Paul Temple Intervenes. Francis Durbridge

suggested Temple, and Dolly laughed. Then her eyes narrowed slightly, and she could not suppress the curious tone in her voice.

      ‘This is the first time you’ve been here for ages, Mr. Temple. I suppose you wouldn’t be looking for somebody special?’

      Temple eyed her, disarmingly.

      ‘Why of course, Dolly. I’m waiting for an old friend of mine. You remember Sammy Wren.’

      ‘Sammy Wren!’ she echoed, thoughtfully. ‘I haven’t set eyes on him for ages.’ She paused, then added, significantly: ‘Nothin’ wrong, I hope?’

      ‘Nothing at all,’ he assured her. ‘Just a small matter of business. Now, how about having a drink with us?’

      ‘Well, I think a pink gin would calm me down a bit,’ Dolly admitted, now much more at ease. She returned almost immediately with the drink and Temple’s change. Then she fulfilled two more orders and presently drifted over to their table once more.

      ‘So you haven’t seen Sammy Wren lately,’ said Temple.

      ‘Not for a week or two, maybe more. He used to be in ’ere every day at one time.’

      ‘Is that so? With alcohol taxed as it is, Sammy must be doing pretty well.’

      ‘Maybe,’ she replied, indifferently. ‘He never tells me his business, and I’m sure I’ve no wish to know.’

      Temple accepted the rebuke. ‘You look fairly prosperous yourself, Dolly,’ he said, meaningly.

      Some of her former uneasiness returned.

      ‘I’m all right,’ she retorted, with a trace of her old defiance. ‘The boss ’ere is very good. Quite the gent, if you know what I mean. Only last week, ’e give me a rise. That’s the third in eighteen months.’

      ‘That’s splendid!’

      Dolly relaxed once more. ‘Let me get you a gin and tonic, Mrs. Temple,’ she suggested, noticing that Steve was not making much impression on the Old Ale. ‘We’ve had a few bottles of real good gin come in this morning.’

      As she picked up Steve’s glass, Temple suddenly looked up at her and asked: ‘Ever heard of this fellow who calls himself The Marquis?’

      Dolly almost spilled the beer in the glass, as she dropped it a few inches back on to the table.

      ‘I only know what I read in the papers, and I don’t always believe that,’ she snapped, glaring down at him. ‘Why the ’ell should I know anything about this man? What are you gettin’ at?’

      ‘I was only making conversation, Dolly,’ apologised Temple, quite meekly.

      ‘Is this a game or what?’ she demanded, challengingly. ‘You’re the second bloke this week who’s asked me if I know the ruddy Marquis.’

      Temple straightened in his chair.

      ‘Oh? Who was the other fellow?’

      She sniffed. ‘A young chap called Roger Storey. He’s been snooping round here for days asking all sorts of questions. I wouldn’t stand for it only, well, he’s got a way with ’im, and ’e’s lousy with money.’ She smiled reminiscently.

      ‘Roger Storey,’ repeated Steve. ‘That was the young man who identified Rita Cartwright when—’

      She stopped speaking as the Smoke Room door swung open vigorously to admit a flashily-dressed little man, who would have looked far more comfortable in a cap and scarf. Sammy Wren came jauntily over to them. From the points of his yellow-brown shoes to the crown of his tilted derby hat, Sammy Wren exuded an air of reckless opulence.

      ‘Hello Mr. Temple, sorry to ’ave kept you waiting.’ His was the perkiest brand of Cockney. ‘Didn’t get your message till late last night.’

      Then he caught sight of Dolly and dug her in the ribs.

      ‘How’s tricks, old gel?’ he demanded in a hoarse whisper. She slapped his hand and turned her back on him to take an order from another customer.

      Temple introduced Sammy to Steve, who rung her hand fervently.

      ‘Glad to meet your good lady, Mr. Temple. Privilege, I’m sure! I hope you keeps an eye on ’im, Mrs. Temple, and see ’e don’t get mixed up in no funny business.’ He winked, knowingly.

      ‘Suppose we go into the back parlour,’ suggested Temple. ‘It’s a little more private.’

      Sammy consulted an expensive wrist-watch.

      ‘Look ’ere, Mr. Temple, I’m supposed to meet a bloke up West at eight, and it’s gone that now. Mebbe you and me could get together tomorrer for a bit of a chat?’

      Temple hesitated.

      ‘Where you meeting your friend?’ he asked.

      ‘Percy’s Snack Bar, just off the Haymarket.’

      ‘Then I’ll run you up there in the car,’ Temple decided. ‘We can talk on the way. Have a drink before we start?’

      Sammy shook his head. He was obviously in a hurry, and seemed a little worried. ‘Have to be gettin’ on, Mr. Temple, if you don’t mind,’ he decided, and after wishing Dolly good night, they made their way to Temple’s car which was parked at the corner of the street. Sammy clambered into the front with Temple, while Steve got into the back seat.

      As he settled down at the wheel, Temple reviewed in his mind the salient facts about his companion. Sammy Wren was considered somewhat unique in the underworld, in so far as he did not specialise in any one particular type of crime. Yet he was successful not only in his evasion of the police, but also in the financial reward he derived from his various enterprises. Temple knew that he had tried his hand at blackmail, dope smuggling, passing ‘slush,’ and forgery. So far, he had only served two short terms of imprisonment, having been able to convince the judge on each occasion that he was a mere accessory to some other unfortunate. There were no flies on Sammy Wren.

      As they were heading for the Waterloo Road, Sammy asked: ‘What was it you wanted to see me about, Mr. Temple?’

      Temple changed gear and passed a large lorry.

      ‘Can’t you guess?’ he parried.

      ‘Search me,’ said Sammy. ‘Soon as I got your note, I says to myself: “Allo, something’s in the wind, or ’e wouldn’t be writin’ to a blinkin’ tea-leaf like Sammy Wren.”’

      Temple deftly extracted a cigarette from his case and lighted it with his left hand.

      ‘First of all, Sammy, tell me what happened to Rita Cartwright,’ he demanded.

      ‘Cartwright?’ repeated Sammy, in genuine bewilderment. ‘I don’t know anybody o’ that name.’ Temple gave him a suspicious look out of the corner of his eye.

      ‘I hate to call you a liar, Sammy,’ said Temple mildly, ‘but I have first-hand information that you made an appointment for her last night at 79A Bombay Road.’

      Sammy stiffened in his seat.

      ‘Oh, that little so-and-so,’ he muttered. ‘I didn’t know that was her name.’

      ‘Then you do remember?’

      Sammy licked his lips.

      ‘Yes,’ he admitted, at last, ‘I remember.’

      ‘No doubt the boss was very annoyed with you, Sammy, when he found out she was a private detective?’

      ‘So that’s what he wants to see me about,’ breathed Sammy, in some dismay.

      ‘Oh – so you have an appointment with him up West, eh?’

      ‘’Ere, what’s this, third degree?’ demanded Sammy, truculently.

      Temple