Send for Paul Temple

‘’Ello, Mr. Temple. What be you doing ’ere this time o’ night?’

‘Hello, Ben!’ replied Temple. ‘I’m just waiting for a friend of mine. How’s the farm?’

The two chatted for a little while about the farm, market prices, and foot-and-mouth disease. Although Temple lived in the country, he knew little more about farming than the average townsman, but he was genuinely interested in it, as he was in almost everything else, and Ben Stewart was one of many who appreciated an attentive audience.

Finally the farmer accepted one of Temple’s best cigars. ‘Sure make the house smell proper Christmassy, this will!’ he chuckled, and vanished into the night.

Temple had switched the car lights off and for a moment or two sat peering ahead into the darkness, vainly endeavouring to follow the farmer’s path. He wondered vaguely why Harvey should be so long. It was actually getting a little colder, he thought, and closed the windows of the car.

The only light came from the inn. Two of the windows were lit up. One that was evidently the window of the bar parlour, next to the door, and one upstairs. The crescent of the moon just revealed through the mist the existence of the poplars by the side of the road.

Certainly time Harvey was down with those bags, thought Temple.

A sudden piercing shriek cut into his thoughts. A moment later, the inn door was flung open and the excited figure of little Horace Daley, the innkeeper, appeared. For an instant he stood still, silhouetted against the brilliant light from within. Then, with a second cry of astonishment, he darted forward.

‘I say, Mister!’ he started, his voice almost unintelligible in the sudden pitch of overwhelming emotion, ‘is that fellow a friend of yours, the chap who came into the inn about…’

‘Yes,’ Temple cut him short. ‘What’s happened?’

‘My Gawd, it’s awful. It’s awful!’

‘What’s happened?’ repeated Temple, a sudden note of apprehension in his voice.

‘He’s shot himself!’

Temple looked at the innkeeper through the darkness. There was a queer look in his eyes.

‘Shot—himself.’ he repeated slowly. ‘No! No! That can’t be true!’

The innkeeper began to wave his arms in a frenzy of excitement.

‘I tell you, he’s shot ’imself. I was—’

Abruptly Temple cut short his flow of words.

‘We’d better go inside,’ he said quietly.

CHAPTER IV (#ulink_629b5250-e460-5426-bfff-467b2c2fd3ca)

Again the Green Finger (#ulink_629b5250-e460-5426-bfff-467b2c2fd3ca)

Temple closed the door of the bar parlour softly behind him and looked down at the lifeless body of Superintendent Harvey. A trickle of blood flowed from the back of his head. In his left hand he still clasped the revolver. For a few seconds Temple stood there in silence. Then he knelt down to make a more hopeful examination.

It was obviously too late to do anything, however, and after a little while he stood up and began to look around.

The door he had just entered was in the corner of a room about twenty feet long and fifteen or so deep. Just to the right of the door was the window from which had come the light Temple had seen from the car.

Along the far end was the bar counter, with a number of glasses, two siphons, an ashtray, a bowl of potato crisps, and an advertisement for Devonshire cider. Behind the bar counter were stacked a number of beer barrels. There were also shelves for the usual bottles of spirits and a table for the till. The whole comprised a scene typical of a little country estaminet. At the end of the counter, away from the road, was a flap. Behind it was a door leading to an inner room, apparently the Daleys’ living-room. Another door in the wall behind the counter opened on to a little courtyard behind the house.

Ancient high-backed oak benches and tables provided seating accommodation in the little parlour. On the floor between them lay two or three spittoons, clean and well-filled with sand. A thin layer of sawdust coated the floor. There was indeed nothing in the parlour to distinguish ‘The Little General’ from a thousand other inn parlours in the country, save the quietness and lack of custom of which the Cockney innkeeper continually complained.

Daley watched nervously as Temple took in the various details. Eventually he could restrain himself no longer, and exclaimed: ‘Whatever made him do it? He came in ’ere as large as life. Walked across to—’

‘Please!’ said Temple quietly; then, after a pause: ‘Are you on the telephone?’

Daley led the way into the little hall, then upstairs to a coin instrument, seemingly intended for the occupants of the three spare rooms.

Temple lifted the receiver. The urgency in his voice impressed itself on the operator, and he was through to the police almost at once.

‘Hello! Sergeant Morrison? This is Paul Temple speaking. Sergeant, you’d better come along to “The Little General”. There’s been an accident…Well, it might be suicide…Yes, straight away. Oh, and bring Dr. Thome if you can get him.… Oh, I see. Well, in that case, give Dr. Milton a ring and tell him I’ve been in touch with you.… Yes, yes, naturally.’

Temple hung up the receiver and turned away to find the little innkeeper immediately behind him. Temple looked at him with distaste clear on his face. Daley was a bumptious little man, no more than five feet tall, but well-built and clearly tough. A small black toothbrush moustache completed a very ordinary face. His dark-brown, almost black hair was well plastered down with cream. His friends would have called him vivacious if they had known what the word meant. A peculiar twist to his upper lip provided him with a continual leer.

It was clear that there was very little the man would miss. It was equally clear that there was very little of Temple’s telephone conversation he had not overheard.

‘What did you mean – might be suicide? You can see for—’

With superb indifference, Temple ignored the question. Then very firmly, setting out to establish his own authority, he asked the innkeeper what he was doing when Harvey arrived.

‘What was I doing?’ Daley repeated, obviously gaining an extra moment to collect his thoughts together. ‘I was doing a crossword puzzle.’

‘Where were you? Behind the bar?’

‘Yes!’

Inexorably, Temple continued, determined to express and establish his authority.

‘Would you mind telling me exactly what happened?’

Daley looked at him, resistance still showing in his beady eyes. Then after a pause: ‘No. No, of course not. This fellow comes in and says ’e’s changed his mind about staying ’ere the night. ’E pops upstairs and brings ’is suitcase down. There it is,’ he added, pointing to one of the oak benches in the corner of the room.

‘Then—’e arsks me if I could change a quid. I says “yes”, and goes into the back parlour to get the money. When I gets back I sees ’im just like ’e is now, laying all twisted up like, with the gun in ’is ’and. Strewth, I didn’t ’alf turn queer!’

‘Was there anyone else here, when he arrived?’

‘No, course not. The plice ’as been deserted since ’alf-past eight.’

Temple looked thoughtful for a moment, then went on with his questions.

‘Are you the landlord?’

‘Yes, that’s me. Horace Daley’s the name.’

‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’

‘Been ’ere about six months. I bought the plice from a chap called Sharpe. Blimey, ’e was sharp all right. This plice is a proper white elephant!’

Temple paced up and down the room slowly and deliberately. Then, still without speaking, he took a penknife from his pocket, cleaned out the burnt tobacco from his pipe and refilled it. Before lighting it, he suddenly turned to Daley.