Send for Paul Temple. Francis Durbridge

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.

      ‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘could anyone else have come in here whilst you were in the parlour?’

      ‘Yes,’ was the reply. ‘They could ’ave come from outside or from upstairs.’

      But no one had entered from the road, reflected Temple as he put a belated match to his pipe. He had been keeping watch there himself from the car.

      ‘I say,’ exclaimed the innkeeper, ‘why didn’t I hear the shot – that’s what I can’t understand?’

      ‘The gun was fitted with a silencer,’ answered the novelist quietly.

      ‘Coo—’e did ’imself in in style like, didn’t ’e?’

      For a few minutes Temple stared fixedly at Harvey’s body. Then he resumed his steady walk up and down the room.

      ‘Is there anyone staying here at the moment?’ he asked at length.

      ‘Yes, an old dame who calls herself Miss Parchment,’ was the answer. ‘She arrived yesterday afternoon. Says she’s on a walking tour of the Vale of Evesham. Don’t look much like a hiker to me, though.’

      ‘Have you seen her tonight?’

      ‘Yes, she popped in here about half-past nine.’

      ‘What about the servants?’ Temple asked next.

      ‘There’s two maids, that’s all. The rest sleep out.’

      ‘Oh, I see.’

      Daley looked at the corpse with very clear distaste.

      ‘Phew!’ he exclaimed. ‘He looks terrible, don’t ’e? This business ’as made me proper nervy.’

      Temple turned towards him. ‘I think you’d better fetch Miss Parchment down,’ he said at length. ‘I’d like to have a word with her.’

      ‘Miss Parchment!’ Daley looked surprised. ‘What do we want ’er for?’

      ‘The sergeant will insist on seeing her, so there’s no reason why she shouldn’t be brought down right away.’

      ‘All right,’ said Daley after a moment’s pause. ‘If you say so, Guv’nor.’

      ‘And you’d better tell her what’s happened. We don’t want her fainting, or anything like that.’

      ‘If you asks me, she’ll pass right out!’ said Daley, walking towards the hall. Temple watched him close the door, and listened to his footsteps as he started to mount the stairs.

      Then very swiftly he passed over to the flap in the counter, raised it, and let himself through. A few strides brought him to the till. He opened it and briefly examined its contents. Then he closed it as footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs, and in a very short while he was back in the middle of the room again, sitting