Send for Paul Temple. Francis Durbridge

his abstract interest in crime.

      ‘A man called Tenworthy murdered his wife by gently pushing her over Leaton Cliffs in Cornwall,’ the novelist reminded Dr. Milton. ‘That was two years ago, the beginning of my active interest in criminology.’

      ‘You must have taken an interest in the case from the very beginning,’ said Diana Thornley. ‘Surely you just didn’t make a lot of Charlie Chan observations?’

      Her uncle looked at her with a kindly and tolerant, yet none the less broad, amusement. ‘Don’t be silly!’ he admonished her. ‘Mr. Temple is far too modest. I remember reading about the Tenworthy affair. He made several startling discoveries which the police had entirely overlooked. As a matter of fact, they arrested a young man called Roberts, who had nothing to do with the case, if I remember rightly.’

      The details of the case were coming back to the two men now. It had caused a tremendous stir at the time. The newspapers had started a ‘Release Roberts!’ campaign. Indignation meetings had been held over the country and questions had been asked in the House of Commons. Young Roberts was finally set free and awarded £1,000 as compensation.

      ‘Yes, Len Roberts,’ said Paul Temple in a soft voice. ‘By Timothy, that boy had a near shave!’

      ‘Well, no wonder all the newspapers are saying, “Send for Paul Temple!”’ smiled Diana Thornley, with an excitement that sent a glow of colour into her cheeks.

      Her host laughed. ‘The newspapers, like your uncle, are inclined to exaggerate my ability, Miss Thornley!’ he said. ‘I am afraid they see in me what is technically described as “good copy”!’

      ‘I’ve been reading a great deal about these robberies,’ said Dr. Milton. ‘They really are remarkable, you know. Four robberies in six months, and all within the same area. I’m not one for grumbling, but I do really think it’s about time the police started to show some results.

      ‘Now look at that business in Birmingham only this week. The police haven’t even got a single clue!’

      ‘Yes,’ said Diana softly. ‘The night watchman was murdered too.’

      ‘Murdered?’ asked her uncle, with surprise in his voice. ‘I didn’t know that!’

      ‘Apparently he was chloroformed and didn’t recover from it,’ explained his host. ‘I have a sort of feeling that was an accident.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Milton after a moment’s thought, his face set in a deep frown, ‘perhaps you’re right. We shall soon start thinking we’ve settled down in the wrong country, Diana!’ he added, laughing.

      They discussed the ‘Midland Mysteries’ just as in a hundred thousand other homes in the country they were being discussed. Whilst jewellers and diamond merchants tested their safes and burglar alarms, taking the latest precautions of every kind, before nervously rubbing their hands and hoping the insurance companies wouldn’t be too argumentative when the disaster inevitably arrived.

      ‘Mr. Temple—’ started Diana suddenly.

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘What do you really think about these robberies? Do you think it’s the work of an organized sort of gang, or do you think…’

      ‘Oh, come, Diana!’ interrupted her uncle, with what was probably intended to be an indulgent smile, ‘don’t start troubling Mr. Temple with a lot of newspaper nonsense!’

      Both men began to laugh. To Temple, at least, it was amusing to see this lovely girl displaying so sudden and rather startling an interest in the Midland Mysteries. And Diana was so very serious as well as persistent.

      ‘You know, Mr. Temple,’ she said, ‘I should really like to know what you think about it all?’

      ‘Well, Miss Thornley, if I were Scotland Yard—’ and Paul Temple paused.

      ‘Yes?’ she exclaimed eagerly.

      ‘If I were Scotland Yard…’ he repeated with dramatic emphasis, then with an amused twinkle in his eye he added, ‘I should send for Paul Temple!’

      They were still laughing when the door opened and Pryce, Paul Temple’s manservant, came in. ‘Superintendent Harvey of Scotland Yard would like to see you, sir,’ he said.

       CHAPTER III

       Death of a Detective

      His words cut off the laughter in that drawing-room with strange abruptness. For a moment no one spoke. The coincidence was too striking. All three sensed drama in the air.

      Yet Temple and Harvey were old acquaintances, if not friends. Harvey had often called on the novelist to discuss some complicated case or other over a tankard or two of beer. And often enough, Harvey was brought nearer a solution while Temple was provided with material for yet another of his detective stories.

      Their acquaintance dated from Temple’s newspaper days when he had once been called on to interview the detective. After that, they had often pooled their knowledge on some case both were investigating and discussed possibilities together. Temple’s own peculiar logic, if logic it could be called, often saw the short cut to a solution while Harvey was still lost in side paths.

      Whenever Temple was in town, the two would explore Soho together, both its better places of eating and its less reputable clubs, Harvey not caring for the recondite forms of Continental cooking and infinitely preferring ‘a good, bloody steak,’ but sacrificing himself to Temple’s tastes for the sake of his company. Then they would sit through a show or go into Hoxton or the Elephant and Castle areas to hear the latest gossip among the criminal fraternity.

      Nevertheless, this visit was unexpected and almost unprecedented.

      ‘Superintendent Harvey—’ said Temple softly. ‘All right, Pryce, show him in.’

      General introductions were effected, and Harvey very soon found himself a deep armchair into which he sank with a sigh of relief. He lit one of his host’s cigars, before explaining that, feeling in urgent need of a break, he was taking a fortnight’s holiday. He was staying near Evesham, and had taken the first opportunity of calling on his old friend.

      The doctor laughed. ‘So glad this isn’t a professional visit, Superintendent!’

      Milton and Temple lit fresh pipes and talked aimlessly for half an hour or so, until Diana Thomley suddenly suggested it was time to leave.

      ‘No, really, Mr. Temple!’ exclaimed Dr. Milton when his host started to protest, ‘Diana’s right. I never like to be later than ten-thirty if I can possibly help it. And it’ll take us at least a quarter of an hour.’

      ‘Very well, doctor,’ replied his host. ‘But don’t let the inspector frighten you away!’

      Diana Thornley began to laugh. ‘It does look rather like a guilty conscience, doesn’t it?’ she exclaimed.

      As the door of the drawing-room closed, Superintendent Harvey walked slowly over to the sideboard, thoughtfully poured himself out a whisky, touched the lever of a soda water siphon, then returned to his seat.

      ‘I say,’ he started, as Temple came back into the comfortably warm drawing-room, ‘who did you say that fellow was?’

      ‘Which fellow?’ pondered his host. ‘Oh, Dr. Milton? He’s a retired medico. He bought Ashdown House about six months ago. You probably remember the place – used to belong to Lord Snaresdon.’

      The detective frowned. ‘Thought I’d seen him before somewhere,’ he said uneasily.

      ‘You’ve probably seen his photograph,’ the novelist explained. ‘He’s only been in this country since last September.