Paul Temple and the Harkdale Robbery. Francis DurbridgeЧитать онлайн книгу.
In the past if you caught a gang of bank robbers and sent them to gaol that was it, those criminals were out of harm’s way for several years. But these days – these days the gang gets caught if you’re lucky, but the brain behind the crime is left free to plan his next big job. The men behind organised crime are never caught. So no matter how many petty villains you send to gaol you don’t improve the situation. You only fill up the gaols with petty villains.’
‘That’s a disturbing thought, Paul.’ He turned dramatically to the MP. ‘Sir Michael, I know you think our present laws make it all too easy for the criminals.’
The MP began with heavy facetiousness about his role as a Clay pigeon, and then he laughed lugubriously. On the stage to their right The Melody Girls were assembling for their routine. Paul found his attention straying. He didn’t think that the fervour with which MPs held their opinions indicated their profundity. Sir Michael was a bore. Yet the red-headed girl was watching them without a thought for the coming dance number.
‘Paul, what do you think about that?’
‘Eh?’ The wretch had sprung it on him deliberately. ‘I think Sir Michael is very sincere,’ Paul said, ‘but he knows very little about criminals.’ He wished he had heard a word Sir Michael had said. ‘A prominent MP’s life may be very worthy, but it doesn’t equip a man to understand what makes a criminal tick. There’s a fantastic difference between the lives of the law givers and the law receivers, and I think Sir Michael personifies that difference.’
Brian Clay perked up at the prospect of some real television, while Sir Michael spluttered with astonishment.
‘I keep in touch with the people,’ he shouted, ‘through my constituents! I know my people and what they think! This weekend I’ll be back there holding my monthly clinic, and what will you be doing, writing a novel?’
Paul nodded happily. ‘I’m going off to the cottage, actually, and I hope to start on my new book –’
‘Cottage? You retreat to a cottage in the country and talk to me about crime? What happens in your part of the country? They probably don’t know what crime is!’
‘Freddie, where do you sit on this fence?’ Brian Clay asked.
‘Yes, well, I mean, they’re right, aren’t they? What happens in country cottages? And how would an MP know about crime?’
‘Does that worry you?’ Brian Clay asked the man from Intelligence. ‘Did you used to feel there was a gulf between the life of the pursuer and the pursued?’
‘Never.’ The impeccably dressed man smiled beatifically. ‘What I always say is that if you’re still alive then you haven’t much to worry about, have you?’
That was a conversation stopper. While Brian Clay worked out how to begin again the director waved to the dancers. They were all in place and the music began its introduction.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Brian murmured into the microphone, ‘we give you The Melody Girls!’
The show went out live at ten o’clock on a Friday evening. Doing it live ensured spontaneity and the extra charge of tension which Brian Clay thought so essential to real television. It also meant it was damned late when Paul left the studios. The clock in the gatekeeper’s lodge showed two minutes past eleven. Paul waved in farewell to the man from Intelligence, who tottered off in search of a drink, and looked about for his car.
‘Paul! Over here!’
His wife waved while the gatekeeper raised the barrier. She was looking brightly enthusiastic, so presumably she had approved of his performance. Paul slipped into the passenger seat and kissed her on the cheek.
‘Was I all right?’ he asked.
‘Marvellous, darling. You were terribly sincere.’
‘Oh my God.’
Steve had insisted on watching the programme in the saloon bar of the pub round the corner from the studio. It was her idea of a public opinion sample. And the pub had a colour set.
‘The people in the saloon bar enjoyed the way you made Sir Michael look ridiculous. But of course they all agreed with him.’
Paul sighed. ‘Well, let’s get moving. We’ve a long way to go tonight.’
Steve pressed the accelerator and they moved out into the traffic. By the main entrance to the studios Paul saw the red headed dancer struggling with her suitcase. As they drove past the girl swung round to look at them, tripped over the case and fell.
‘Pull up!’ Paul exclaimed.
‘I thought,’ Steve said with an ironic glance at the girl, ‘we had a long way to go.’
‘Something’s bothering that girl.’
‘I remember the feeling when I first met you.’
Paul hurried back along the pavement and helped the girl to her feet. She was more embarrassed than hurt. Paul picked up the suitcase and watched while she brushed the dust off her coat.
‘Are you all right now?’
‘No, I’ve laddered my stockings.’
‘Perhaps we can give you a lift somewhere?’
She smiled gratefully. ‘I was hoping to catch the eleven thirty from Paddington. It’s the last train –’
‘We’ll make it.’ Paul put the suitcase in the boot of the Rolls and then held the door while she climbed into the back of the car. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Oxford,’ she said. ‘My parents live near there and I promised to spend the night with them. For a change. I haven’t seen them in months.’
‘This is your lucky night,’ murmured Steve. She drove into the main flow of traffic going out to the Western Avenue. ‘We’re off to the Cotswolds, so we can drop you off at your door. We’ve a house near Broadway.’
‘It’s awfully kind of you.’ The girl relaxed, removed her hat and tossed the red hair free, then she smiled. ‘I’m Betty Stanway, by the way. I’m a dancer.’
‘Steve Temple. And the man with the charming manners is my husband.’
‘I know, I was in the Brian Clay Show with him. I was meaning to talk to him all evening, but my nerve kept failing me. I know it must be tiresome for celebrities to have complete strangers button-holing them; I don’t usually do it.’
‘What did you want to talk to him about?’ Steve asked. ‘Paul enjoys being button-holed by attractive young dancers.’
‘I wanted to ask his advice. Or at least, well, I wanted to give him some information. You know, I just felt I needed to talk to someone, and after I read that series of articles in the newspaper –’ She had become incoherent. ‘I was worried, that’s all.’
‘Have you eaten today, Miss Stanway?’ Steve asked, briskly maternal and down to earth.
The girl was startled. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Neither has Paul. He pretends to be absolutely blasé about his television appearances, but he’s so nervous he doesn’t eat for two days beforehand. We’ll stop at the Coach Club. We can have supper, and they serve drinks there until three in the morning. All right, Paul?’
‘Good idea.’ Paul watched the lights of the oncoming traffic. ‘But I wasn’t nervous. I had two hamburgers at half past seven this evening.’
The Coach House was an eighteenth century building on the outskirts of Oxford. It had its legends as a meeting place for the literary establishment from Byron to Beerbohm, but it was now the haunt of motor car executives and the more pampered undergraduates. Paul led the two women into the dining room. It was only half full, but the aroma of rich food and cigars hung in the air. The oak beams and brass looked decently timeless in the half light. It could have been any time since