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‘Yes. We were expecting you to call at nine o’clock as arranged, but obviously this business…’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Temple, but I don’t understand.’
‘Were you under the impression that my wife was coming to see you?’ Kelburn demanded.
‘I was indeed.’
‘What made you think she wanted to see you?’ Langdon’s nasal drawl gave the question an unflattering implication.
‘The fact that she telephoned me in the early hours of this morning and said that she wanted to.’
Laura Kelburn stepped back, staring at Temple in amazement. ‘I – I telephoned you?’
‘Yes. About three o’clock a.m.’
‘But that’s nonsense!’ she exclaimed, throwing an appealing glance at her husband.
Kelburn crossed to his wife and put a hand under her elbow. ‘I can assure you my wife didn’t ’phone you, Mr Temple. We occupy the same bedroom. If she’d made a telephone call at that hour of the morning I’d certainly have known about it.’
She said: ‘What exactly am I supposed to have ’phoned you about?’
‘You told me that you suspected…’ Temple hesitated.
‘Suspected what?’ she prompted him rapidly.
‘That your stepdaughter was going to be murdered.’
Laura’s eyes widened and her hand covered her mouth.
‘Good God!’ Kelburn stared accusingly at Temple, as if he was responsible for everything that had happened. ‘But this is ridiculous!’
‘Are you serious, Temple?’ Langdon asked angrily.
‘Wait a minute!’ Laura had recovered her poise quickly.
‘This is the second time I’m supposed to have made a mysterious telephone call.’ She turned to Temple. ‘I met your wife a couple of weeks ago and she had some strange story about having spoken to me on the ’phone – and my saying I wanted to see you.’
‘And you didn’t want to see me?’
‘Of course not!’ Laura dismissed the idea emphatically. ‘I didn’t even ’phone…’
‘Someone did,’ Temple said quietly, then abruptly changed the subject. ‘Mrs Kelburn, your husband has asked me to investigate this affair and I think perhaps you might be able to help me.’
‘How, exactly?’ she asked, a shade brittle.
‘Well, you can start by telling me where Julia bought her clothes from.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know where she bought her clothes from. She wasn’t very fussy about her dress, you know.’ From Laura’s tone it was clear that Julia Kelburn had been more than a handful.
‘Could you find out?’
Laura shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘I’m interested in the coat she was wearing at the time of the murder,’ Temple persisted. ‘There was a label inside with the name “Margo” on it.’
‘Margo?’
‘Yes. Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘No, I’m afraid it doesn’t. But I’ll make enquiries if you like?’
‘I’d be grateful if you would, Mrs Kelburn.’
Kelburn had been listening to the exchange with increasing impatience. ‘Mr Temple, surely there’s something we can do – something just a little more progressive than enquiring about a coat?’
‘Take it easy, George,’ Langdon drawled. ‘Mr Temple knows what he’s doing.’
Temple looked pointedly at his watch, glad of his cue to escape from an atmosphere that had become faintly hostile.
‘You have my ’phone number, Mrs Kelburn, if you want to get in touch with me?’
‘Yes, of course…’ she said absent-mindedly, then quickly corrected herself. ‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t.’
‘It’s in the book,’ Temple said with a smile. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr Kelburn, I have a lunch appointment.’
In fact, Temple’s lunch appointment was with Steve at a small restaurant just off the Bayswater Road where they were well known. It was while they were having coffee that she came out with what had been on her mind all through the meal.
‘Paul, do you think the people who kidnapped me were responsible for the murder?’
‘Yes, I do. And I think I know why they kidnapped you, Steve.’ Temple leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘While I was in America a report appeared in one of the Continental newspapers…Well, I’ve got it in my pocket.’ He took out his wallet, extracted a folded newspaper cutting and handed it across the table. ‘Read it for yourself.’
She unfolded the paper and smoothed it flat on the tablecloth. The report was quite brief. After a few lines about the multiple activities of the master criminal known as The Fence, it stated that the celebrated criminologist, Paul Temple, had cut short his American tour at the request of Scotland Yard and was returning post-haste to London.
‘The Fence is that man Raine mentioned?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it true that Scotland Yard have asked you to help them?’
‘No, darling – it’s just a newspaper story. Sir Graham and I have never even discussed The Fence.’
‘But you think that someone read this and…’
‘I think The Fence himself read it and believed it. Remember what that man said to you, Steve. “We did it as a warning and to prove that it was possible, Mrs Temple.”’
Steve nodded, thoughtful and serious.
‘From now on you’ve got to watch your step, dear. Get Charlie to answer the door. Don’t go anywhere on your own if you can help it. Always leave a message as to your whereabouts. Don’t act on any telephone calls without checking. Well – you know the routine.’
‘Yes,’ she said with resignation, ‘I know the routine.’
Temple had been given a lift back from the Boltons by Mike Langdon, but Steve had driven to the restaurant in her MG Metro, and had been lucky enough to find a parking meter close by. Traffic on the Bayswater Road was thick and a hundred yards from Marble Arch it had slowed to a sluggish crawl.
‘Relax, darling,’ Steve said, with a smile. ‘I don’t mind this, I’m used to it.’
‘Delighted to hear it. And you can relax too, your hair’s fine.’
‘My hair?’
‘Isn’t that why you keep looking in the mirror?’
‘As a matter of fact I was watching the car behind. The Escort driven by a man in dark glasses. It was parked outside the flat when I left and it was behind me when I drove to the restaurant.’
Temple did not turn round. As the traffic began to move he said quickly: ‘Take this turning on the left. Yes, this one!’
Steve obeyed instinctively and the car lurched as she made the turn. Temple lowered the anti-dazzle flap and used the vanity mirror to check on the cars behind.
‘Yes, he’s following us all right. Steve, pull in to the kerb behind that taxi that’s stopping.’
‘What’s the idea?’
‘I’m getting out. I want you to drive straight home. I’ll see you there.’
Steve knew better than to question Temple when he was in this mood. He had the door open before she stopped. The driver of the Escort had two options. Either he could pass the Metro and risk losing it or pull in and take the chance of being spotted. Inexperienced at car tailing, he was braking hesitantly when Temple ran out from the kerb, opened the door on the passenger side and slid into the seat.
‘Here, what’s the big idea,’ the man in dark glasses protested, ‘getting into my car like this?’
‘Keep going!’ Temple told him crisply. ‘I’ll explain later.’
‘Who the hell are you?’
Steve had already accelerated away and drivers behind had started a cadenza on their horns.
‘Drive on. People are getting impatient.’
‘I don’t give a damn what people…’
‘Drive on! And there’s no need to follow that Metro, I can tell you all you want to know about it.’
As the engine almost stalled the other man rammed the lever with a crunch into a lower gear. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘I think you know what I’m talking about. You’ve been following that car all the way from Eaton Square. Now I suggest you drive into the Park – we can have a little talk there.’
‘I—’ He started to protest again, then suddenly caved in. ‘Yes, all right.’
‘I should switch the engine off, Mr Wyman.’
Docile now, Tony Wyman reached forward and turned the key. Following Temple’s instructions he had driven into Hyde Park and stopped on a yellow line on the stretch parallel to Bayswater Road.
‘You recognised me, then?’
‘Yes, I recognised you.’ Temple smiled. It would have taken more than a pair of dark glasses to disguise the pop singer, with his outrageous hairstyle. ‘Now, what can I do for you? Why are you following us around?’
‘I’ve read a lot about you in the papers, Mr Temple, and I thought – well, I’m in dead trouble, see? And I thought maybe you could sort of give me a line. I hung around your flat hoping to catch you, but I couldn’t pluck up enough courage to…’
‘All right, so you have a problem?’ Temple was watching a yellow delivery van with a rent-a-van sign painted on the side, which had cruised past slowly and stopped a couple of hundred yards further down.
‘It’s the police, Mr Temple. They’ve put the wind up me. That Superintendent Raine gave me a proper going over. Practically accused me of doin’ the murder.’
‘You mean Julia Kelburn?’
‘Yes, and I never even knew she’d been killed, straight I didn’t. That chap Raine was at me for the best part of an hour, but all I could tell him was that I finished at the club just after one and went straight home.’
‘Just how friendly were you with Julia Kelburn?’
‘Depends what you mean by friendly.’
‘How did you meet her?’
‘Some of the gang – the reg’lars – brought her to the club one night. She was dressed all sloppy like with her hair all combed up and dyed. I thought at first she was one of them punks. But we got talkin’ a bit and she seemed to go for me. Next time she come in, I hardly knew her. She looked like a film star.’
‘Did you know her father was well off?’
Down the road the yellow van was taking advantage of a lull in the traffic to make a three-point turn.
‘Well, not at first – she never let on. But later she started throwing the lolly around and I guessed somebody had the dough. She wasn’t a bad kid. I was fond of her in a funny sort of way, but – well, she started getting in my hair. Hanging around the club, meeting me in restaurants, waiting for me at the TV studios – you know how it is.’
‘No, I don’t know how it is. You tell me.’
‘Well, you know – she was a bit of a mixed-up kid. Bit dotty, perhaps, I don’t know. Spent quids with one of those psychiwhatsits.’
Gathering speed, the yellow van was now heading back towards the parked Escort.
‘Oh – who told you that?’
‘She did. She used to visit a shrink in Wimpole Street. Benkaray, I think the name was. Yes, that’s right – Dr Benkaray.’
‘Did you tell the Superintendent about this?’
‘No, I didn’t tell him any more than was necessary.’
Keeping an eye on the yellow van, Temple had a hand on the door lever.
‘I know the police only too well. When I was a kid in Bermondsey I –’ Wyman broke off and his voice rose to a falsetto shriek. ‘Hi, look at this van!’ The truck had suddenly veered left, just as if a steering linkage had broken, but instead of braking the driver was accelerating. ‘He’s coming straight for us!’
Temple flung his door open and yelled: ‘Get out, quick!’
He dived out through the door, hitting the grass with his shoulder and rolling over. As he went he heard Wyman cursing his sticking door. There came the sickening thud of metal on metal, the tinkling of glass, a hiss of steam, followed by a high-pitched scream of agony.
