come on board with you.’

‘No, as a matter of fact she couldn’t leave town so I …’ Greene checked and shot Temple a wary look. ‘Do you know Moira?’

‘No, but her father spoke to me about her. I understand she works for you.’

‘Well, she’s attached to my office, yes.’ The corners of Greene’s mouth turned down and he tilted his head wryly. ‘Whether she does any work or not is open to question. Poor Sam! He thought the world of Moira.’ Greene’s expression suddenly changed. He uncrossed his legs and leant forward, quizzing Temple. ‘How did this business happen? You know, it seems perfectly extraordinary to me. Do you think he did have a heart attack, Mr Temple or …’

‘Or what?’

‘Or was it an accident?’

‘The doctor seems convinced it was a heart attack,’ Temple answered him blandly.

Greene stared at him for a second before shooting his next question.

‘How well did you know Sam?’

‘Not very well, I’m afraid. We met for the first – and the last time unfortunately – on Friday morning.’

‘Sam was a great guy,’ Greene said with warm enthusiasm ‘A real American. That’s the only way you can describe him.’

‘Was he an American?’

‘But of course!’ Greene exclaimed, surprised by the question.