Paul Temple Intervenes. Francis Durbridge

       CHAPTER III

       Crisis at Scotland Yard

      SIR GRAHAM FORBES, Chief Commissioner at New Scotland Yard, was a firm believer in method – and an even greater believer in his own method. And his severest critics amongst the younger members of his staff had to admit that the Chief Commissioner’s methods, evolved over a period of many years’ experience, usually proved successful. They might provide a number of minor irritants; they might even appear to retard the incidence of Justice, but in the end they were invariably effective. Comparative strangers might deride his absorption in minor routine, but Forbes went his way entirely undeterred. His system had stood so many tests, that he had the utmost confidence in its efficiency.

      True, he had encountered one or two setbacks recently in the case of The Marquis murders which were being accorded such extravagant publicity by the press. But Forbes was inclined to make allowances for the press-men. After all, they had to give their readers something lively to read over their breakfast tables and on their tedious journeys to and from work.

      That his faith in his system was quite undiminished was demonstrated this fine autumn morning by the presence on his desk of seven folders of varying colours.

      There was something reassuring about those folders. They contained every scrap of evidence so far retained in connection with The Marquis murders. It was merely a question of sifting facts in the light of new evidence, Forbes told himself as he listened rather vaguely to the argument which was developing amongst his subordinates. Each of them appeared to have his own theories and plans for substantiating them.

      At length, Forbes tapped his desk with his paper-knife.

      ‘Gentlemen, when you’ve quite finished your little brawl, perhaps we can manage to document one or two more facts. Now Bradley, let’s hear what you have to say first. I don’t think you’ve given us a complete statement lately.’

      Superintendent Bradley, a sandy-haired, dour individual in the late thirties, shrugged his shoulders impatiently. There was no more reliable man in a tight corner, but he was always inclined to take the law into his own hands, and was notoriously incapable of appreciating the law-breaker’s outlook on life.

      ‘There seem to have been too many statements made just lately, Sir Graham, if you want my opinion,’ he began, bluntly, indicating the folders. ‘You’ve got a packet of ’em there.’

      The others smiled. They knew that Bradley’s favourite method was to seize his man and hammer the truth out of him.

      ‘What we want is action!’ announced Bradley, decisively. ‘And by God we want it now, before it’s too late!’

      ‘Look here, Bradley,’ snapped Chief Inspector Street, a dark, lanky individual with keen eyes and a sensitive mouth. ‘It’s all very well for you to talk about action, but you don’t seem to realise the devilish cunning of this man we’re dealing with.’

      ‘What I realise, Street,’ retorted Bradley, the colour mounting at the back of his neck, ‘what I realise is that seven people have been murdered – one for each of the Chief’s pretty folders. And if it goes on at this rate we shall soon exhaust all the colours of the spectrum.’

      Street was about to make an angry reply, but the buzz of the telephone cut him short, and with an impatient gesture Sir Graham lifted the receiver.

      ‘Hullo? I told you not to interrupt Dickson unless—’ he paused and his expression hardened. The lines on his face deepened as he listened intently to the message. After a moment, he picked up his Eversharp pencil and made one or two notes on a pad at his elbow. Finally, he replaced the receiver and amid an expectant silence slowly opened a drawer and extracted a magenta folder. As he did so, he turned to Bradley with a grim smile.

      ‘You seem to be a thought-reader, Bradley. We’ve got another murder on our hands, just as you predicted.’ He tore the note from his pad and clipped it neatly inside the folder.

      ‘Who is it this time?’ It was Street who spoke.

      ‘A young girl. They picked her out of the river last night,’ announced Sir Graham, wearily.

      Even Bradley seemed taken aback.

      ‘You mean it’s The Marquis?’

      The Chief Commissioner nodded. ‘They found the usual small square of white cardboard pinned to her dress,’ he said.

      Inspector Ross, a middle-aged sharp-featured individual, who had spoken very little so far, leaned forward in his chair.

      ‘The man’s conceited, Sir Graham,’ he pronounced, definitely, ‘or he wouldn’t go in for all this card business. It sounds to me like Con Landon. We haven’t heard anything of Con since he was released six months back.’

      Forbes shook his head.

      He deplored Ross’s weakness of associating known criminals with unsolved crimes. Sometimes it worked, but it was very risky and might mean the loss of a considerable amount of time.

      For a few seconds there was silence. Street stood at the window looking gloomily at the traffic rushing along the embankment. At last he turned to ask: ‘Have they identified the girl?’

      ‘Not yet,’ replied Forbes.

      Bradley seemed surprised. ‘That’s damned odd, isn’t it?’ he demanded.

      ‘Give the boys a chance,’ snapped Ross. ‘They only picked the girl out of the river last night.’

      Bradley strode excitedly over to Forbes’ desk.

      ‘Don’t you see what I’m driving at, sir?’ he said, forcefully.

      ‘Perhaps you’ll enlighten us, Bradley,’ replied Forbes, in a patient tone.

      ‘But it’s as plain as the nose on your face. All the other victims of The Marquis were well-known people, celebrities in fact. They were identified almost immediately. Myron Harwood! Sir Denis Frinton! Carlton Rodgers! Lady Alice Mapleton! Their death was bound to get into the headlines.’

      Sir Graham pondered upon this for a few moments.

      ‘There’s something in what you say, Bradley,’ he agreed, at length. ‘Maybe we’ll be able to work on this angle.’ Bradley was about to enlarge upon his theory when he was interrupted by the arrival of a sergeant who brought the Chief Commissioner a note marked Urgent and Strictly Confidential. Forbes read it carefully, then let it fall on his desk. He passed a weary hand over his forehead.

      ‘Anything wrong, sir?’ asked Bradley.

      ‘No,’ answered Forbes. ‘Just a note from Paul Temple.’

      ‘Paul Temple!’ Both Ross and Bradley spoke at once.

      ‘I thought he was in America,’ said Street.

      The Chief Commissioner’s announcement had obviously aroused some interest. ‘Perhaps I’d better read you the note,’ he suggested, picking up the paper again. ‘It may convey more to you than it does to me.’

      He read:

      Dear Sir Graham,

      Steve and I have just returned from the States. Why not dine with us tomorrow evening. Shall look forward to seeing you.

      Kindest regards,

      Paul Temple.

      ‘Sounds innocent though,’ sniffed Bradley.

      ‘Just a minute,’ said Forbes slowly. ‘There’s something else here.’ After a pause, he read:

       ‘P.S. Is it true what they say about Rita?’

      Ross