Paul Temple Intervenes. Francis Durbridge

I do like your voice – it’s so English.’

      Temple smiled his acknowledgment, then stated his errand.

      ‘I understand I can send a code message from here on the short-wave to England.’

      ‘That’s right,’ she agreed. ‘But talking of code messages, there’s one waiting here for you.’

      ‘I got it last night, thanks,’ he replied, politely.

      ‘Oh no you didn’t,’ she insisted. ‘It only came through this morning just after I signed on.’

      Without further ado, she handed him another blue envelope. Temple surveyed it in some bewilderment.

      ‘I think I’d better postpone sending my message until I find out what’s in this,’ he decided at last, and, bidding the receptionist a pleasant good morning, returned to his hotel.

      Steve was just putting the finishing touches to their packing when she noticed him puzzling over the flimsy.

      ‘What’s the trouble, Paul?’

      He shook his head. ‘I can’t make this out,’ he admitted. ‘The message is in the secret Home Office code: yet it comes from a complete stranger.’

      ‘Does it make sense?’

      He passed over the slip of paper, and Steve read:

       I’ll be expecting you, Mr. Temple – The Marquis.

       CHAPTER II

       River Patrol

      SERGEANT RUPERT JOSIAH CARRINGTON BRIGGS skilfully guided the narrow police launch through the churning wake of an overloaded tramp steamer and past the gaunt cranes and warehouses which were dimly silhouetted against the heavy night sky. There came the distant rumble of a storm somewhere beyond Greenwich, and a gust of wind rippled across the water, bringing a scurry of raindrops in its train.

      Briggs had the heavy jowl of a typical Yorkshireman which gave the effect of an almost perpetual frown, particularly when he was steering the launch with the aid of a single heavily shielded headlamp.

      He shivered and tightened the strap of his sou’wester.

      ‘If this is the Thames,’ he declared, in an embittered tone, ‘you can have it!’

      A broad grin split the Cockney features of his companion, Sergeant Hanmer, who had been born within the sound of the river traffic, and had an extensive knowledge of the famous waterway in all its moods. No aspect of the river which carried such a strange assortment of cargoes ever seemed to disturb Hanmer. He began to fasten up his oilskins as he observed cheerfully: ‘I told you to look out for a bit of real life on the old river!’

      An empty crate bumped into the side and vanished in their wake. Briggs cursed softly and changed the course a fraction.

      ‘A hell of a night!’ he shuddered, as the shower of rain developed into a sudden torrent.

      ‘Not fit for a dog! Have to slow her down.’

      ‘If you go much slower, we’ll get swept away by the tide,’ chuckled Hanmer, who seemed to be enjoying himself. They were making about four knots by this time, and the rush of rain had obscured all sounds save the steady beat of the engine and the occasional hoot of a tramp steamer’s siren. The darkness seemed to have reached its maximum intensity, and Hanmer prepared his electric lamp ready for any emergency. Together, they steered unblinkingly through the sheets of rain. Once or twice, Briggs sounded his hooter in a tentative fashion. After a few minutes, the rain almost stopped and the sky lightened a little until they could see very faintly the dim outline of the right bank.

      Sergeant Briggs shook the raindrops from his sou’wester and ruminated feelingly on the topic that was always in his mind at such moments as these. Had he been wise to turn down that offer of a job from his wife’s father? A nice, steady, nine-till-five job, with an office to himself and a chance of a partnership later on. If only it had been something a bit more exciting than dealing in grate polish! Still, there was a lot to be said for regular hours, leisurely meals, and slippers waiting at the fireside. Sergeant Briggs sighed wistfully.

      Hanmer suddenly shook himself like a terrier, and pushed his sou’wester on to the back of his head. Then he took a blackened pipe out of his pocket and thrust it unlighted between his teeth.

      ‘How long have you been in the Force?’ he asked presently, in a casual tone. It was Hanmer’s stock conversational gambit. He didn’t really want to know. What he did want was an opportunity to embark upon an account of his own varied career.

      ‘Me?’ muttered Briggs, straining his eyes in the direction of the dim outline of a Norwegian freighter. ‘Seventeen years.’

      ‘Blimey!’ ejaculated the other, in some surprise. ‘You’ve got longer whiskers than I ’ave!’

      Briggs nodded solemnly. ‘I joined in August, 1925. I was with the L.C.C. before that.’

      ‘Salvage?’ queried Hanmer, the twinkle in his eyes going unseen.

      ‘Not ruddy likely! I was a Grade One clerk,’ snapped Briggs. Then he heaved a sigh. ‘All the same, it was very tedious. I reckon I must have filled in best part of a million forms of one sort or another in the four years I was there.’

      Hanmer laughed.

      ‘Talk about tediousness, you want this job reg’lar. Up and down the ole river night after night.’

      He sucked at his pipe reflectively.

      ‘Before this I had a nice little beat in Hampstead. Not much doing, but plenty of good grub in one or two kitchens I could mention. I remember once when I—’

      He broke off abruptly and leaned over the side of the boat, gazing intently at a grey object which was only just visible. His electric lamp flashed, startling Briggs.

      ‘Swing her round, mate,’ said Hanmer, softly. Briggs immediately shut off his engine, and the boat nosed its way silently towards the grey object which Hanmer kept focused in a circle of light from his torch. Retaining a cautious hand on the wheel, Briggs leaned forward.

      ‘Good God, it’s a woman!’ he exclaimed as they came within easy reach.

      ‘Not much more’n a kid, I reckon,’ grunted Hanmer, focusing his light on the face and hair. As they came alongside, Hanmer leaned over and managed to bring the girl’s head and shoulders almost into the boat. ‘Give us a hand,’ he gasped, and Briggs left the wheel to take care of itself for a moment.

      Within a few seconds, they had laid the dripping figure of the girl along the well of the motor boat. Hanmer pushed back the sodden hair and whistled softly to himself.

      ‘Another of ’em. She’s a goner all right. Looks like she’s been in the river for hours.’

      ‘What about trying artificial—’ Briggs was starting to suggest, but the other cut him short.

      ‘She’s been dead hours. I know the signs. Not a bad looking kid,’ he decided. ‘We ain’t pulled out a real good looker since that houseboat murder – she was an actress – not that she looked much when we got her out.’

      Briggs was paying no attention, but had stooped and unfastened the blue mackintosh that clung to the girl’s figure. His start of surprise distracted Hanmer who was busy extricating a bulky notebook from an inner pocket.

      ‘What is it? What’ve you got there?’

      With clumsy cold fingers, Briggs was unfastening a small square of white cardboard which was pinned to the girl’s dress. Hanmer picked up his electric lamp, and together they examined the sodden pasteboard. Two words were carelessly scrawled