Send for Paul Temple. Francis Durbridge

the bench in the corner of the room where he had flung down his overcoat, and prepared to face the outer coldness of the night. Then, taking his leave of the others, he left the room to start up the car and warm the engine for the run down to the police station. Meanwhile, the sergeant was apologizing to Dr. Milton.

      ‘The police “doc.” is down with the “flu”,’ he explained, ‘and Mr. Temple suggested that you might—’

      The doctor cut short his apologies. ‘Only too glad to be of service, Sergeant. Think nothing of it.’

      ‘Thank you, sir,’ the sergeant replied courteously. Then he turned to where Miss Parchment was still sitting with quiet self-effacement.

      ‘You can go to your room, Miss Parchment. I doubt whether the inspector will want to see you tonight.’

      ‘Oh, thank you,’ she replied. ‘Good night, Sergeant. Good night,’ she added, turning to the others. She wrapped her lace shawl around her neck, and with a parting smile for everyone, she opened the door and was gone.

      Throughout the whole trying period, she had remained completely calm and collected. The sight of the body, and the blood now congealing on the back of the head, had not in the least upset her. Not so Horace Daley. Even now, when he might be expected to have grown accustomed to the sight of the body, he was still feeling singularly repelled.

      ‘I say,’ he burst out at last, addressing the sergeant, ‘what the ’ell’s goin’ to happen to this fellow? We just can’t leave ’im ’ere all night!’

      ‘I’ll attend to that, Daley,’ said the sergeant, turning his back on the innkeeper and addressing the constable. ‘Hodges, I think you’d better wait at the front – and don’t let anyone enter.’

      ‘Very good, sir.’ The constable buttoned up his greatcoat, and went outside to take up his station.

      The sergeant took one last look round the room to make certain there was nothing he had omitted. He felt he had done all he could, and turned to Dr. Milton.

      ‘We’ll be as quick as we can, Doctor,’ he said.

      ‘That’s all right, Sergeant.’

      He let himself out and hurried to the car where Temple sat waiting, the engine of the car purring, ready to leap away. He nodded to Hodges in passing, and even as he shut the door of the car, Temple was lifting his foot from the clutch pedal and pressing down the accelerator. The brilliant headlamps threw into light the wide sweep of road ahead, and the great car disappeared into the night.

      Inside the bar parlour, Dr. Milton and Horace Daley were left alone. For perhaps five minutes neither of them spoke. Both sat on the hard benches of the bar parlour, now gazing at the body, now turning away to stare idly into space.

      It was Horace Daley who broke the silence.

      ‘They’ve gone!’ he said in a low voice, far too low for Constable Hodges to hear.

      The doctor nodded.

      ‘I don’t like it,’ said Horace suddenly, with a note of alarm in his voice. ‘I don’t like it.’

      There was an expression of contempt on Milton’s face. ‘Don’t be a damned fool,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘Everything’s turned out perfectly.’

      They relapsed into the same tense silence. Daley got up and walked across to the window. After a pause he turned.

      ‘Have you had any more information about the Leamington job?’

      ‘Yes,’ said the doctor. ‘It came through this morning.’

      ‘Well?’

      ‘We meet on—Thursday.’

      Horace Daley whistled his surprise. ‘Thursday,’ he said. ‘Here – or at your place?’

      Dr. Milton smiled.

      ‘We meet here,’ he said at length, ‘in Room 7!’

       CHAPTER VI

       The Knave of Diamonds

      Paul Temple picked up his last fragment of toast and proceeded to double its size with butter. Then he carefully scraped up the marmalade left on his plate and lowered it gradually on to the precarious foundation. As the butter began to ooze on to his thumb and forefinger, he inserted it in his mouth and began to chew contentedly. Then he swilled it down with strong black coffee.

      Paul Temple had finished his breakfast.

      It was a little after nine on the Thursday morning after the death of Superintendent Harvey. Much had taken place during those two days, but little towards helping the police in elucidating the mystery. Nevertheless, his death and the subsequent police investigations were making admirable breakfast-time reading for some millions of honest, hardworking Britons. The case helped to stimulate their minds gently back to the realities they would have to face during the coming day.

      Pryce, Paul Temple’s manservant, was regaling his master by reading out to him the accounts in the morning papers. Papers of various political hue and of various degrees of sensation were propped up on the table, against the marmalade jar, against the coffee pot, in fact, against every convenient object against which they could be propped. Nevertheless, Temple found it easier, conducive to good digestion, and infinitely preferable to have the accounts read aloud to him.

      He had a vast desire for the better things of life, and preferred to give his concentration to his bacon, toast and marmalade, and to gaze out of the French windows of his breakfast-room at Bramley Lodge on to the great trees and lovely undulating country outside. While Pryce was reading, he did not therefore have to yield him his full, undivided attention, but could take in the main essentials more or less subconsciously.

      Pryce picked up one of the more sober of the morning papers, circulating only in the Midlands, and started reading.

      ‘In a locked room at the police station here tonight, Chief Inspector Dale discussed with Mr. Paul Temple, the celebrated novelist, the incidents leading up to the tragic suicide of Superintendent Harvey of Scotland Yard. It is believed that, shortly before his death, Superintendent Harvey discussed with Mr. Temple the mysterious—’

      But Temple had had enough. ‘Righto, Pryce!’

      ‘Shall I read you what the Daily Page says, sir?’ asked Pryce.

      ‘No. I think we’ll leave that to the imagination.’ Temple poured himself out a little more coffee.

      ‘Did anyone call yesterday while I was at the station with Inspector Dale?’ he asked.

      ‘Several reporters, sir. Oh, and a rather elderly lady by the name of Miss Parchment.’

      Temple looked up in surprise. ‘Miss Parchment!’ he echoed, almost to himself. ‘Now what the devil does she want?’

      ‘The lady didn’t leave a message, sir.’

      Paul Temple extracted a cigarette from a nearby box, finished off his coffee, and strolled towards the open window. Below him, worn stone steps descended to a carefully planned garden where early flowers were already adding colour to a picturesque setting. The velvet lawn, its grass thick and smooth with the careful cutting, rolling and general tending of centuries, attracted him. Temple looked at a world far removed from the world of robbery and sudden death. But he was not allowed to digress for long. Pryce’s voice was recalling him back to reality.

      ‘I’m afraid several of the reporters will be returning this morning, sir. They seemed quite determined to have a word with you.’

      ‘I don’t want to see any of them,’ said Temple impatiently. The Press men had one by one been giving up their quest. They had