Send for Paul Temple

‘Good evening, Mr. Temple.’ There was a clear, impressive note of authority in the sergeant’s voice. ‘Evening, Daley!’

He looked round the room and at the recumbent figure of Superintendent Harvey, his legs now covered with the innkeeper’s sheet, while his trunk, arms and head projected incongruously, almost as if the dead man were just getting out of some strange bed. The worthy sergeant bristled with pride and self-importance as he made it plain that he was in full command of the situation. It is not an everyday occurrence for one of the big Chiefs of Scotland Yard to meet his death under strange circumstances, and Sergeant Morrison felt that here, at last, was the long awaited personal appearance of opportunity.

‘Thank heavens you’ve come,’ the innkeeper said, with a sigh of relief. ‘I was just about to—’

A gasp of astonishment broke from Dr. Milton’s lips. He had been looking at the tragic scene before him, but only now had he suddenly become aware of the victim’s identity.

‘It’s Superintendent Harvey!’ he exclaimed. ‘Good gracious, why—’

Sergeant Morrison cut him short. ‘If you please, Doctor,’ he said, and his voice clearly indicated that there was work to be done.

The doctor accepted the rebuff. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant.’

He knelt down by the side of the body. With deft fingers he loosened the clothing and started his examination. After a few moments, he looked up.

‘Could we have another light on, please,’ he asked curtly. ‘I can’t see very clearly.’

Daley hastened to the switch. The benefits of the electric grid had extended out even as far as “The Little General”. Swiftly, yet carefully, the doctor carried out his examination.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Morrison was taking stock of his surroundings. He made notes of the exact positions of the chairs, the benches and tables, and of the general layout of the room. Already the sergeant was beginning to picture a better uniform than the one he was wearing, indeed, he was actually throwing increased authority into his voice and bearing. Fortunately, this did not detract from his efficiency. He was leaving nothing to chance.

‘Hodges!’ he commanded, indicating with a wave of his hand one of the doors behind the counter. ‘Take a look at the back of this place. I think there must be some sort of courtyard.’

‘Very good, sergeant,’ replied Police Constable Hodges, and disappeared into the outer darkness.

For a while there was silence in the room. Temple was sitting patiently on one of the old forms. Sergeant Morrison remained standing, watching Dr. Milton as though fascinated by him.

‘Well, Doctor?’ he asked, as the latter started rearranging the clothing on the superintendent’s body.

Dr. Milton replaced the instruments in his black leather attaché case and stood up.

‘He’s been dead about a quarter of an hour, I should say,’ was the doctor’s verdict. ‘He must have died almost instantly.’ Certainly it was far too late for the doctor to be of any assistance.

Sergeant Morrison grunted. Then he pulled out his notebook and made a laborious note.

‘Now I’d like a few details, if you don’t mind,’ he said, his writing finished. He turned towards the novelist. ‘Was the deceased a friend of yours, Mr. Temple?’ he asked.

‘Well, not exactly what one would call a friend, Sergeant. But I knew him fairly well.’

Again the sergeant laboriously copied the words into his notebook. Then he turned towards Horace Daley.

‘Was he staying the night here?’ he asked.

‘Well, ’e was an’ ’e wasn’t, as yer might say, Sergeant.’

‘Answer the question!’

Mr. Daley looked alarmingly as if he might splutter forth something even more unintelligible, but the novelist intercepted him.

‘Perhaps it would be better if you allowed me to explain, Sergeant,’ he said, as he rose from his bench and joined the little group.

‘Well?’

‘Superintendent Harvey was on holiday,’ said Temple quietly. ‘He called in to see me about ten-fifteen this evening. Dr. Milton and his niece had been dining with me and were on the point of leaving. Harvey gave me to understand that he was staying the night here at “The Little General”. Unfortunately, I persuaded the poor devil to change his mind and stay the night with me. We came down here to get his luggage and—’

‘What time would that be?’ interrupted the sergeant.

‘Oh, about eleven-fifteen, I should say. Certainly no later.’

‘Go on,’ commanded Sergeant Morrison, preparing to make a note of the details.

‘Well,’ continued Temple, ‘I waited outside for him in my car. After about five minutes or so, Mr. Daley came running out. He was very excited and obviously upset. He told me that Harvey had shot himself.’

The sergeant finished scribbling the sentence down, drew a heavy line across the page, then turned back to the innkeeper.

‘Now let’s hear your side of the story, Daley,’ he asked.

Horace was determined to stand on his dignity. ‘Mr. Daley, if you don’t mind,’ he said, by way of prefix. ‘Well, I was standin’ behind the bar doin’ me crossword puzzle when this fellow comes in and says ’e’s changed ’is mind about staying ’ere the night. ’E pops upstairs and brings down ’is suitcase. Then ’e asks me if I could change ’im 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. Coo, it wasn’t ’alf a nasty shock, I can tell you!’

Sergeant Morrison knew very little shorthand, but he could write quickly and with fair legibility, and rarely had to ask anybody to repeat something they had said.

He finished writing what Daley had just told him, before asking: ‘Had you seen him before?’

‘Yes, of course I had,’ replied the innkeeper impatiently. ‘I was ’ere when ’e first arrived.’

‘What time would that be?’

‘Oh, I dunno. About five perhaps.’

‘Was there anyone in here tonight, when he returned for his luggage?’

Perhaps the question was a little obvious, at any rate it certainly seemed to annoy the little Cockney.

‘Yes, dozens o’ people,’ he retorted, with a wealth of broad sarcasm in his voice. ‘About fifteen platinum blondes and a couple o’ film stars. We had our gala night, Sergeant. You must join in the fun some time.’

The cheeks of Sergeant Morrison gradually suffused to a delicate hue of pink. From pink they changed as gradually to carmine and then, more rapidly, to a perilously deep purple.

For a moment a serious explosion seemed imminent. Then the danger passed.

‘Don’t try an’ be funny!’ was all he could growl at the innkeeper. ‘And answer the questions!’ he suddenly snapped out.

‘Anyone ’ere at a quarter past eleven,’ the little Cockney replied unperturbed. ‘Coo! Why, the perishin’ place is dead after ’alf-past eight.’

‘Is there anyone else staying here at the moment?’

‘Yes, Sergeant,’ answered Temple. ‘This lady, Miss Parchment.’

Miss Parchment had been sitting quietly on the chair Paul Temple had offered her some time before. She had not moved. Nor had she spoken. But with her bright blue eyes she had been following everything very intently. There could have been little that she had missed. Nobody had noticed her in the excitement of the moment, and it was with a start of quite real surprise that Sergeant Morrison became aware of her existence.