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‘Never a minute to breathe, poor devils,’ commented Guest, stirring his coffee. ‘Oh well, we’ve all had to go through it – station breaks, forenoon plugs, lunchtime commercials – it’s all in the game.’
Temple and Steve exchanged a smile.
‘How’s it going, darling?’ she asked.
‘I shan’t be sorry to see the clock pointing to nine-fifteen,’ he admitted, dryly.
‘Perhaps Mrs. Temple would like to come in the studio,’ suggested Guest.
Steve shook her head. ‘I’d much sooner listen in here,’ she declared.
At ten minutes to nine, Guest led the way into a small studio, where the main object of furniture was a flat-top desk with two microphones on it. There was a chair in front of each microphone, and on the opposite wall was a large clock with a red second hand slowly moving round the dial. Under the clock stood a large window commanding a view of the control room, complete with its gramophone turntables and banks of meters.
At one minute to nine, after Temple and Guest had settled themselves comfortably in their chairs, Miss Wharton rushed in with the completed scripts.
Guest began glancing through his copy. ‘Plenty of time to look through it,’ he told Temple, as the announcer came in and took his stand in front of a microphone.
The engineer behind the glass panel held up his hand. Ten seconds to go. Temple had always found these last few seconds before a broadcast completely awe-inspiring. One hardly dared to breathe. It was as if some world-shattering event, like the downfall of an empire, was due to take place at the split second of nine o’clock.
There was the sound of a distant fanfare of trumpets – played on a record in the Control Room – and the engineer dropped his hand. Harvey Lane faced the microphone squarely.
‘The Pan-American Fruit Combine brings you the Cranmer Guest programme!’ he announced impressively …
They finished promptly at nine-fourteen, and following a significant jerk of Guest’s head, Temple rose and joined him outside the studio.
Steve rose to meet them as they came through the door.
‘I’d no idea I had married such an accomplished actor,’ she smiled. ‘You both sounded extremely professional.’
‘Forget it!’ said Temple laconically, and Cranmer Guest laughed. ‘Care to take a look round while you’re here?’ he offered, and proceeded to conduct them over the large building, where Steve was particularly impressed by the News Rooms with their tape machines ticking busily and sub-editors frowning beneath gaily coloured eye-shades.
When they stood in the foyer once again amid a crowd queuing up for the ‘Southern Skies’ programme, billed to take place at ten-fifteen, the Temples shook hands with Guest and bade him good night.
‘Where to now?’ asked Steve as Temple summoned a taxi.
‘A little speakeasy I used to know in Prohibition days,’ he told her. ‘Rather a cosy little place – they used to call it Maisie’s Craze.’
He gave this name to the taxi-driver who shook his head.
‘Maisie don’t live there any more, brother. They call it the Appenine Club these days.’
‘All right,’ agreed Temple. ‘Take us there.’
But the Appenine Club proved disappointing, at any rate to Temple.
‘It isn’t the same without Maisie,’ he sighed regretfully, as they sat eating an indifferently cooked supper. He turned to the waiter who was uncorking a bottle of wine.
‘What’s happened to Maisie?’ he asked.
The waiter shrugged. ‘Last time I heard of her she was in New York, singing at the Three-Fifty.’
‘Who is this Maisie, anyway?’ asked Steve.
‘Oh, just a friend of mine,’ replied her husband, with an indifference that would have intrigued any woman.
‘Did you know her very well?’ persisted Steve.
‘Quite well! She was a very human sort of person. We had a lot of fun together in the old days.’ Steve noted the distant light in his eyes, and was more curious than ever. But she managed to restrain her curiosity, and after witnessing a very second-rate cabaret act, they returned to their hotel. It was not until he was taking off his coat to put on a dressing-gown that Temple remembered the blue envelope he had thrust in his pocket. He took it out and examined it, then carefully slit open the flap. Inside, there was a piece of blue paper headed ‘Station GSKZ. Special Short-Wave Message transmitted from London, England.’ The message itself, though short, was in code.
Temple picked up his keys and unlocked his travelling trunk. He pressed one of the studs on the outside and a part of the side of the trunk snapped back. From the half-dozen miscellaneous articles Temple chose a tiny notebook. With the book’s help he decoded the message in rather less than two minutes. It ran:
*
‘Request immediate return to assist investigation of the Marquis murders. Cartmell. Home Secretary’s Office.’
Temple was just returning the code book to the trunk when the bedside telephone buzzed.
‘This is Jefferson, Programme Supervisor, GSKZ,’ said a strange voice when Temple had spoken. ‘Mr. Temple, we all liked your little talk tonight. I was dining with J. C. Marriman – he was very much impressed and asked me to invite you to take part in his company’s “Grand Parade” programme tomorrow at eight.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Temple definitely.
‘But look here, Mr. Temple, if it’s a question of money, I know J.C. will be quite willing to—’
‘No, no,’ interposed Temple. ‘I’d have been glad to help you, Mr. Jefferson, but it just isn’t possible. I have other plans.’
The Programme Supervisor pleaded for some minutes, but Temple remained firm, and finally he rang off. As he replaced the receiver, Steve asked: ‘Darling, what are your other plans?’
Temple flung himself into an armchair and lighted a cigarette.
‘I’m afraid this is very sudden – upsets our trip. But it just can’t be helped.’
‘Is it something to do with that message you’ve just read?’ she inquired. He nodded.
‘By Timothy, that reminds me, I must send a reply.’ He went to retrieve his code book, then hesitated. ‘No,’ he decided, ‘I’ll do it in the morning before we start.’
‘Start? Where to?’
He blew a cloud of smoke into the air. ‘Back to England, Steve,’ he announced calmly.
*
It was fortunate that Steve’s experience as a reporter had accustomed her to acting swiftly, and she was up before six-thirty the next morning packing and sending telegrams to secretaries and organisers who were expecting them to lecture at their various gatherings.
At ten o’clock Temple left her still busily occupied, and, having translated his message into code, strolled round to the broadcasting station, to find that the blonde at the information desk had been replaced by a red-head who was even smarter on the uptake.
‘Oh Mr. Temple, it’s a real thrill to meet you in person,’ she blithely informed him. ‘I heard you on the air last night. Say, I do like your voice – it’s so English.’
Temple smiled his acknowledgment, then stated his errand.
‘I understand I can send a code message from here on the short-wave to England.’
‘That’s right,’ she agreed. ‘But talking of code messages, there’s one waiting here for you.’
‘I got it last night, thanks,’ he replied, politely.
‘Oh no you didn’t,’ she insisted. ‘It only came through this morning just after I signed on.’
Without further ado, she handed him another blue envelope. Temple surveyed it in some bewilderment.
‘I think I’d better postpone sending my message until I find out what’s in this,’ he decided at last, and, bidding the receptionist a pleasant good morning, returned to his hotel.
Steve was just putting the finishing touches to their packing when she noticed him puzzling over the flimsy.
‘What’s the trouble, Paul?’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t make this out,’ he admitted. ‘The message is in the secret Home Office code: yet it comes from a complete stranger.’
‘Does it make sense?’
He passed over the slip of paper, and Steve read:
I’ll be expecting you, Mr. Temple – The Marquis.
CHAPTER II (#u735d95a2-348a-5f86-8751-11a5ee37ab2d)
River Patrol (#u735d95a2-348a-5f86-8751-11a5ee37ab2d)
SERGEANT RUPERT JOSIAH CARRINGTON BRIGGS skilfully guided the narrow police launch through the churning wake of an overloaded tramp steamer and past the gaunt cranes and warehouses which were dimly silhouetted against the heavy night sky. There came the distant rumble of a storm somewhere beyond Greenwich, and a gust of wind rippled across the water, bringing a scurry of raindrops in its train.
Briggs had the heavy jowl of a typical Yorkshireman which gave the effect of an almost perpetual frown, particularly when he was steering the launch with the aid of a single heavily shielded headlamp.
He shivered and tightened the strap of his sou’wester.
‘If this is the Thames,’ he declared, in an embittered tone, ‘you can have it!’
A broad grin split the Cockney features of his companion, Sergeant Hanmer, who had been born within the sound of the river traffic, and had an extensive knowledge of the famous waterway in all its moods. No aspect of the river which carried such a strange assortment of cargoes ever seemed to disturb Hanmer. He began to fasten up his oilskins as he observed cheerfully: ‘I told you to look out for a bit of real life on the old river!’
An empty crate bumped into the side and vanished in their wake. Briggs cursed softly and changed the course a fraction.
‘A hell of a night!’ he shuddered, as the shower of rain developed into a sudden torrent.
‘Not fit for a dog! Have to slow her down.’
‘If you go much slower, we’ll get swept away by the tide,’ chuckled Hanmer, who seemed to be enjoying himself. They were making about four knots by this time, and the rush of rain had obscured all sounds save the steady beat of the engine and the occasional hoot of a tramp steamer’s siren. The darkness seemed to have reached its maximum intensity, and Hanmer prepared his electric lamp ready for any emergency. Together, they steered unblinkingly through the sheets of rain. Once or twice, Briggs sounded his hooter in a tentative fashion. After a few minutes, the rain almost stopped and the sky lightened a little until they could see very faintly the dim outline of the right bank.
Sergeant Briggs shook the raindrops from his sou’wester and ruminated feelingly on the topic that was always in his mind at such moments as these. Had he been wise to turn down that offer of a job from his wife’s father? A nice, steady, nine-till-five job, with an office to himself and a chance of a partnership later on. If only it had been something a bit more exciting than dealing in grate polish! Still, there was a lot to be said for regular hours, leisurely meals, and slippers waiting at the fireside. Sergeant Briggs sighed wistfully.
Hanmer suddenly shook himself like a terrier, and pushed his sou’wester on to the back of his head. Then he took a blackened pipe out of his pocket and thrust it unlighted between his teeth.
‘How long have you been in the Force?’ he asked presently, in a casual tone. It was Hanmer’s stock conversational gambit. He didn’t really want to know. What he did want was an opportunity to embark upon an account of his own varied career.
‘Me?’ muttered Briggs, straining his eyes in the direction of the dim outline of a Norwegian freighter. ‘Seventeen years.’
‘Blimey!’ ejaculated the other, in some surprise. ‘You’ve got longer whiskers than I ’ave!’
Briggs nodded solemnly. ‘I joined in August, 1925. I was with the L.C.C. before that.’
‘Salvage?’ queried Hanmer, the twinkle in his eyes going unseen.
‘Not ruddy likely! I was a Grade One clerk,’ snapped Briggs. Then he heaved a sigh. ‘All the same, it was very tedious. I reckon I must have filled in best part of a million forms of one sort or another in the four years I was there.’
Hanmer laughed.
‘Talk about tediousness, you want this job reg’lar. Up and down the ole river night after night.’
He sucked at his pipe reflectively.
‘Before this I had a nice little beat in Hampstead. Not much doing, but plenty of good grub in one or two kitchens I could mention. I remember once when I—’
He broke off abruptly and leaned over the side of the boat, gazing intently at a grey object which was only just visible. His electric lamp flashed, startling Briggs.
‘Swing her round, mate,’ said Hanmer, softly. Briggs immediately shut off his engine, and the boat nosed its way silently towards the grey object which Hanmer kept focused in a circle of light from his torch. Retaining a cautious hand on the wheel, Briggs leaned forward.
‘Good God, it’s a woman!’ he exclaimed as they came within easy reach.
‘Not much more’n a kid, I reckon,’ grunted Hanmer, focusing his light on the face and hair. As they came alongside, Hanmer leaned over and managed to bring the girl’s head and shoulders almost into the boat. ‘Give us a hand,’ he gasped, and Briggs left the wheel to take care of itself for a moment.
Within a few seconds, they had laid the dripping figure of the girl along the well of the motor boat. Hanmer pushed back the sodden hair and whistled softly to himself.
‘Another of ’em. She’s a goner all right. Looks like she’s been in the river for hours.’
‘What about trying artificial—’ Briggs was starting to suggest, but the other cut him short.
‘She’s been dead hours. I know the signs. Not a bad looking kid,’ he decided. ‘We ain’t pulled out a real good looker since that houseboat murder – she was an actress – not that she looked much when we got her out.’
Briggs was paying no attention, but had stooped and unfastened the blue mackintosh that clung to the girl’s figure. His start of surprise distracted Hanmer who was busy extricating a bulky notebook from an inner pocket.
‘What is it? What’ve you got there?’
With clumsy cold fingers, Briggs was unfastening a small square of white cardboard which was pinned to the girl’s dress. Hanmer picked up his electric lamp, and together they examined the sodden pasteboard. Two words were carelessly scrawled in Indian ink. ‘Good God!’ whistled Hanmer. ‘The Marquis!’ It must be recorded that Sergeant Rupert Josiah Carrington Briggs experienced an extremely unpleasant sensation in the pit of the stomach.
CHAPTER III (#u735d95a2-348a-5f86-8751-11a5ee37ab2d)
Crisis at Scotland Yard (#u735d95a2-348a-5f86-8751-11a5ee37ab2d)
SIR GRAHAM FORBES, Chief Commissioner at New Scotland Yard, was a firm believer in method – and an even greater believer in his own method. And his severest critics amongst the younger members of his staff had to admit that the Chief Commissioner’s methods, evolved over a period of many years’ experience, usually proved successful. They might provide a number of minor irritants; they might even appear to retard the incidence of Justice, but in the end they were invariably effective. Comparative strangers might deride his absorption in minor routine, but Forbes went his way entirely undeterred. His system had stood so many tests, that he had the utmost confidence in its efficiency.
True, he had encountered one or two setbacks recently in the case of The Marquis murders which were being accorded such extravagant publicity by the press. But Forbes was inclined to make allowances for the press-men. After all, they had to give their readers something lively to read over their breakfast tables and on their tedious journeys to and from work.
