Send for Paul Temple Again!. Francis DurbridgeЧитать онлайн книгу.
she had been murdered – for a woman in her position was likely to have made enemies in almost any sphere of life, and such enemies might just as easily be in America as over here. It was a by-word, for instance, that she had alienated at least half a dozen big executives in the stage and film world by her impetuous actions, which had cost them thousands of pounds, and by her vitriolic tongue, which she never made the least attempt to restrain. As long as stage people could remember her, there had been rumours about Norma Rice. She was said to have slapped three dramatic critics’ faces, one after the other, during a first-night party; she was said to have extorted thousands of pounds from the Earl of Dorrington, whose son had been infatuated with her during his Varsity days; she was reputed to have obtained the famous Calcutta Pendant by a trick; she was said to spend months under the influence of opium, hence her mysterious disappearances…
Few people had liked Norma Rice, but her bitterest enemies had to admit that she possessed that certain something which held an audience from the first moment she set foot on the stage.
Naturally, all these sidelights on Norma Rice’s character ended to confuse the issue, and the Special Branch Commissioner of New Scotland Yard was more than a little worried when he attended the third conference in the office of Lord Flexdale, Secretary for Home Security. It was by no means the last conference. The Norma Rice murder was followed by two more within a comparatively short space of time.
Newspapers made Rex the subject of leading articles which cast no uncertain aspersions at the efficiency of the police force.
The name Rex could be overheard in conversation upon almost any public vehicle as passengers opened their morning and evening papers, and the Sunday Press indulged in a shoal of speculative articles, signed by so-called experts. When the total of Rex murders was up to four, Lord Flexdale decided it was high time drastic action was taken, and bluntly intimated as much to Sir Graham Forbes.
Sir Graham protested at some length. He was one of the old school who disliked the private affairs of New Scotland Yard being dragged into the limelight. He maintained that the Yard would get its man in the long run, and he chafed at the impatience of government officials who panicked at a few articles in what he called the ‘Scare Press’.
But on this occasion Lord Flexdale was adamant.
‘It’s no use, Forbes,’ he declared flatly. ‘We can’t hope to tell where this fellow Rex is going to break out next. There appears to be no connection between any of his victims, and his motives are all quite obscure so far. We’ve got to call for wider co-operation from members of the public. It’s been done before, and it worked. I see no reason why it shouldn’t work again.’
‘That’s all very well,’ grunted Forbes, ‘but remember you’re giving a devil of a lot away to Rex if you admit—’
Lord Flexdale broke in impatiently.
‘I shall admit as little as possible.’
‘Then what do you propose?’
‘I have already arranged,’ Lord Flexdale informed him, ‘to speak after the nine o’clock news.’
Forbes grunted again. Privately, he thought Lord Flexdale welcomed any opportunity to address himself to the nation.
The discreetly shaded reading-lamp near the fire revealed a room furnished in a manner sufficiently unusual to arouse a visitor’s curiosity as to the character of its owner. There was a strange jumble of small ornaments of Oriental origin, an assortment of Persian daggers on the walls, a life-size bust of a Chinese idol standing on a pedestal, two enigmatical pictures by Picasso or one of his disciples – it was difficult to judge in the subdued light – and a wide assortment of cushions ranging through a spectrum of colours.
The recumbent figure in a large armchair stirred as a clock in the hall outside softly struck nine, and a slim, perfectly manicured hand stretched out and switched on the radio. It seemed that the clock in the hall was slow, for the announcer was just concluding the news. There was an impatient exclamation from the armchair.
After a suitable pause, the announcer continued: ‘As listeners to our earlier bulletins will already have heard, we have with us in the studio this evening Lord Flexdale, Secretary for Home Security, who is broadcasting a special message to listeners, both in this country and the United States of America. Lord Flexdale.’
There was a slight cough, a shuffling of papers, then the measured tones of the Cabinet Minister.
‘It is exactly two months since we read in the newspapers about the murder of that distinguished young actress, Miss Norma Rice. As you will no doubt recall, the body of Miss Rice was discovered in a railway compartment in the night express from Manchester to London. The official who discovered the body has already recounted at some length how he noticed the word “Rex” marked on the window of the compartment. Since that particular night, there have been three more murders, all as yet unsolved, and in each case the perpetrator has left this solitary clue to his or her identity.’
The minister paused, as if to allow this statement to impress itself upon the listening public. Then he continued with slightly more emphasis: ‘I am authorised by His Majesty’s Government to state that a free pardon will be given to any person, other than one actually guilty of wilful murder, providing the said person will furnish the evidence necessary to secure the arrest and conviction of the criminal responsible for these tragic misdeeds, which are a menace to the existence of social security.’
Lord Flexdale was obviously making the most of this opportunity to enlarge upon one of his pet themes. With the merest suggestion of a chuckle from the armchair, the slim fingers reached out once more and switched off the radio.
‘We shall see, Lord Flexdale, we shall see,’ murmured Rex, sinking back into the large armchair.
The news-room of the Daily Clarion was in its customary state of turmoil. At tables ranged found the room, reporters hammered out their stories. Copy-boys moved quickly in and out of the sub-editors’ room, carrying messages and bundles of copy. Under a large window, one of the staff artists put some finishing touches to a drawing. A dozen people seemed to be joking at once, and doors marked ‘News Editor’, ‘Assistant News Editor’, ‘Chief Sub-Editor’ were forever opening and closing.
George Dillany, the crime reporter of the paper, sat at his little table, moodily jabbing at the space bar of his typewriter.
George had been overworked of late, and it was beginning to show in his face and manner. He was a little worried, too, that his work might be suffering. After a couple of drinks, however, he would reassure himself with the consolation that if Scotland Yard couldn’t deliver the goods, how could he be expected to turn in a reasonable story? The Daily Clarion paid him to report crimes, not to solve them. All the same, a really good story, particularly an exclusive, made a hell of a difference to one’s outlook on life. You could walk down Fleet Street and look people in the face, reserving a particularly generous greeting for rivals who had been unlucky enough to miss the scoop. Unfortunately, George would be in the position of one of those rivals today, for he had missed a scoop himself. It had appeared in a morning edition of the Evening Courier under the large black headline:
SCOTLAND YARD SENDS FOR PAUL TEMPLE
‘All ruddy headline and no story,’ grumbled George to himself, reading the ten lines that followed the heading:
‘It is understood that Sir Graham Forbes, Special Branch Commissioner of New Scotland Yard, is consulting with Mr. Paul Temple, the popular novelist and private investigator, on the question of the “Rex” murders. Mr. Temple has been staying in the country working on his latest novel, but is coming to London to appear in this evening’s Brains Trust broadcast. It is not yet known whether Mr. Temple will agree to co-operate with the Yard in solving these crimes which are agitating the whole country.’
George Dillany ruffled his hair thoughtfully.
What did it all amount to? he asked himself. It was one hundred per cent conjecture. He himself had called twice at the Temples’ flat during the last twenty-four hours, and had found it empty.