Send for paul temple, p.11
Send for Paul Temple, page 11
“Of . . . the Knave of Diamonds!” exclaimed Sir Graham.
“Yes.”
“By Jove!”
All Sir Graham’s doubts had obviously vanished. “By Jove!” he said again. “That’s an idea, Temple!”
He started walking backwards and forwards along the well-worn patch of carpet in front of his fireplace. He tossed the stump of his cigarette into the fire, now dying away through lack of attention, and lit another of his favourite cigarettes. He was turning the plan over and over in his mind and his eyes glinted. Sir Graham Forbes was essentially a man of action. It was the lack of any method, any campaign, any scheme by which some information about the Lorraine gang might be acquired, that had brought about his continual bad temper of the last few days.
“Now the whole idea would have to be handled very, very carefully,” Paul Temple continued, embroidering on his plan. Now that he had got the main outline into form, he was thinking over the various details to which attention would have to be paid.
“We’re not dealing with fools, remember,” he went on. “One or two brief references to the stone might appear in the daily Press, an article or two in the trade journals, and that’s about all. There must be nothing clumsy or blatant about the way the existence of the stone is brought to light, or they’d tumble to the idea immediately.”
“Yes, of course,” assented the Commissioner. It was obvious by his attitude that the barriers between the two men had at last been removed.
“I’ll get into touch with Rice immediately,” said Paul Temple.
“And now I suppose I’d better see this woman, Miss—er—Parchment,” said the Commissioner with a mighty sigh.
Paul Temple’s plan was now fixed. Sir Graham was leaving the details of its execution to the novelist while he himself kept the guiding reins. Miss Parchment had been waiting his pleasure for some time, and he felt it was time he interviewed her, though the immediate prospect did not fill him with any great satisfaction. Nevertheless, he pressed the bell on his desk.
“Miss Parchment,” said Paul Temple thoughtfully. “Did she ask to see you, or—”
“No, I sent for her,” put in the Commissioner. “She was at the inn the night Harvey was murdered.”
“Yes, I know,” said Temple with a smile. “I questioned her.”
“She’s a retired schoolmistress, isn’t she?”
“Yes. A retired schoolmistress, with a passion for old English inns.”
At that moment the door opened again, and Sergeant Leopold appeared. Immediately behind him the two men saw the somewhat stately form of Miss Parchment. Her bright eyes seemed to sparkle even brighter as Sergeant Leopold announced her presence.
Sir Graham Forbes rose to greet her. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Parchment,” he said, “but I’m rather afraid that—”
But Miss Parchment was not listening quite as intently as she might have been.
She had caught sight of Paul Temple standing a few yards behind the Commissioner, and her face broke into a happy smile of recognition as she started towards him.
“Ah, Mr. Temple!” she exclaimed. “How nice to see you again. We meet under pleasanter circumstances this time, I hope.” Suddenly she turned her head as if in alarm. “Or do we?” she added, almost as an afterthought.
“Yes, of course.” Paul Temple reassured her with a smile. “And how are you, Miss Parchment? Quite well, I hope?”
“Oh, quite well, thank you,” said Miss Parchment happily. Even the Commissioner himself was warming to this strange little woman who reminded him of a fragile piece of old porcelain suddenly placed in a room, the furniture and decorations of which were of the most modern varieties. She appeared perfectly at her ease. With her air of old-world calm and quiet, she was not put off by the go-ahead methods of the younger generation. Perhaps her life as a schoolmistress had kept her young. It had certainly not made her the biased and pompous old woman that so many teachers are apt to become. She was bright, even flippant at times, and seemed to have an air of pouring gentle ridicule on all the most earnest efforts of the younger set. She herself was almost timeless, yet intensely human.
“Very well indeed,” Miss Parchment went on. “A little sciatica now and again, you know. But nothing to complain of.”
Sir Graham Forbes turned to her. “Miss Parchment,” he said, “won’t you be seated?”
“Oh, thank you.” Miss Parchment rewarded him with one of her most dazzling smiles, as she took the chair Sir Graham indicated.
Suddenly she seemed to recollect her immediate surroundings. “Do you know this is the first time I’ve ever been in Scotland Yard!” she exclaimed. “It’s quite thrilling, isn’t it?”
“Yes, er, quite thrilling,” said the Commissioner drily. He took down a box of his favourite cigarettes from the mantelpiece, preparatory to helping himself, and presented them to Miss Parchment.
“Will you have a cigarette?” he asked.
“No, thank you, I—” Miss Parchment broke off on seeing the peculiar colour of the cigarettes. “Ah!” she exclaimed. “Russian cigarettes!”
“Yes, I—er—I prefer them.” The Commissioner cleared his throat somewhat heavily. “Now, Miss Parchment, I—”
Once again Miss Parchment did not seem to heed his words very intently.
“So frightfully clever, the Russians,” she said provokingly, “don’t you think so, Mr. Temple?” she asked, turning towards where the novelist was sitting.
“Yes, I—er—suppose they are,” agreed the latter.
“Tchehov! Ibsen!” went on Miss Parchment. She seemed to have suddenly embarked on a pet theme of hers. Then just as suddenly she stopped. “Was Ibsen a Russian?” she asked, with rather a strange note of surprise in her voice.
“Miss Parchment!” Sir Graham Forbes was endeavouring to preserve that calm of manner on which he so prided himself. “Miss Parchment, I should like to ask you a few questions.”
“And why not, Sir Graham?” Miss Parchment spoke with a strange, sudden gaiety. “And why not?”
Chapter XIII
A Present from the Knave!
A few minutes after six o’clock Paul Temple collected a happy and excited young reporter from the offices of The Evening Post.
Intense excitement reigned outside the office as they drove away. The vans were beginning to load up. Drivers were cursing. Men and boys were running backwards and forwards. As the fast vans tore away at breakneck speed, other vans took their places. Soon the news would have spread to all parts of London and the Home Counties, as the skilful drivers threaded their way at an amazing speed through the rush-hour traffic.
The editors of the rival papers were already beginning to foam gently at the mouth and mutter harsh words at the failure of their own intelligence service. The morning papers were beginning to get busy on the ‘story’, wondering at the same time, in some cases, how they could make the most of the sensation without publicizing too much the news-gathering capabilities of a paper belonging to a rival group.
As Paul Temple started up the car, Steve Trent again opened the copy of the paper she had taken with her. There was her ‘story’, with a streamer headline stretching right across the top of the front page. While the car jolted along, she struggled to read once again the story she had written. “It’s the biggest thrill I’ve ever had!” she confessed to her companion.
Finally they drew up in a quiet Chelsea cul-de-sac, and Paul Temple was gaily escorted up to Steve’s rooms. They were bright, very feminine rooms, yet in the comfort they provided, they were almost masculine. Her sitting-room (“cum dining-room cum lounge cum office cum women’s gossip club”, as she described it) boasted two very large and very luxurious armchairs, which Paul Temple eyed appreciatively.
A bright plain rust-coloured carpet covered the floor and did most of all to provide an atmosphere which the Germans aptly describe as ‘gemuetlich’. Brown tweed curtains, coloured with a dash of blue, hung over the windows. The furniture in the room was of a sturdy limed pine, “not too difficult to look at, and jolly cheap,” said Steve in praise.
In contrast with the rich warm colours of her large sitting-room, her bedroom was bright and cool. Nearly everything in it was either cream or blue. Even the carpet was blue, while the walls were distempered in a light stone tint. It was a happy little home that Steve Trent possessed, and Paul Temple’s admiration for her and his appreciation of her excellent tastes suddenly jumped up.
But his first remark was one of quiet good humour.
“So this is where you write all those soul-stirring articles for The Evening Post!” he said.
Steve Trent, who had been watching him very closely, bubbled over with her infectious laughter. “Well, I’m glad somebody thinks they’re soul-stirring!” she said. Suddenly she became aware that Paul Temple’s arms were still burdened with a host of small parcels, the raw material for the tête-à-tête evening meal Steve had promised him. There were also some cigarettes, a couple of books, and other little purchases Paul Temple had made.
“Put those parcels on the table, dear!” she told him.
Paul Temple did as he was told, and then subsided into one of the armchairs he had so much admired when he came into the room.
“How long have you been on The Evening Post, Steve?” he asked.
“Oh, about eighteen months,” came the reply. “I started as ‘Auntie Molly’,” she continued with a smile.
“Auntie Molly?” queried Paul Temple, looking slightly puzzled.
“Yes, the—er—the answers to correspondence,” explained Steve. “You know, the—er—the—” she broke off a little awkwardly.
“Oh, you mean writing articles about—about love, and things like that?”
“Mostly about—things like that!” rippled Steve, and they both began to laugh.
“I say,” said Temple, “this is a grand little place, isn’t it?”
Steve looked pleased. “I’m glad you like it,” she said.
“By Timothy, yes!” said Temple. Slowly he rose out of the depths of his chair and looked round the room again. His eyes finally rested on her radiogram, an extremely large instrument which occupied a corner of the room. It was clearly no ordinary mass production instrument. Its case was of the limed pine of which the rest of her furniture was made.
“Rather unusual radiogram you’ve got, Steve!” he said.
“Yes. Gerald bought it for me in Paris the year he—”
A knock at the door interrupted what Steve was saying.
The door opened, and a homely, cheery-looking woman who made up in bulk what she lacked in height, appeared, carrying a tray.
“Ah, tea!” exclaimed Steve. “I’ll help you, Mrs. Neddy.”
Mrs. Neddy was the benevolent Irish woman of uncertain age, though Steve gathered it was at least fifty, who ‘did’ for her. She would come early in the morning to get Steve’s breakfast ready and spend the greater part of the day there instead of the three hours for which she was paid. She had transformed the little flat into a real home for the girl who had no time to perform for herself all the many services she required.
“That’s all right, dearie!” Mrs. Neddy said. “I can manage.”
“Good afternoon!” said Temple.
“Good afternoon to ye, sir!” she answered with her delicious West-of-Ireland brogue.
She set the tea-tray on the sideboard and began to clear the accumulation of debris from the fireside table. Then she set the try down on it and was about to go out when Steve stopped her.
“Is that parcel for me, Mrs. Neddy?” she asked.
Mrs. Neddy had entered the room carrying a parcel under her arm, and all the while she was clearing the things so that the two could drink their tea in comfort, she still carried the parcel.
“Parcel?” she now asked with some surprise, having completely forgotten its existence. Then suddenly she remembered. “Why, yes, of course!” she exclaimed. “It’s a good job you mentioned it now! I should ‘ave probably gone to bed with it under my arm!”
Steve began to laugh. “I gather the memory isn’t improving!” she said.
“Improving!” echoed the Irish woman. “Oh, ‘tis something shocking, miss. There are times when I wonder who the devil I am!”
The two began to laugh at the kindly but absent-minded Mrs. Neddy. But whatever her faults, and they included the most complete disregard and contempt for any kind of efficiency, she did her work well. She kept the flat absolutely spotless, and the most fastidious of epicures could not have found fault with the excellence of her cooking. It might have lacked the variety of a Soho restaurant, but it was good, tasty, and nourishing.
Steve Trent took the parcel from her and began to inspect it. There was no stamp and no indication of its sender. It was about an inch in thickness and a foot and a half across. “A plate or a dish of some sort,” reflected Steve.
“Where did the parcel come from, Mrs. Neddy?” asked Steve, rather puzzled.
“It was delivered about an hour ago, by a boy. A cheeky-faced monkey he was an’ all.”
“Was there any message?”
“No,” replied Mrs. Neddy. “No message, dearie.” She had been staring at the tea-tray on the table in what might have been wistful contemplation. “Lordy!” she exclaimed suddenly, “I’ve forgotten the buttered scones! You’ll have to be excusing me!”
Gathering her voluminous skirts about her, Mrs. Neddy swept majestically out of the room, bent on retrieving yet another error. Mrs. Neddy was always making errors, but errors of a kind that endeared her to Steve. Besides, she had a way of saving her face that at once completely removed any possible ill-feeling or grievance.
“Mrs. Neddy seems quite a character!” said Paul Temple, as she closed the door.
“She’s a dear!” agreed Steve fervently. Then her face became a little more serious. “I wonder what this is?”
“It looks like a disc of some sort, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Steve quietly. She walked over to the sideboard, opened a drawer and took out a pair of scissors. Then she cut the string which fastened the parcel.
“We’ll soon find out,” she said, as she pulled back some sheets of corrugated paper and at last extracted a flat cardboard box. Inside was a gramophone record.
Steve looked at Paul Temple, a frown of curiosity over her face. “I wonder who sent it?” she speculated.
“Isn’t there some writing on the—” Temple stopped in mid-sentence. The girl in front of him had turned a deathly pallor.
“Steve!” he exclaimed. “Steve, what’s the matter?”
She passed him the black disc. “Look what it says on the record!” she said tensely.
Paul Temple examined the label. “To Louise Harvey,” he read. “From the Knave of Diamonds.”
He caught her eye. For a moment neither of them spoke.
“Max Lorraine!” whispered Steve at last.
“Yes!” he agreed.
Steve Trent took the record out of his hands, and walked slowly over to the radiogram.
“Steve!” he said sharply. “What are you going to do?”
She hesitated an instant. “I’m going to play the record,” she said decisively.
She opened the radiogram, switched it on, and placed the record carefully on the turntable. “The set takes a little while to warm up,” she added.
“Yes.”
“Paul!” This time there were traces of anxiety in her voice. “What do you think is on the record?”
“I don’t know. Probably a message from the—” He hesitated. “Steve!” he said suddenly. “You’re shaking!”
“No,” she replied, though without any great conviction. “No, I’m . . . all right.”
“Here – I’ll set it going. You sit down, dear!”
He took Steve gently by the arm and led her to one of the comfortable armchairs. She sat down in it with an infinite look of gratitude in her eyes.
Paul Temple walked slowly back to the radiogram. For some seconds he looked down at the gramophone record. From where she was sitting, Steve Trent watched him with curiosity.
“What is it, Paul?” she asked at length. “Why don’t you put the record on?”
“Just a minute,” said Temple. “Just a minute!” He hesitated. “Aren’t we being a little obvious, my dear?”
“A little obvious?”
“Steve . . . Supposing you sent someone you knew a record – a gramophone record. It had no official label, and looked very mysterious. What do you think would be the first thing they’d do with it?”
“Why, play it, of course! That’s what everyone would do under the circumstances.”
“Yes, of course it is,” agreed Temple. “That’s what everyone would do under the circumstances,” he added slowly.
Steve looked even more puzzled.
“Paul . . . I don’t understand.”
“The person who sent you this record knew that you’d be puzzled by it,” Paul Temple explained, “and he knew, without a shadow of doubt, that the first thing you’d want to do would be to satisfy your curiosity by playing it.”
“Well?” she inquired.
Paul Temple began to grow a little excited. His reason had told him something he did not even care to think about.
“Steve, don’t you see?” he asked urgently. “That’s the whole point! The Knave wants you to play this record – and immediately you do so, his purpose in sending it to you is fulfilled!”
“But—but what is his purpose?” asked Steve. Not yet had she begun to suspect what was in Paul Temple’s mind. “Why should he send me a gramophone record? If it contains a message, then—”
“Any message it contains could have been sent to you in writing,” interposed Temple quietly.
“Yes, I—I suppose it could.” But she was still very puzzled. “Then what’s on the record?”
“Nothing,” said Temple softly. “Nothing of importance. I’m sure of that.”
“Then why should he send it?” asked the bewildered Steve. “You said yourself his purpose was to get me to play it! If nothing is on the record, then—”
