Paul Temple and the Front Page Men

When Gerald Mitchell, his publisher, brought his wife, Ann, to see the new flat one day, Temple was only too well aware that the visit had a dual purpose. Gerald Mitchell was anxious to discover if the new book was likely to be completed to schedule.

Mitchell was an exceptionally tall, dark man, a distinct Varsity product, and apt to worry himself unduly over matters which he could not control, and which had a habit of straightening themselves out without his assistance.

His wife, Ann, was in some ways a useful sort of antidote. Self-centred and sophisticated, she waved aside all his fears and petty worries until he eventually began to see them in their correct proportion. Almost ash-blonde, and extremely good-looking, Ann Mitchell obviously spent as much on her appearance as would maintain a fair-sized, working-class family.

It was not long before the conversation veered round to the subject of The Front Page Men, and Mitchell was obviously more than a little troubled about the mystery surrounding this, his most successful publishing venture. Temple did his utmost to reassure him, but Mitchell was feeling the strain of the police inquiries and constant cross questioning.

Temple was sorry that Steve was not present to divert the conversation to more cheerful channels in that delightful way she had. She was out shopping, and Temple’s mind wandered away from the conversation occasionally to picture her roaming around Selfridges’, her small mouth set in determined fashion, as from time to time she consulted her shopping list.

‘So you honestly don’t think there’s any need for me to worry about this business?’ Mitchell was saying.

‘Of course not, Gerald. If you hadn’t published The Front Page Men, somebody else would have done so.’

‘That’s exactly what I’ve been telling him all along,’ put in Ann. ‘Isn’t it, darling?’

‘Yes, I know. But these detectives get me rattled. After all, my story does sound a bit thin, doesn’t it? When a woman writes a best-seller like The Front Page Men, she doesn’t usually go out of her way to keep her identity a secret. Not from her publisher, at any rate.’

‘My dear, darling husband, don’t be silly,’ scoffed Ann Mitchell, screwing her head a little, to get a better view of herself in the full-length mirror that stood at one end of the drawing-room. ‘It’s as obvious as daylight. The woman who wrote the book is scared to death because some gang is putting her ideas into practice. I know I’d keep in the background if it were me – and I’ve never objected to publicity. Why, goodness, if she revealed herself, the police would be down on her right away. They’d immediately jump to the conclusion that she was the master mind behind these robberies.’

This idea seemed to intrigue Temple.

‘I don’t think the police are as stupid as all that,’ he smiled. ‘I have a feeling that Miss Andrea Fortune has a better reason than that for keeping her identity a secret. Still, there’s nothing for you to worry about, Gerald.’

‘Of course not. Come along, darling, we really must be going,’ decided Ann, moving over to the mirror and adjusting a Suzy hat, which appeared to be in perpetual danger of dislodgment.

Temple saw his visitors to the door, and had just closed it when the phone rang. It was Sir Graham Forbes. Rather to the novelist’s surprise, Sir Graham declared himself greatly interested in the new flat, and wondered if he could come round. Temple was inclined to feel a trifle dubious of this sudden enthusiasm, but his invitation was convincing enough.

As he replaced the receiver, there was a sound of someone lightly kicking the outer door He opened it, and there stood Steve, almost obscured by a huge pile of parcels, which seemed to hang from every part of her person.

‘I couldn’t ring or knock,’ she informed him, her dark-blue eyes twinkling with glee. ‘Quick, Paul, help me with these before I drop them.’

‘What on earth have you been doing?’ he asked, taking several parcels and carrying them into the lounge.

‘Only a little shopping, darling,’ she answered placidly. ‘Just a few odds and ends.’

‘But you’ve been away all afternoon,’ he pointed out.

‘Have I? Then you’ve had a good opportunity of getting on with the book … oh, do be careful with that box—’

‘What is it?’ demanded Temple. ‘An infernal machine?’

‘It’s a new contraption for peeling oranges. You’ve never seen anything like it. It’s absolutely marvellous! You put the orange in at one end, turn the handle, and—’

‘But, Steve, we don’t like oranges!’

‘I know, darling, but it was so frightfully cheap.’

‘By Timothy, you are the limit!’ laughed her husband, appraising her trim figure in its neat, dark-brown costume, and unconsciously making comparisons to the detriment of Ann Mitchell.

‘And besides peeling oranges,’ continued Steve, ‘Carol Forbes says it will—’

‘Have you been with Carol this afternoon?’ he interrupted, quickly.

‘Yes, why?’

‘Her father was on the phone a moment ago. Invited himself to tea, in fact. He should be here at any minute.’

Steve looked surprised.

‘Sir Graham? What does he want?’

‘Presumably, a cup of tea,’ grinned Temple.

‘I do hope you were polite to him,’ she murmured rather apprehensively. ‘You’ve been in a fearful mood since you started the novel.’

‘Nonsense! I was politeness personified. Why, his own pet detectives couldn’t possibly have …’ His voice trailed away as he glanced through the window.

‘Phew! Talking of detectives—’

‘What is it?’ asked Steve, following his gaze.

‘Look! See those two men at the corner of the avenue?’

‘Yes,’ said Steve, peeping over his shoulder at the stalwart individuals who stood on the pavement. ‘They were there when I came in. I’ve seen them before somewhere, haven’t I?’

‘They’re from the Yard,’ Temple told her. He went right up to the window and looked out in all directions.

‘Good Lord, there’s Hunter – and Reed over the other side! Now what the devil are they up to?’

‘They seem to be watching that telephone-booth,’ decided Steve, after they had observed the Yard men for some time. Temple nodded rather reluctantly. The cream of Scotland Yard playing sentry to a telephone-box didn’t seem to make sense.

‘Isn’t that Richards in the car?’ queried Steve.

‘Yes, I believe it is.’

‘I wonder if that’s why Sir Graham invited himself to tea, so that he could keep an eye on his flock,’ she mused.

‘That’s it!’ Temple had almost simultaneously reached the same conclusion. He suddenly became very cheerful. ‘Steve, my girl,’ he laughed, ‘things are looking up round the old homestead.’

His wife found it difficult to respond to his mood. The series of adventures in which she had been involved following the death of her brother had quite satisfied Steve’s thirst for adventure.

Since the adventure which had culminated in the capture of Max Lorraine, alias the Knave of Diamonds, Paul Temple had completed one book and started another. Now he had apparently arrived at a degree of satiety which demanded a certain amount of extrusion before his inspiration could be renewed.

Pryce, the Temples’ elderly manservant, suddenly announced Sir Graham Forbes, and the Chief Commissioner entered briskly.

‘I do hope I’m not butting in, Temple,’ he began, as Paul Temple went forward to greet him.

‘Of course not,’ his host assured him. ‘You know my wife, I believe?’

‘Rather,’ said Sir Graham. ‘How are you, Mrs. Temple? Married life seems to suit you. You’re looking much better than on the last occasion we met at that dilapidated inn near Evesham. Remember the place?’

‘The First Penguin? Brrr – shall I ever forget it?’ shuddered Steve.

Paul Temple laughed, and a reminiscent smile lit the Chief Commissioner’s rugged features.

Steve regarded them curiously. Here they were, making light of that terrible experience. Had they forgotten? Or was her imagination running away with her?

‘I read your last novel, Temple,’ Sir Graham was saying. ‘The detective was a bigger fool than ever.’

‘He had to be, Sir Graham,’ answered Temple seriously. ‘He was practically the Chief Commissioner!’

Steve joined in the laughter, then rang for Pryce and ordered tea. Sir Graham left his chair and strolled across to the window in casual fashion.

‘Nice place you’ve got here, Temple,’ he commented. ‘Pretty handy for most things.’

‘Very handy indeed,’ suavely agreed the novelist. ‘And such a delightful view. On a clear day we can see practically the whole of Scotland Yard.’

Sir Graham was momentarily disconcerted. ‘So you’ve noticed them?’ he grunted.

Temple nodded lightly. ‘Is that why you came here, Sir Graham?’

‘Yes. I wanted to be able to keep an eye on everything, and picked on this flat as the most likely spot. I got something of a shock when I discovered it was yours.’

‘We haven’t used it a great deal,’ explained Steve. ‘We’ve spent most of our time at Bramley Lodge.’

‘I see, just a sort of pied-a-terre, eh?’ said the Chief Commissioner. ‘Well, I’ve lived in worse places.’

‘Why are they watching that telephone-booth?’ asked Temple, unable to restrain his curiosity any longer.

Once again Sir Graham was rather taken aback.

‘Is it so obvious?’ he asked.

‘No, I don’t think so. Not to the casual observer, at any rate. But I recognised Reed.’

Sir Graham looked at his watch. It was just turned twenty minutes to four. Time enough to give his host a brief outline of the case. He might be able to make some suggestion. Temple was certainly never lacking in ideas, reflected the Chief Commissioner.

‘You’ve heard of Sir Norman Blakeley?’ he began.

‘You mean the motor magnate? Why, yes, of course.’

‘The man whose child was kidnapped – it’s in all the papers,’ put in Steve.

‘Yes, it’s in the papers all right,’ said Sir Graham ominously. ‘But I’m going to tell you something that the reporters haven’t got hold of yet.’

He went on to give details of the instructions Sir Norman had received.

‘And he’s going to deposit the notes?’ softly queried Temple when Sir Graham had finished.

‘Yes,’ answered Forbes, slowly nodding his head, ‘he’s going to deposit them.’

‘Did Blakeley receive any visitors the day the child disappeared?’

‘Two. A friend of his named Andrew Brightman and an old chap called Goldie, a piano-tuner.’ The Chief Commissioner then gave Temple a resume of the Brightman case and the strange coincidence of Goldie’s presence on the day of the abduction.

Temple seemed particularly interested in the piano-tuner, and was about to fire a series of questions at Sir Graham when Pryce entered. For once, the imperturbable Pryce actually appeared to be in a hurry.

‘Chief Inspector Reed has called to see Sir Graham,’ he announced, and Reed himself was right on the servant’s heels, somewhat out of breath and more than a little excited.

‘Sorry to burst in like this, Sir Graham, but …’ he paused to shoot a dubious glance at Temple before imparting his news, ‘it’s Blakeley.’

Sir Graham was on his feet at once.

‘What about Blakeley?’

‘He’s—dead.’

‘Dead!’ gasped Forbes, incredulously.

‘Where is he?’ demanded Paul Temple, briskly.

‘He’s in the telephone-booth downstairs. We’ve been watching it for two hours, and the poor devil was on the floor all the time.’

‘But supposing someone had wanted to telephone?’ queried Steve, in amazement.

‘Yes, you can’t tell me that nobody used the box for two hours in a district like this,’ insisted the Chief Commissioner.

Reed shook his head, dismally.

‘There was a large board against the booth which said “Out of Order”. It was there when we arrived. If it hadn’t been for that, we should have seen the body.’

‘Then what made you go to the box?’

‘The bell started ringing, sir. Hunter answered it.’

‘Anyone there?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Was the suitcase there?’

‘No. But there was this card on the ledge, sir … near the telephone.’

Forbes took the card and read:

Unlike Mr. Andrew Brightman – he talked.

The Front Page Men.

He passed the card to Temple, who examined it, and returned it to Reed. ‘You’ll be getting quite a collection, Mr. Reed,’ he smiled, but Mac did not deign to reply.

‘Come along, Mac, I want to see the body,’ ordered Sir Graham presently. ‘I’ll be in touch with you again, Temple.’

‘Always at your service, Sir Graham,’ murmured Temple politely as they walked to the lift.

*

When he returned, he found Steve deep in thought. She looked up quickly as he entered. There was rather a strained expression in the dark-blue eyes.

‘Paul,’ she demanded earnestly, ‘you’re not going to have anything to do with this, are you?’

The idea seemed to amuse him.

‘Me? Good Lord, no! What makes you think I have time to play around with the Scotland Yard boys? My dear Steve, I’m a hard-working novelist with an expensive wife to keep, and a novel as good as promised for—for—’

He stopped, and seemed to be listening intently. Steve, too, was suddenly alert.

‘What is it, Paul?’ she asked.

‘Listen!’

As from a distance, came the sound of a piano being played; rather slowly, and with a soothing, delicate touch. Heard like this, there was almost a weird charm about the performance.

‘There’s … there’s someone in the drawing-room,’ whispered Steve, rather jerkily.

‘Yes,’ murmured Temple. ‘Ring for Pryce.’ She crossed the room, and almost before she had returned to her seat the door opened, and the sound of the piano became clearer and more purposeful.

‘Is that someone in the drawing-room, Pryce?’ asked Steve.

‘Yes, madam. It’s the piano-tuner. He called while you were with Sir Graham. I—I didn’t wish to disturb you.’

Pryce appeared to be unconscious that his announcement had any dramatic possibilities.

‘The piano-tuner … ?’ said Paul Temple softly.

‘Yes, sir. A Mr. Goldie … Mr. J. P. Goldie.’

CHAPTER V

Mr. J.P. Goldie

Temple looked at Steve and hesitated. Then he said, ‘All right, Pryce, thank you.’

‘Shall I bring the tea now, madam?’

‘As soon as it’s ready,’ Steve replied. Pryce departed, noiselessly closing the door behind him.

‘Wait here – I’ll go and see if I can find out anything.’

Steve was obviously uneasy, but made no effort to restrain him. Temple went to the drawing-room, pausing for a moment outside, while the playing continued. Softly, he turned the door handle and entered. Though his back was to the door, and Temple imagined he had made no sound, the piano-tuner turned swiftly.

‘Good afternoon, sir. I trust I did not disturb you.’

He spoke in a mellow, quiet voice, with every evidence of culture. Temple regarded the piano-tuner curiously. He was apparently a little below average height, for he looked tiny, seated at the piano. His clothes were inclined to be shabby, his hair rather too long, and he wore a bow tie. His greyish eyes were obscured to some extent by slightly tinted rimless glasses.

‘You didn’t disturb us at all,’ said Temple in reply to his question. ‘You play very well.’

‘Thank you, sir. I could not resist the temptation – it’s such a beautiful instrument.’

‘Is this the first time you’ve been here?’

‘Oh no, sir,’ murmured Goldie, taking a large and somewhat soiled handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiping his hands. ‘I came in March and November of last year. I attend at most of the flats in this building, and I must say I rather look forward to it. They have some lovely instruments … there’s a Bechstein in Number Twenty-two … ’

‘I don’t think we can have met before,’ put in Temple.

‘No, sir,’ said the little man, whose memory appeared to be quite methodical. ‘On the last two occasions you have been away, if I remember correctly, and the janitor had the key.’

‘Oh, I see,’ smiled Temple rather lamely. Mr. Goldie’s manner was so completely disarming that he felt very like an intruder. ‘Well—er—I mustn’t interrupt you any longer,’ he stammered at length.

‘Not at all, sir. My work is finished. There is never much required on this instrument. It’s always nicely up to pitch. I was just amusing myself.’

‘By the way, your name’s Goldie, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right, sir,’ answered the little man, turning a fraction in Temple’s direction, and blinking mildly at him.

‘Weren’t you with Clapshaw and Thompson’s for a number of years?’

‘Yes, sir, almost fifteen.’

‘By Timothy, that’s a long time!’ commented Temple.

‘Yes, sir, but it passed quickly. I liked the work.’

‘By the way, do you ever see Mr. Paramore now?’ Temple went on, adopting a conversational tone, and doing his best to avoid any suspicion of cross-questioning in his manner. But something in Mr. Goldie’s expression changed immediately, and he was obviously on his guard.

‘Mr. Paramore?’ he repeated, rather coldly.

‘Yes, surely you remember Mr. Paramore. He used to be their general manager.’

There was a pause. Temple could almost feel the tension.

‘No, sir,’ said Mr. Goldie, finally, and there was almost a hint of reproof in his voice. ‘I’m afraid I do not remember a Mr. Paramore.’

‘Oh,’ subsided Temple, flatly. ‘Perhaps I am mistaking the firm. Er, if there’s anything you want, just ring. My man will attend to it for you.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Mr. Goldie with frigid politeness ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

He turned to the piano and began to play a melancholy study by Chopin about which there almost seemed to be an air of grievance. Paul Temple returned thoughtfully to the lounge, where Pryce was laying tea.

‘Well, what’s he like?’ was Steve’s greeting.

‘He seems rather a nice little fellow,’ Temple told her. ‘Apparently he’s been here before, when we were down at Bramley Lodge.’

‘Mr. Goldie is more or less the official piano-tuner for all the flats, sir,’ explained Pryce.

‘I see,’ smiled Temple. ‘Thank you, Pryce.’

‘Not at all, sir. Will there be anything else, madam?’

‘No, thank you, Pryce.’

‘Muffins!’ cried Temple. ‘That was a good afternoon’s shopping, after all. And what a treat Sir Graham’s missed.’ Steve passed him a large cup of tea.

‘You seem very curious about this business,’ she declared.

Temple stirred his tea reflectively. ‘Yes, it’s no use pretending that I’m not interested,’ he admitted.

‘I understand, darling.’ But she did not sound very enthusiastic.

‘There are one or two points which rather fascinate me,’ continued Temple. ‘For instance, this man Goldie … and Andrew Brightman … and Andrea Fortune …’

‘Andrea Fortune?’

‘Yes, the woman who wrote The Front Page Men. I’m not absolutely certain that she doesn’t fit into all this, somehow or other.’

Steve began to show some interest. Her reportorial instincts were slightly aroused.

‘Has it occurred to you that Andrea Fortune may be just a pseudonym?’ she suggested. ‘In fact, Andrea Fortune might even be a man.’

‘Yes, I had thought of that,’ said Temple, taking a large bite out of his muffin. ‘Pryce does these muffins to a turn,’ he murmured, inconsequently.

‘Yes, he is versatile for a man his age. He seems capable of anything from toasting muffins to throwing out inquisitive female reporters. Maybe he wrote The Front Page Men,’ laughed Steve, rather delighted at the idea.

‘I wonder if he could get the heroine of this cursed novel of mine out of her present distressing situation,’ said Temple, thoughtfully.

They continued this light-hearted banter until tea was over. Then, rather casually, Temple said, ‘We haven’t anything special on tonight, have we?’

Steve wrinkled her brow for a moment. ‘No,’ she answered, ‘nothing important.’

‘Good. Then if you don’t mind my leaving you alone, darling—’

‘Not at all. I saw Morgan of the Daily Gossip this afternoon, and he asked me for an article.’

‘On what?’

‘He hadn’t the least idea. Editors never have.’

‘All right. Then I’ll take the opportunity of looking up an old friend of mine. A Mr. Chubby Wilson.’

‘Chubby Wilson,’ murmured Steve.

‘He’s a disreputable sort of devil, and I wouldn’t trust him with a brass farthing, but I’m really rather fond of him, and besides …’

Steve smiled. ‘I understand, darling. He talks!’

CHAPTER VI

Rev. Charles Hargreaves

Any self-respecting stranger to Rotherhithe would have thought twice before entering the Glass Bowl for a drink, unless, of course, he was particularly hardened to the drab appearance of riverside taverns. It stood on the corner of an uninviting street leading up from the river; its creaking sign portraying a bowl of dejected goldfish was so faded that only the fish were now faintly visible.

There were usually half a dozen loungers, very much down-at-heel, reclining listlessly against its crumbling walls, waiting for an acquaintance to come along and invite them inside for a drink.

A good proportion of the Glass Bowl’s customers were seafaring folk; sailors from tramp steamers of every nationality, many of them looking every bit as desperate as their prototypes in the more bloodthirsty class of film.

On this particular evening, however, the bar-parlour was rather quieter than usual, and Mrs. Taylor, the hostess, had taken the opportunity to embark upon a long account of some grievance for the benefit of one of her customers.

She was a large, flamboyant woman of about forty-five, obviously a little too much inclined to sampling her own wares. Although it was still comparatively early in the evening, Mrs. Taylor’s tongue had received sufficient lubrication to set it going merrily.

‘“My Gawd!” I said to ’er,’ she ended her story, ‘“to ’ear you talk anybody would think your ole man were a blasted admiral, instead of a yellow-bellied first mate on a perishin’ tramp steamer.”’

This seemed to tickle Jimmy Mills, a shifty young man of about thirty, who was rather too well dressed for his surroundings. He had a cruel mouth, which rarely relaxed from its thin, set line, except when he laughed rather too loudly, and he wore an expensive soft felt hat, pulled a little too far to one side.

‘I bet she was nonplussed, Mrs. Taylor,’ he remarked, stressing the long word, as if proud of his vocabulary.

‘It took the wind out of ’er sails, I don’t mind telling you,’ nodded Mrs. Taylor. ‘Can I get you anything else, love?’ she suggested pleasantly, noticing that Mills’ glass needed refilling.

‘Yes,’ ruminated Mills, ‘I’d like another dry ginger; but this time you can put in a drop of—’

Suddenly his jaw dropped, as he caught sight of Paul Temple standing in the passage outside.

‘Who is it?’ asked Mrs. Taylor nervously. She had always been a little jumpy since the place had been raided last year. ‘Who is it?’ she repeated urgently.

‘A fellow called Temple,’ Mills told her. ‘The last time I saw him was—’

‘Phew! You ’ad me all of a jitter for a minute. I thought it was that dirty swine Brook, or one of his river cops.’

‘Sh, he’s coming in here,’ cut in Mills. ‘Now, the name’s Smith – remember that!’ he ordered curtly.

*

Temple came up to them and leaned against the bar, slightly nauseated by the odour of stale beer, foul tobacco-smoke, and the general uncleanliness of the bar-parlour.

‘Good evening, sir. What can I get you?’ primly demanded Mrs. Taylor, in her politest manner.

Temple ran a speculative eye over the bottles at the back of the counter.