Paul Temple and the Front Page Men. Francis Durbridge

got a nerve!’ exclaimed Hunter.

      Sir Graham pulled the map towards him, and they all bent over it. They traced the position of the telephone-booth without much difficulty, and the Commissioner began to formulate a plan.

      ‘Mac, I shall want six of your men here on the corner of Lenton Park Road,’ he said, ‘that will give you a clear view in both directions.’

      ‘We’ll be there, sir.’

      ‘And, Hunter, you’ll be on the other corner, opposite the booth. I want everybody there by three o’clock at the latest.’

      The two assistants acknowledged their instructions and made certain of their positions on the plan. Then another idea occurred to the Chief.

      ‘This block of flats here has a perfect view of the telephone-booth if this map’s accurate.’

      ‘That’s so, sir,’ agreed Hunter, who knew the district quite well.

      ‘See if you can arrange for me to be in the first floor flat. Ring the janitor, Hunter, and find out whom it belongs to. The address is Eastwood Mansions.’

      Hunter went out to make the call, passing Nelson in the doorway. He had returned to inform Sir Graham that Floyds Bank had turned up Brightman’s cheque, which corresponded in every detail with the Commissioner’s description.

      ‘Well, Mac, it looks as if things are moving,’ mused Sir Graham.

      ‘They always are moving, sir, in this business,’ was the non-committal reply.

      ‘By the way, here are two more cards for your collection. They were sent to Brightman.’

      Before Mac could ask any further questions, Hunter returned.

      ‘That flat, sir,’ he began.

      The Chief looked up.

      ‘Whose is it?’

      ‘The address is 49, Eastwood Mansions, sir.’

      There was a rather peculiar smile on Hunter’s mobile features.

      ‘The flat belongs to Mr. and Mrs. Paul Temple, sir,’ he said.

       CHAPTER III

       Sir Norman Blakeley

      The morning after Sir Norman Blakeley visited Scotland Yard, a taxi drew up at the main entrance of Northern Bank in the Haymarket, and Sir Norman emerged, carrying a small leather suitcase. He was nervous and apprehensive, yet to the casual observer here seemed to be almost an attitude of resigned indifference in his manner. His eyes were weary, and the skin on his face was flabby and greyish-yellow. A doctor would have taken one look at him and immediately reached for his hypodermic needle.

      ‘Wait for me; I shan’t be long,’ Sir Norman ordered, as he stepped out rather heavily, and the driver touched his cap respectfully in acknowledgment. It was a fine morning, the sort of morning on which people preferred to walk rather than take a taxi, and he was lucky to have picked up this fare so early in the day; with a bit of luck, this distinguished-looking passenger would demand to be taken to one of the outer suburbs like Richmond – it would be a nice run through the Park this morning. ‘All the same, I’d sooner it was Croydon,’ mumbled the driver to himself. ‘It’d be nice to get ’ome for a bit o’ dinner.’ It was surprising how very few people wanted to go to Croydon these days – at night he invariably had to make the journey home without a fare.

      He was cogitating upon this point when another well-dressed man came on the scene, opened the taxi- door without warning, and declared briskly: ‘Take me to Euston—quick as you can—I’ve a train in twenty minutes. …’

      ‘Sorry, guv’nor. The cab’s taken—I’ve got a fare in the bank ’ere. There’s a rank just up the road—’

      The stranger immediately took a pound note from his pocket and unceremoniously pushed it under the driver’s nose. ‘I must get the 11.15 from Euston,’ he snapped. ‘And if you do it, there’s a pound for you.’

      With a puzzled frown, the driver looked inquiringly into the bank entrance. There was no sign of his former passenger. Then he looked at his meter, which registered three-and-sixpence. He made a rapid calculation on the question of the maximum fare to Euston and decided he would clear at least ten shillings on the deal.

      ‘Get in, sir,’ he invited, slammed the door after his new fare, clicked the flag down as he sprang into his seat, and briskly started the engine.

      The Haymarket branch of the Northern Bank is one of the oldest of its London offices, and its fittings savour of the traditional baronial hall. All the clerks are similarly attired in dark coats and striped trousers, and one or two of them can still remember the days when they were all expected to wear top hats. In spite of the absence of toppers, however, dignity is still the prevailing note.

      Sir Norman never particularly liked this bank. He kept his account there because his father had done so before him, and it would have been rather an effort to change. As he stood there now, he resented the slightly supercilious air with which the clerk examined the cheque he had passed over. The young man, who was new to counter-work, had never been asked to such a large cheque before. He turned it over several times in patent hesitation. Suddenly Sir Norman’s temper got the better of him.

      ‘If you wish to refer that cheque, please do so at once. I want nine thousand pounds in twenty-pound notes, and they must not be numbered consecutively.’

      The young cashier blushed, then managed to stammer an apology. ‘I won’t keep you a minute, sir … I just wondered if …’ Rather incoherently, he beat a hasty retreat to the other side of the counter. Sir Norman could see him talking to a small group of three other clerks in hushed whispers. One of them peered over the top of the counter, obviously to make certain of the customer’s identity.

      Meanwhile Sir Norman drummed his fingers impatiently upon the expensive walnut surface. After what seemed almost ten minutes, but which was in reality exactly ninety seconds, the door of the manager’s at the far end of the counter was opened by the young cashier.

      ‘Would you mind stepping this way, please?’ he demanded politely, and Sir Norman had no choice but to obey. He had not the slightest wish to interview Mr. Percy Briggs, an obsequious little man who’d been appointed temporary manager two years ago, and had contrived by judicious methods, which his staff described in unprintable language, to make himself a permanency. None of his staff liked Briggs, but elderly ladies among the bank’s clientele thought him the most charming man they had ever encountered, seriously considered recognizing the fact in their wills. Which was exactly what Mr. Briggs was aiming at.

      *

      However, his fawning tactics never deceived Sir Norman, and he always felt slightly nauseated when Briggs thrust out a flabby hand to welcome him.

      ‘Good morning, Sir Norman – a very fine morning,’ smiled Briggs, exposing two teeth heavily stopped in gold.

      ‘I think it will turn to rain,’ replied Sir Norman, as disagreeably as possible, ‘and I want nine thousand pounds as quickly as you can let me have them.’

      ‘Certainly, Sir Norman. There are just one or two formalities, if you wouldn’t mind taking a seat.’ He indicated the comfortable chair reserved for customers. Briggs delighted in entertaining what he invariably termed ‘the upper classes’. At lunch he would mention Sir Norman’s name at least three times – as casually as possible – and there was no doubt that his table companions would be suitably impressed, particularly as Sir Norman was so much in the news just now. The manager adopted an attitude of polite sympathy. He had followed the Blakeley case very closely in the papers, and he loved to know what was going on behind the scenes. He told himself that it was part of his job. (‘Never