Send for Paul Temple. Francis DurbridgeЧитать онлайн книгу.
It did not need much of the acumen Temple normally kept so carefully hidden to realize that the real reason was the disturbing series of jewel robberies which Harvey was investigating.
‘During the last six months, nearly £50,000 worth of diamonds have been spirited away from under our very noses,’ said Harvey quietly. ‘And you can take it from me, Temple, this is only the beginning. We’re up against something we’ve never even experienced before in this country. A cleverly planned, well-directed, criminal organization.’
Temple smiled at his earnestness.
‘Oh, I know it sounds fantastic,’ the detective rejoined. ‘I know just what you’re thinking, but it’s the truth, Temple. You can take it from me – it’s the truth!’
‘Does Sir Graham know that you’ve come to see me?’ Temple asked.
Harvey was slightly embarrassed by the question. Sir Graham did not like outsiders. Least of all the outsiders did he like the man the newspapers and their readers were advising him to consult.
‘I thought that with you being in the actual district,’ Harvey was saying apologetically, ‘we might—er—well, sort of—er—’
Temple came to his rescue.
‘Sort of have an unofficial chat about that matter, is that it?’
Harvey apologized. After all, a dilettante or connoisseur in criminology could hardly be expected to be officially asked for help by the Chief Commissioner! Nevertheless, Harvey’s mind had begun to whirl slightly, and he had decided to benefit by a little of his friend’s – unofficial – clear thinking!
True, he possessed some scattered facts and a few suspicions, but there was as yet no path for him to follow. He had ploughed his way through trees and bracken to find one, and had only succeeded in entangling himself the more. There was just a chance that Temple, with that uncanny foresight of his, might spot the way. He began to outline in detail what he knew of the Midland Mysteries, concluding with the recent Birmingham robbery.
‘Tell me, Harvey,’ asked Temple, ‘did you see the night watchman on the Birmingham job, the fellow who died?’
‘Yes,’ Harvey replied. ‘His name was Rogers. He was an ex-con.’
‘Did he say anything before—’
‘I only saw him for a few seconds,’ the detective interrupted; ‘the doctor wouldn’t let me stay any longer. But whilst I was there, he said very quietly, “The Green Finger.”…At the time, I thought the poor devil was delirious and talking nonsense. Now, however, I’m not so sure.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well, about a month ago, Dale fished a fellow out of the Thames. A man by the name of Snipey Jackson. He was wanted in connection with the Leicester job. The poor devil was practically gone when they dragged him into the boat – but Dale is absolutely certain he said exactly the same words as the night watchman.’
‘The Green Finger—’ repeated Temple quietly; then suddenly he looked up. ‘Where are you staying, Harvey?’
Harvey explained that he had booked a room at ‘The Little General’, a small inn about two miles from Bramley Lodge.
‘Don’t be silly, old boy!’ laughed Temple. ‘You must stay here. We’ll pop round to the inn for your luggage.’
Pryce was sent to start the car, and ten minutes later the two men were swinging their way down the drive, the brilliant headlamps of Temple’s long black coupé cleaving a passage between the great beeches that flanked the drive.
There was no great hurry and Temple did not drive fast. It was fairly cold and he kept the roof of the car closed, although both men had opened their windows and were savouring the keen night air. An exhilarating experience after the warm confinement of the drawing-room. Although the inn was only some two miles away, it was almost ten minutes before they arrived. Neither said very much beyond a non-committal word or so about the rabbits which scurried out, drawn by the car’s headlamps, or about the smooth, fast running of Temple’s car and the easy way she crested the long slope leading up to ‘The Little General’.
Harvey got out of the car alone, explaining that he would only be absent long enough for him to collect his bags and break the news of his sudden departure to the innkeeper. Temple remained in the car, drawing away at his great briar. He heard the door of the inn close, and fancied he heard Harvey talking.
Two or three minutes passed by. Then Temple heard footsteps crunching in the gravel by the roadside. Somebody was approaching the car from the back. Through the driving mirror he could see a man gradually coming nearer. He turned round and recognized the burly figure of Ben Stewart, owner of Battington Farm, and a near neighbour of Temple’s. He stopped at the window of the car.
‘’Ello, Mr. Temple. What be you doing ’ere this time o’ night?’
‘Hello, Ben!’ replied Temple. ‘I’m just waiting for a friend of mine. How’s the farm?’
The two chatted for a little while about the farm, market prices, and foot-and-mouth disease. Although Temple lived in the country, he knew little more about farming than the average townsman, but he was genuinely interested in it, as he was in almost everything else, and Ben Stewart was one of many who appreciated an attentive audience.
Finally the farmer accepted one of Temple’s best cigars. ‘Sure make the house smell proper Christmassy, this will!’ he chuckled, and vanished into the night.
Temple had switched the car lights off and for a moment or two sat peering ahead into the darkness, vainly endeavouring to follow the farmer’s path. He wondered vaguely why Harvey should be so long. It was actually getting a little colder, he thought, and closed the windows of the car.
The only light came from the inn. Two of the windows were lit up. One that was evidently the window of the bar parlour, next to the door, and one upstairs. The crescent of the moon just revealed through the mist the existence of the poplars by the side of the road.
Certainly time Harvey was down with those bags, thought Temple.
A sudden piercing shriek cut into his thoughts. A moment later, the inn door was flung open and the excited figure of little Horace Daley, the innkeeper, appeared. For an instant he stood still, silhouetted against the brilliant light from within. Then, with a second cry of astonishment, he darted forward.
‘I say, Mister!’ he started, his voice almost unintelligible in the sudden pitch of overwhelming emotion, ‘is that fellow a friend of yours, the chap who came into the inn about…’
‘Yes,’ Temple cut him short. ‘What’s happened?’
‘My Gawd, it’s awful. It’s awful!’
‘What’s happened?’ repeated Temple, a sudden note of apprehension in his voice.
‘He’s shot himself!’
Temple looked at the innkeeper through the darkness. There was a queer look in his eyes.
‘Shot—himself.’ he repeated slowly. ‘No! No! That can’t be true!’
The innkeeper began to wave his arms in a frenzy of excitement.
‘I tell you, he’s shot ’imself. I was—’
Abruptly Temple cut short his flow of words.
‘We’d better go inside,’ he said quietly.
Temple closed the door of the bar parlour softly behind