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Sir Graham protested at some length. He was one of the old school who disliked the private affairs of New Scotland Yard being dragged into the limelight. He maintained that the Yard would get its man in the long run, and he chafed at the impatience of government officials who panicked at a few articles in what he called the ‘Scare Press’.
But on this occasion Lord Flexdale was adamant.
‘It’s no use, Forbes,’ he declared flatly. ‘We can’t hope to tell where this fellow Rex is going to break out next. There appears to be no connection between any of his victims, and his motives are all quite obscure so far. We’ve got to call for wider co-operation from members of the public. It’s been done before, and it worked. I see no reason why it shouldn’t work again.’
‘That’s all very well,’ grunted Forbes, ‘but remember you’re giving a devil of a lot away to Rex if you admit—’
Lord Flexdale broke in impatiently.
‘I shall admit as little as possible.’
‘Then what do you propose?’
‘I have already arranged,’ Lord Flexdale informed him, ‘to speak after the nine o’clock news.’
Forbes grunted again. Privately, he thought Lord Flexdale welcomed any opportunity to address himself to the nation.
The discreetly shaded reading-lamp near the fire revealed a room furnished in a manner sufficiently unusual to arouse a visitor’s curiosity as to the character of its owner. There was a strange jumble of small ornaments of Oriental origin, an assortment of Persian daggers on the walls, a life-size bust of a Chinese idol standing on a pedestal, two enigmatical pictures by Picasso or one of his disciples – it was difficult to judge in the subdued light – and a wide assortment of cushions ranging through a spectrum of colours.
The recumbent figure in a large armchair stirred as a clock in the hall outside softly struck nine, and a slim, perfectly manicured hand stretched out and switched on the radio. It seemed that the clock in the hall was slow, for the announcer was just concluding the news. There was an impatient exclamation from the armchair.
After a suitable pause, the announcer continued: ‘As listeners to our earlier bulletins will already have heard, we have with us in the studio this evening Lord Flexdale, Secretary for Home Security, who is broadcasting a special message to listeners, both in this country and the United States of America. Lord Flexdale.’
There was a slight cough, a shuffling of papers, then the measured tones of the Cabinet Minister.
‘It is exactly two months since we read in the newspapers about the murder of that distinguished young actress, Miss Norma Rice. As you will no doubt recall, the body of Miss Rice was discovered in a railway compartment in the night express from Manchester to London. The official who discovered the body has already recounted at some length how he noticed the word “Rex” marked on the window of the compartment. Since that particular night, there have been three more murders, all as yet unsolved, and in each case the perpetrator has left this solitary clue to his or her identity.’
The minister paused, as if to allow this statement to impress itself upon the listening public. Then he continued with slightly more emphasis: ‘I am authorised by His Majesty’s Government to state that a free pardon will be given to any person, other than one actually guilty of wilful murder, providing the said person will furnish the evidence necessary to secure the arrest and conviction of the criminal responsible for these tragic misdeeds, which are a menace to the existence of social security.’
Lord Flexdale was obviously making the most of this opportunity to enlarge upon one of his pet themes. With the merest suggestion of a chuckle from the armchair, the slim fingers reached out once more and switched off the radio.
‘We shall see, Lord Flexdale, we shall see,’ murmured Rex, sinking back into the large armchair.
The news-room of the Daily Clarion was in its customary state of turmoil. At tables ranged found the room, reporters hammered out their stories. Copy-boys moved quickly in and out of the sub-editors’ room, carrying messages and bundles of copy. Under a large window, one of the staff artists put some finishing touches to a drawing. A dozen people seemed to be joking at once, and doors marked ‘News Editor’, ‘Assistant News Editor’, ‘Chief Sub-Editor’ were forever opening and closing.
George Dillany, the crime reporter of the paper, sat at his little table, moodily jabbing at the space bar of his typewriter.
George had been overworked of late, and it was beginning to show in his face and manner. He was a little worried, too, that his work might be suffering. After a couple of drinks, however, he would reassure himself with the consolation that if Scotland Yard couldn’t deliver the goods, how could he be expected to turn in a reasonable story? The Daily Clarion paid him to report crimes, not to solve them. All the same, a really good story, particularly an exclusive, made a hell of a difference to one’s outlook on life. You could walk down Fleet Street and look people in the face, reserving a particularly generous greeting for rivals who had been unlucky enough to miss the scoop. Unfortunately, George would be in the position of one of those rivals today, for he had missed a scoop himself. It had appeared in a morning edition of the Evening Courier under the large black headline:
SCOTLAND YARD SENDS FOR PAUL TEMPLE
‘All ruddy headline and no story,’ grumbled George to himself, reading the ten lines that followed the heading:
‘It is understood that Sir Graham Forbes, Special Branch Commissioner of New Scotland Yard, is consulting with Mr. Paul Temple, the popular novelist and private investigator, on the question of the “Rex” murders. Mr. Temple has been staying in the country working on his latest novel, but is coming to London to appear in this evening’s Brains Trust broadcast. It is not yet known whether Mr. Temple will agree to co-operate with the Yard in solving these crimes which are agitating the whole country.’
George Dillany ruffled his hair thoughtfully.
What did it all amount to? he asked himself. It was one hundred per cent conjecture. He himself had called twice at the Temples’ flat during the last twenty-four hours, and had found it empty. He had rung up Bramley Lodge and spoken to Steve, Temple’s wife, who had somewhat coldly informed him that to the best of her knowledge her husband was not contemplating embarking upon another case.
A copy-boy came running up to tell him that Hawkes, the news-editor, wanted to speak to him, and George levered himself up rather moodily and went over to the room in question.
Hawkes was just slamming down the telephone receiver as. Dillany entered. His beady black eyes snapped as he asked: ‘What about the Paul Temple story?’
Dillany shrugged.
‘I’ve tried to get hold of Forbes – in fact, I’ve been through to half a dozen people at the Yard. They’re not talking.’
‘You and your pals at the Yard!’ sneered Hawkes. ‘It’s a damn’ lucky thing for you and all of us I had the sense to send a man down there. And, what’s more, he’s landed a story, and it confirms this!’
He indicated the report in the evening paper.
‘You don’t mean Temple has been to the Yard?’ queried Dillany sceptically.
‘No, I mean the Yard has gone to Temple. Wilkinson was hanging around about an hour ago when he saw Forbes leave. He followed him to Temple’s flat. They’re there now.’ Dillany whistled softly to himself. ‘Then it looks as if they’re calling Temple in after all,’ he mused.
‘Of course they’re calling him in,’ rasped Hawkes impatiently. ‘What the hell do you think they’re doing? Drinking each other’s health?’
Which, in point of fact, was exactly what they were doing at that particular moment. Temple was reflecting that Forbes looked just a little greyer and the lines of his face were a shade more pronounced. Forbes was thinking that Temple, with his slight sunburn, appeared amazingly young, and he envied him his comparatively carefree existence. How very pleasant to disappear into the heart of the countryside to write a novel when one was in the mood. Like many people who have never written a book, Forbes imagined it was merely a matter of filling in an occasional hour in the evenings, with a pipe and a drink at one’s elbow to assist one’s pleasant ruminations.
The third member of the party, Inspector Emmanuel Crane, had never even given the matter a thought, though he did read a novel occasionally. A well-built, seemingly unimaginative individual, he sat four-square in one of the upright chairs, clutching his tankard. As he looked round Temple’s well-appointed lounge, he reflected for the first time that there must be money in this writing game. This fellow Temple had a place in the country too – yes, there must be a lot of money in it. More writing about crime than in tracking down criminals. He began to wonder how much…
Inspector Crane had a nasty habit of lifting a corner of his upper lip from time to time, thus giving his face a sneering expression which was more than a little unfortunate, and which created a none too favourable impression upon strangers. Temple, who had only met him casually once or twice previously at the Yard, was lazily trying to assess Crane’s possibilities, for he was apparently a very active personality at the Yard of recent months, according to reports he had received.
Meanwhile, Temple made pleasant conversation with Forbes, enjoying renewing his acquaintance with the rather brusque but none the less likeable personality.
‘What the devil have you been doing with yourself lately?’ Forbes was asking. ‘I tried to telephone you about a fortnight back.’
‘Steve and I have been at Bramley Lodge, and the village telephone exchange out there is, well, a bit happy-go-lucky,’ smiled Temple. ‘I’m writing a new novel – at least, I’m trying to write one.’
Crane suddenly came to life.
‘I read your last novel, sir,’ he announced with a note of pride in his voice.
‘Oh, did you, Inspector?’ Temple was just a shade taken aback.
‘So did I,’ grunted Forbes. ‘The detective was a bigger fool than ever!’
Temple laughed.
‘He had to be, Sir Graham,’ he replied with a twinkle. ‘Wasn’t he practically the Chief Commissioner?’
Crane’s hearty guffaw seemed to shake the glasses on the sideboard, and Forbes could not restrain a grim chuckle.
Temple got up to fill Forbes’ glass again, and as he returned the Assistant Commissioner said: ‘I suppose I don’t have to tell you why we’re here, Temple.’
Temple looked from one to the other, then said very quietly: ‘Rex?’
Forbes nodded, hesitated, then took a sip at his sherry.
‘Well?’ he queried, with a lift of his bushy grey eyebrows.
Temple slowly shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, Sir Graham,’ he murmured. ‘I’d like to help you if I could, but I must finish this novel by the end of the month and make a start on a series of articles I’ve been commissioned to write for an American magazine.’
Forbes put down his glass and gazed earnestly at the novelist. ‘Temple, I don’t think you realise just how serious this business is. It’s damned serious! I saw Lord Flexdale this morning—’
‘I heard him on the radio last night,’ interposed Temple with a trace of a smile. ‘A remarkable display of oratory, if I may say so.’
‘Oratory never caught a murderer yet in my experience,’ rejoined Forbes grimly. ‘And nobody knows that better than Flexdale. When I saw him this morning, he sent you a message.’
‘This is an unexpected honour.’
‘He said to me: “We must call in Paul Temple, and there isn’t a minute to lose. Get hold of Temple immediately!”’
Temple flicked the ash from his cigarette.
‘You tell Lord Flexdale with my compliments that if he will finish writing my novel I will catch Rex for him,’ he retorted lightly.
Crane did not appreciate this.
‘You’ll catch Rex, eh, Mr. Temple?’ he ruminated ponderously. ‘Just like that?’ He snapped his fingers expressively.
Temple still refused to take the matter very seriously. ‘Well, after all, Inspector,’ he murmured, ‘I was lucky enough to catch the Knave, the Front Page Man, Z 4, and, if I remember rightly, even the Marquis.’
‘Yes, that’s all very well, Mr. Temple,’ insisted Crane heavily, ‘but, if you’ll forgive my saying so, this is a different proposition.’
Temple gave him a friendly smile.
‘I quite appreciate that, Inspector,’ he said reassuringly. Then he turned to Forbes and asked: ‘When did you first hear about Rex? Forgive my asking such elementary questions, but I’ve been buried in the country.’
‘It was about six months ago,’ supplied Crane.
‘Yes,’ nodded Forbes.’ A man called Richard East was murdered – he was found in his car on the Great North Road. Chalked on the windscreen of the car was the word—’
‘Let me guess,’ smiled Temple. ‘And that was Rex’s first appearance?’
‘The very first time.’
‘How was East murdered exactly?’
‘He was shot through the head.’
‘Motive?’
Forbes stirred uneasily in his chair, and looked across at Crane, whose dour features were inscrutable.
‘There didn’t appear to be a motive,’ said Forbes at last. ‘There never does! That’s the extraordinary part about it, Temple, damn it, we just don’t know what we’re up against!’ He rubbed his chin with an impatient gesture.
‘Well, it certainly wasn’t money,’ ventured Crane. ‘East had about a hundred and fifty quid in his pocket when we found him.’
Temple was obviously getting interested.
‘And after the East murder?’ he asked.
‘After that came the Norma Rice affair. You remember that surely, sir?’ put in Crane.
Temple nodded slowly.
‘Oh yes, I read about Norma Rice. I knew her slightly. I even dallied with the idea of writing a play for her at one time. She was a very remarkable actress.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ nodded Crane. ‘She was found in the express from Manchester. The word “Rex” was scrawled across the window.’
‘So it was,’ nodded Temple. ‘This Rex would appear to be something of an exhibitionist.’
‘Yes, and there again, you see, Temple, there didn’t seem to be a motive,’ interposed Forbes eagerly.
Temple lighted another cigarette and asked: ‘Could it have been suicide?’
Crane’s upper lip twitched sardonically.
‘Suicide?’ he repeated in an amused tone. ‘Not a chance!’
‘Surely with a temperament like Norma Rice’s—’ began Temple diffidently, but Crane interrupted.
‘She’d just opened in a new play at Manchester that had been a big success, and was coming to London in a fortnight’s time. What’s more, she’d got herself engaged to be married, so you might say everything in the garden was rosy. Couldn’t possibly have been suicide, whichever way you look at it.’
Temple frowned and looked across at Sir Graham, who appeared to be lost in thought.
‘Was Miss Rice shot through the head?’
Forbes came back to earth with a start.
‘Good God, no!’ he exclaimed. ‘As a matter of fact, when the ticket-inspector found her he thought she was asleep.’
‘She’d been poisoned,’ added Crane. ‘Obviously somebody had given her an overdose of Amashyer.’ He turned to Temple. ‘It’s a delayed-action narcotic that takes about six hours as a rule to prove fatal, Mr.Temple.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of Amashyer, Inspector,’ smiled Temple, who had been among the first to discover the presence of this drug in London some years previously. He refilled Crane’s tankard, then turned to Sir Graham.
‘How many of these murders did you say there had been, Sir Graham?’
‘Five.’
‘And in every case you came across the word “Rex”?’
Forbes nodded slowly. ‘On the window of a railway carriage, on the windscreen of a car, on a small lace handkerchief written in lipstick, on the face of a watch—’
‘And don’t forget the tattoo mark on the dead man’s wrist,’ put in Crane, who seemed to take a morbid delight in the more gruesome aspects of the case.
