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‘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 (#ulink_03661f0c-257f-5f51-a7d2-e48f218a68d6)
Mr. J.P. Goldie (#ulink_03661f0c-257f-5f51-a7d2-e48f218a68d6)
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.
