Paul Temple and the Front Page Men

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‘Yes, yes, I know, Mr. Temple. How dreadful, how very dreadful!’ deplored Hargreaves, a shade too piously.

‘I don’t want to disillusion you, sir, but I think I ought to warn you that Mills has a knack of convincing anybody about anything he sets his mind on. Of course, it’s no business of mine, but—’

‘That’s all right, Mr. Temple. I quite understand, and I appreciate your trying to warn me. But I want to give Jimmy a chance.’

‘Do you spend much time here, sir – I mean in this part of the world?’ demanded Temple, abruptly changing the subject.

‘Oh, a great deal, Mr. Temple. I’m more or less in charge of the Seamen’s Hostel, you know. It’s uphill work, but I’m always doing my best to persuade those unfortunate fellows to regard our hostel as a sort of home from home.’ He added with a sigh, ‘My task isn’t an easy one, Mr. Temple, by any means.’

‘I’m sure it isn’t,’ said Temple sympathetically.

‘However, one mustn’t grumble. There’s never a dull moment; I’ll say that for my daily round.’

‘I can quite appreciate that,’ smiled the novelist. He looked round the smoky parlour, which was now filling up with men from all the seven seas. Temple noticed their looks of suspicion and lowered his voice.

‘Mr. Hargreaves, do you know a man called Wilson, Chubby Wilson?’

‘Why, yes, I know him quite well,’ admitted Hargreaves with some slight hesitation. ‘A delightful fellow, but – well, I hate to say this – thoroughly untrustworthy.’

He seemed reluctant to pursue the subject, and continued hastily: ‘Let’s talk about yourself, Mr. Temple. I’m really quite thrilled at meeting you like this. I’ve often wondered how you get those charming little eccentricities into your characterisation – but of course I see now. You come to places like this and study your types at first hand.’ He paused. ‘You know, it may sound rather funny, but I’ve always thought that, given the opportunity, I should be able to write.’

Paul Temple began to feel rather bored. He had not come to the Glass Bowl to swop enthusiasms with a literary amateur.

‘Oh, I know it sounds frightfully conceited,’ persisted Hargreaves deprecatingly, ‘and I suppose rather priggish in a way, but when one studies human nature in the raw, as it were—’

‘Talking of life in the raw, have you read The Front Page Men?’ asked Temple, quietly.

Whether Hargreaves resented this diversion from the subject of his ambitions, or whether he was taken aback by the question, Temple was not certain. But he paused for a moment before replying.

‘The Front Page Men? No, no, I haven’t read the book. I’m told it’s very good.’

‘Yes,’ said Temple, ‘extremely realistic.’

‘I really feel quite—er—reluctant to read it,’ confessed Hargreaves, ingenuously. ‘I mean, with all these terrible robberies, and that shocking case of Sir Norman Blakeley’s. Although I suppose one can hardly hold the dear lady who wrote the book responsible. After all, according to the newspapers, she is devoting the royalties to a worthy charity.’

Temple absent-mindedly picked up his glass, set it down again, and lit a cigarette.

‘Well, this is a coincidence,’ said Hargreaves suddenly, in a surprised voice. ‘Here’s the gentleman you were asking about.’

‘Chubby Wilson? Where?’ demanded Temple.

‘In that far corner, Mr. Temple. I only just caught a glimpse of him.’

‘Then would you excuse me?’ said Temple rather abruptly.

‘Why yes, yes, of course. But I hope we may meet again on some future occasion.’

‘Yes, I hope so too,’ hastily agreed Temple, as he quickly shook hands, and moved over to the corner of the bar which Hargreaves had indicated.

As he approached, he could hear Chubby Wilson’s voice rising above the hubbub of general conversation. Apparently Chubby was trying to impress his political opinions upon one of the loungers from outside, whom he had brought in for a drink.

Chubby was not exactly worthy of his cognomen. Rather was he inclined to be pudgy and flabby. His complexion was a dirty yellowish brown, and a shabby scarf concealed a none-too-clean neck. He paused occasionally in his harangue to draw a deep breath.

‘Hallo, Chubby, still on the soap box?’ Temple greeted him. Chubby Wilson seemed surprised, but quickly recovered.

‘Why, hello, Mr. Temple!’ Then he turned to his former listener. ‘’Op it, Larry!’ he ordered. The lounger leered questioningly at Temple, then slunk away.

‘Sit down, Mr. Temple,’ invited Chubby. ‘Quite like old times seeing you again.’

Temple did not obey. Instead, he leaned over and spoke authoritatively. ‘Chubby, I’m a very busy man, and I want to talk to you. Where can we go?’

‘Well now, let me think,’ mused Wilson. Then a solution suggested itself. ‘Follow me, guv’nor.’

He led the way outside and along the passage to a tiny sitting-room, meanly furnished and shabby to a degree. Chubby closed the door after them very carefully.

‘How’s this?’ he asked.

‘It’s not the Ritz, Chubby, but it will do,’ decreed Temple, choosing a particularly uninviting bent wood chair, and sitting down. ‘Well, how’s life treating you?’

‘Very nicely, Mr. Temple. I never was one to grumble.’

‘Still in the dope racket?’

‘Mr. Temple!’ Chubby gave a very good imitation of shocked innocence, and Temple laughed.

‘All right, Chubby – let’s skip the part about going straight. I’ve just had one dose of that from Jimmy Mills.’

‘Jimmy Mills, oh, ’im!’ Chubby spat expressively.

‘Now tell me,’ continued Temple, bluntly, ‘what do you know about the Front Page Men?’

At last Wilson appeared to be genuinely frightened, and made no pretence of concealing the fact.

‘Nothin—nothin’ at all,’ he gasped. ‘My God, if Basher’s talked, I’ll break every—’

‘Oho,’ chortled Temple. ‘Still friendly with poor old Basher, eh? When did he get out?’

‘About a month ago, Mr. Temple. He’s a sick man, is Basher. His heart’s in the wrong place.’

‘You’re telling me!’ said Temple with a short laugh. ‘It was certainly in the wrong place when he beat up that poor old Chelsea pensioner.’

Chubby was still very uneasy. His yellow streak was never very far from the surface.

‘Have you seen Basher lately, Mr. Temple?’ he blurted out at last.

‘No, Chubby, I haven’t. So he hasn’t done any talking. Not to me at any rate.’

Chubby brightened up at once.

‘I’m going to America at the end of the week, Mr. Temple,’ he announced. ‘Wonderful country, America.’

Temple leaned forward somewhat aggressively.

‘Chubby, you haven’t answered my question.’

‘What question?’ The little man tried vainly to avoid the issue.

‘What do you know about the Front Page Men?’ repeated Temple deliberately.

‘I’ve told you, nothin’. Why the ’ell should I know anythin’ about ’em?’ cried Chubby, hysterically. He spread out his hands pleadingly. ‘I’ve bin a lot of things in me time, Mr. Temple, but if there’s one thing about me to the good—’

‘There isn’t!’ snapped Temple, ‘so you can cut the cackle. You’re a dirty-minded little crook, with about as much backbone as a filleted plaice – but I like you.’

After this outburst Temple took a wallet from his inside pocket.

‘I want information, Chubby, and I’m willing to pay for it.’

‘How much?’ demanded Chubby, licking his lips.

Temple pocketed the wallet again.

‘That’s better,’ he approved. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’

‘Mind you,’ whispered Chubby guardedly, ‘I don’t say I’ve got anything to tell.’