Czytaj książkę: «News of Paul Temple»

‘Well, I’m damned!’

‘You’ll also be fired if you don’t get down to Southampton. We’ve been waiting for this story to break for weeks.’

‘But everybody knows why Temple is on his way home,’ protested Rex. ‘They’ve been rehearsing that new play of his. It’s due to open in a fortnight.’

‘That’s old stuff. Iris Archer in The First Lady Seaton.’

‘Yes. Only for some reason or other Iris Archer isn’t going to play the part.’

This was obviously news to Cosgrove and he raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘What’s the matter with Archer? Why isn’t she playing the part?’

‘I don’t know. Gibson had a chat with her last night. She talks a lot of nonsense about the part being unsuitable.’

Cosgrove nodded. ‘Well, get down to Southampton and see what Temple has to say about it.’

Rex wearily levered himself from the arm of the chair.

‘I’d sooner cover that new movie at the Empire,’ he grinned. ‘It’s all about an editor who took the wrong turning.’

‘Southampton!’

‘OK, Snow White! OK!’

Rex made a hasty yet dignified retreat.

Four hours later, his vermilion two-seater sports car was nosing its way through Southampton’s dock traffic, and he was wondering if there would be any other newspapermen present. There was nothing Rex hated more than mass interviews. However, knowing Temple and his wife in the days when they were both journalists was certainly a point in his favour. When the Golden Clipper bumped gently to a standstill, Rex had no difficulty in segregating Paul Temple and Steve from the crowds that thronged to see Hollywood’s latest film face, which, as usual, proved more than a little disappointing in its everyday proportions.

Over a drink in the buffet, Rex surveyed his old acquaintances with a quizzical stare. Temple, he decided, had hardly altered as far as features were concerned since the days when he was a penurious journalist. True, he must be quite a stone lighter, but that suited him.

Steve, who was always ready to talk ‘shop’ with Bryant or any of the other reporters, said quietly: ‘How’s the circulation, Rex?’

‘Not so good lately. Wrong time of year.’

‘It’s always the wrong time of year,’ put in Temple, with a twinkle in his eye.

‘They’re sending us out after all sorts of stories that the subs slaughter down to four lines on page eight,’ declared Rex moodily, ordering himself another whisky.

‘What exactly are you doing down at Southampton?’ demanded Steve curiously.

Rex splashed soda into his glass. ‘To be quite candid, I came down here to see your delightful husband,’ he grinned.

‘Things must certainly be in a bad way if I’m considered to be in the news,’ laughed Temple. ‘What’s it all about?’

Rex took a cigarette from his case and scratched a match. ‘The play, for one thing. You might as well give me all the dope about it. Be a sport, Temple – it isn’t as if the publicity will do the show any harm – or will it?’

‘By Timothy, you boys must be hard up for news,’ murmured Temple sympathetically.

‘There isn’t any story, Rex,’ added Steve wistfully. ‘If there was a story, you could have it like a shot, couldn’t he, darling?’

Temple nodded. ‘Like a shot,’ he corroborated.

‘But is Iris Archer leaving the cast, or isn’t she?’

Temple dived in his pocket and produced a crumpled Western Union Cable. ‘I got this just before we left New York; that’s all I know.’ He tossed the cable over to the reporter, who straightened it out and read:

‘Terribly sorry unable to play Lady Seaton stop will explain later stop lots of love Iris.’

‘And a very large full stop,’ added Temple ruefully.

Rex folded the paper and handed it back to the novelist. ‘I thought you wrote the play specially for Iris Archer.’

‘So I did.’

Rex wrinkled his forehead. ‘Then it seems funny that—’

‘Don’t worry him, Rex,’ advised Steve, who knew just how sore the point was with her husband.

‘But look here, I’ve got to have some sort of a story to take back to town!’

Temple and Steve regarded him innocently.

‘Hadn’t you better go and catch Sylvia Larone before she gets the train?’ suggested Steve. ‘You could ask her what she really thought of Hollywood.’

Rex ignored the suggestion. ‘Tell me your plans for the future,’ he said.

‘We’re going to Scotland for three weeks.’

‘The South of France, dear,’ Steve prompted gently.

‘Scotland,’ repeated Temple firmly.

‘The South of France.’

‘All right,’ chipped in Rex, eyeing them impatiently. ‘I’ll say Scotland and the South of France. Then what?’

Temple said quietly: ‘Well, I’ve promised my publishers a new novel for Christmas—’

Rex shifted impatiently on his high stool.

‘I’m not running the literary page,’ he said heavily. ‘I’ve got to go back to town with a story. Not a “puff” for a new novel.’

‘But we haven’t got a story, Rex. Nothing’s happened – nothing at all.’

Rex shook his head sadly. ‘All right,’ he murmured resignedly. ‘Tell me something about the trip – your personal reactions and all that sort of hot air. I’ll have to turn in a couple of “sticks” or they’ll murder me.’

Temple laughed. Then he caught sight of a distinguished-looking man who had just entered the buffet.

‘Here’s Doctor Steiner. He’ll tell you all about the trip – won’t you, Doctor?’

Temple introduced the newcomer.

‘It will be possible to get a train soon, Mr Temple?’ queried the doctor.

‘Why yes – it’s due almost any minute. Then I’m afraid we shall have to leave you. We go by road,’ said Temple.

‘Ach, it is sad to part so soon. It has been such a pleasant journey and a wonderful experience. Just look at my buttonhole – the carnation is quite fresh, and I bought it in New York.’

Rex Bryant was impressed with this small point. The doctor was obviously a man who noticed things.

‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me a sort of interview, sir,’ he barged in hastily. ‘Is this your first trip across the Atlantic?’

‘I should have warned you, Doctor, that Mr Bryant is a representative of the London Evening Post. One of our most respected publications,’ Temple added with a twinkle.

‘So,’ grunted Steiner. ‘A reporter? This England becomes more like New York every day. No, young man, this is not my first trip – I have been many times before.’

‘Have you any intention of visiting the other European countries, Doctor?’ asked Rex.

‘I do not know, my friend. That I shall decide later.’

‘H’m,’ murmured Rex thoughtfully, taking a grubby envelope and pencil from his inside pocket. ‘I didn’t quite get your name, sir?’

‘The name is Steiner,’ said the German in dignified tones. ‘Doctor Ludwig Steiner. Professor of Philosophy at the University of Philadelphia.’

‘What’s your interest in coming to Europe, Doctor?’ Rex paused significantly. ‘Have you an interest in politics or…?’

The doctor shook his head. ‘I am over here on holiday, my friend,’ he said. Then added as an afterthought: ‘Just a holiday.’

2

There was something both distinctive and rather strange about Iris Archer’s well-moulded features, smooth fair hair, limpid blue eyes and vibrating voice. ‘She’s always Iris Archer,’ her critics commented, and to some extent this criticism was justified, but they rather forgot that Iris owed her success to the fact that she was able to shape an indifferent part to her own individual personality. There was something mysterious, glamorous, and rather different about Iris Archer. Seeing her on the stage one could not help feeling that she led an exciting life, that some tall, distinguished young man (hair slightly grey at the temples) was perpetually in her dressing room waiting to take her to the Savoy grill.

Iris had suddenly appeared in the West End. Some said she had played small parts on Broadway, others declared that she had toured in an obscure concert party and had inherited a sum of money with which she had set herself up in London. Certainly her very early days were never mentioned in any interview, no matter how persistent the gossip writer became.

Though she always contrived to give her acquaintances the impression that she could afford very little time to trouble about clothes, Iris was always dressed in a simple but striking fashion that lingered just a shade too long in the masculine memory.

Paul Temple had been rather surprised to meet her at a cocktail party given by a comparatively unknown publisher. Temple was even more surprised to discover that she could discuss all the latest best-sellers with an intelligence that betokened not only wide reading but a very close observation of the many spheres of life.

And what had impressed him most of all was the fact that she had not begged him to write a play for her. Nevertheless, Temple had returned home determined to do so. The First Lady Seaton was the result. It had been shelved for over a year in view of other commitments, for Temple was determined that none but Iris Archer should play the leading part.

‘Lady Seaton’ was a queer and unusual character. Temple felt certain that, played by anyone but Iris, it would prove unsympathetic. Iris had just those qualities to bring ‘Lady Seaton’ to life; to make her a distinctive creation unlike any other heroine he could ever remember seeing on the English stage.

He had been more than a little taken aback by her cable and was still deeply puzzled by it. Nevertheless, they had been in their Mayfair flat for several days before Iris made her customary extravagant entrance.

‘Darling, how nice to see you again!’ As always, there was just the right inflection in Iris’ voice.

Paul Temple and Steve rose to welcome her.

‘Steve, my dear, you look marvellous!’ cried Iris, holding out both hands. ‘Doesn’t she look marvellous, Paul? Now do tell me about the trip, I’m simply dying to hear all about it. Did you feel frightened?’

‘A little,’ confessed Steve, who was not very much at home in the air.

‘My dear, I should have been petrified,’ said Iris. ‘The very thought of all that water makes me positively violent.’

She seated herself with a tiny sigh of content.

‘You look very fit, Iris,’ said Temple quietly, surveying her intently.

‘I’m not, darling. Feel awful at times.’

‘Won’t you take your things off, Iris?’ suggested Steve.

Iris smiled and nervously fingered the clasp of her fox cape.

‘No, I can’t stay very long, darling.’

‘What about a cocktail?’ suggested Temple.

‘Yes,’ decided Iris after a short pause. ‘Yes, I would rather like a drink, my sweet.’

Temple went across to the cocktail cabinet and consulted a slip on which a recipe was typed. He remembered that Iris had a favourite cocktail.

‘Paul, you got my cable?’ Iris asked presently.

‘Yes,’ replied Temple, ‘it was handed to me just as we were getting on the ’plane.’

‘Were you surprised?’

Temple carefully speared a cherry before answering.

‘Well, just a little.’ There was an awkward pause. ‘Iris, are you serious about this?’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so serious in my life before,’ said Iris grimly.

‘But why?’ cried Steve in obvious surprise. ‘What’s the matter? Has Seaman been nasty about something?’ It was quite obvious that Steve was as anxious about the play as Temple himself.

‘No, no, it’s not that. He’s a swell producer,’ replied Iris hastily.

‘Is it money?’ asked Temple rather tentatively. ‘I thought we’d offered you a splendid contract. After all, we gave way to you over that picture business.’

Iris was somewhat at a loss for words.

‘I’ve been badly miscast, Paul,’ she said at last, but her tone was strangely unconvincing.

Temple could not help laughing.

‘But that’s ridiculous! You said yourself the part fitted you like a glove.’

Iris nodded. ‘That was six weeks ago,’ she added quietly. There was a disturbing note in her voice.

‘Aren’t you very well, Iris?’ queried Temple rather anxiously.

‘Not terribly,’ she confessed.

‘What are you going to do? Make a film?’

‘No,’ replied Iris uncertainly. ‘I’m—well, I’m going to the South of France for two months. When I get back I may start work again—I don’t know—yet…’

‘Are you going alone?’

‘Yes, quite alone. To a small place near St Maxime.’

Temple shrugged his shoulders and handed Iris her cocktail.

‘Well, I’m sorry about all this,’ he said, and forced a smile. ‘I suppose it can’t be helped.’

‘You’re very sweet about it,’ smiled Iris, her limpid blue eyes suddenly warm and friendly.

‘I suppose there isn’t a chance that you might change your mind about the play?’

Iris shook her head regretfully. ‘No. No, I’m afraid there isn’t, darling.’

‘Iris, do you mind if I tell you something quite frankly?’ said Temple suddenly. ‘Six months ago you wrote me a letter about the play. You said you thought it was well written, extremely amusing, and that the part of “Lady Seaton” was quite the best part offered you for many years.’

‘Oh yes, I did,’ agreed Iris flippantly. ‘I remember the letter perfectly. And I meant it, Paul. Every word of it.’ She leaned forward. ‘Really, I was quite sincere.’

‘Yes,’ smiled Temple. ‘Yes, I know you were.’

Temple felt it was high time the cards went on the table. ‘Iris, why are you leaving the cast?’ he demanded flatly. ‘It’s not because you don’t like the play any longer. I know you well enough to realise you wouldn’t change your mind. It’s not because the part doesn’t suit you. You’ve got another and more important reason, haven’t you?’

It was some little time before Iris spoke, but when she did there was a strange and somewhat urgent note in her voice.

‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘But it’s no use asking me what that reason is, because I can’t tell you.’

Temple rose and poured himself a drink.

‘If we postponed the production, say for two or three months,’ he suggested, ‘would that be all right?’

Iris looked a little bewildered. ‘You mean, would I be prepared to play “Lady Seaton” if you held things over, till…say, just before Christmas?’

Temple nodded.

‘But darling, you can’t do that!’

‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he persisted.

Iris took a cigarette from her case. ‘I should love to do it, Paul,’ she said softly. ‘It’s a fine play, and a wonderful part for me, but—’

‘But what?’

‘But I must be free between now and the tenth of November.’

Temple perched himself on the arm of a chair and looked into her eyes. ‘All right, then that’s settled,’ he said. ‘I’ll write to Seaman tonight.’

‘Paul, you’re a darling!’ cried Iris in amazement. ‘The thought of not playing “Lady Seaton” nearly broke my heart.’ She was obviously both genuinely relieved and delighted.

‘Go ahead and kiss him, Iris!’ smiled Steve. ‘It’s overrated, anyway.’

‘You don’t know what a weight you’ve taken off my mind, Paul,’ said Iris, finishing her cocktail. ‘Now, I really must fly!’

‘When are you leaving?’ asked Steve.

‘On Saturday – by ’plane at midday.’

‘And I can tell Seaman you’ll be back in town for the end of November!’ pursued Temple.

‘Not a day later than the seventeenth, I promise you,’ replied Iris, drawing on her gloves.

‘Good. Then take care of yourself, Iris,’ laughed Temple. ‘I don’t want any accidents happening to my leading lady.’

Iris was turning to go when Temple’s manservant opened the door and announced Sir Graham Forbes.

Both Temple and his wife appeared surprised, for they had not seen Sir Graham for some months. Steve was more than a little alarmed, for Sir Graham’s visits were usually associated with something a little more exciting than afternoon tea.

‘It’s all right, Steve,’ smiled her husband, ‘there’s nothing to get excited about.’

‘Sir Graham Forbes?’ queried Iris, setting her hat at a jaunty angle. ‘Isn’t he connected with Scotland Yard or something?’

‘It is Scotland Yard,’ Temple informed her, as she followed Pryce. She bade them an extravagant farewell, and Temple once more repeated his assurance that he would write to Seaman that night.

As Pryce carefully closed the door, Steve turned to her husband with a worried frown. ‘Paul, if Sir Graham is here because he needs your help, then please—’ There was a catch in her voice.

Temple squeezed her arm affectionately.

‘Sir Graham is here because he needs a cocktail. A very strong cocktail. And nothing else, Mrs Temple,’ came the urbane voice of Scotland Yard’s Chief Commissioner.

‘Why, Sir Graham!’ ejaculated Steve.

‘Come along in, Sir Graham!’ laughed Temple. ‘It’s grand seeing you again. Though I thought Pryce—’

‘Yes, Pryce wanted to announce me all right,’ smiled Sir Graham. ‘But he seemed to have his hands full with the blonde.’

‘That was Iris Archer. You’ve probably heard of her,’ Temple informed him.

‘Iris Archer?’ Sir Graham was obviously impressed.

Temple crossed over to the cocktail cabinet.

‘What would you like, Sir Graham? Sherry? Bronx?’

‘I’d rather like a Bronx,’ said Sir Graham, watching Temple rather curiously as he selected the ingredients. ‘What was the trip like, Temple? Got a bit of a shock when I heard you were coming over on the Clipper.’

‘Oh, lovely!’ enthused Steve. ‘We enjoyed every minute of it, didn’t we, darling?’

‘Every minute,’ agreed Temple, handing their visitor his drink and then pouring out a glass of sherry for Steve.

Sir Graham smacked his lips.

‘Isn’t Iris Archer going into a play of yours? I seem to remember reading something about it?’ he asked.

‘Well, she was going into a play of mine,’ replied Temple. ‘Now things seem a little uncertain.’

‘H’m. Pity.’ grunted Forbes, who understood little or nothing of the complications that arise in the theatre world.

‘What’s Scotland Yard doing at the moment?’ asked Temple.

‘Just at the moment,’ began Forbes with elaborate emphasis, ‘we are up against one of the greatest criminal organisations—’

Steve had almost risen from her chair, and Sir Graham broke into a heavy laugh.

‘He’s only pulling your leg, darling,’ Temple reassured her, but somehow Steve did not altogether appreciate the joke.

‘As a matter of fact, things are pretty dead. They have been for months,’ continued the Chief Commissioner evenly. ‘One or two isolated murders, but nothing really big since “The Front Page Men”, and I can’t honestly say I’m sorry.’ He drained his glass and got up.

‘I must be on my way – I only dropped in to welcome the wanderers home again.’

‘We’re going away again in a day or two,’ said Temple, ‘but when we get back you must come to dinner and—’

‘I shall be out of town myself for about a month,’ broke in Sir Graham. ‘First holiday I’ve taken for nearly six years.’

Temple said casually: ‘Where are you going?’

‘Carol’s taken a villa just outside Nice.’

‘Nice!’ echoed Steve in some surprise.

‘Yes,’ said Forbes. ‘I say, you two don’t happen to be going to the South of France, by any chance?’

‘Oddly enough, Sir Graham—’ began Temple.

‘We’re going to Scotland,’ finished Steve. ‘You did want to go to Scotland, didn’t you, darling?’

‘Why—er—yes. Yes, of course,’ said Temple in some embarrassment.

‘Then that’s fine,’ smiled Steve, rather delighted by her husband’s unexpected confusion.

‘Well, wherever you go, Temple, keep out of mischief,’ said Forbes.

Steve smiled. It was a very pleasant smile.

‘That’s just why we are going to Scotland!’ she said.

3

For five hours Temple had been driving steadily through variable Scottish weather. They had stopped at Dunfermline to gaze open-mouthed upon the many evidences of the benevolence of Mr Andrew Carnegie. They had even paused some time at the tomb of Robert the Bruce, and, rather to Steve’s amusement, Temple had drawn many parallels between the tenacity of that legendary figure and the patience required in the solution of modern crime mysteries.

As they continued their journey towards Inverdale, where they proposed to spend a few days, the sky suddenly darkened, and on a particularly lonely stretch of moorland the rain lashed furiously against the windscreen.

Steve was never very comfortable during thunderstorms, and when the sky was streaked with forked flashes she begged her husband to stop. But Temple drove on, holding the theory that a moving vehicle is a less likely target for lightning.

‘The rain seems to be getting worse,’ shouted Steve above the noise of the storm. Temple, struggling with the windscreen wiper, which was sticking occasionally, muttered an imprecation.

‘I don’t believe the lightning is quite so bad now,’ added Steve, after a pause.

‘Perhaps not,’ replied Temple, who had not been paying much attention to it. ‘This road is terrible. If we get a puncture now, everything in the garden will be lovely!’

‘I wonder how many miles we are from Inverdale,’ Steve speculated, eyeing a range of mountains which seemed deceptively near.

‘I’m beginning to wonder if there is such a place,’ grunted Temple.

‘There must be, darling. It’s on the map.’

‘That’s a very old map,’ Temple pointed out as he stepped on the footbrake. ‘Hallo, what’s this?’

‘This’ was a cluster of about twenty cottages, scattered at varying intervals along the road.

‘Looks like a village of some sort,’ said Steve, as the car approached.

‘“Some sort” is about right,’ grimaced Temple. ‘I hope this isn’t Inverdale.’

‘It can’t be, darling. There’s nothing except cottages.’

A solitary cow was straying homewards, and Temple had to slow the car down to practically walking pace. The storm had almost passed over by now, and Temple was anxious to find a signpost of some description. ‘It’s no good going on if we’re off the right road,’ he told Steve, who was busy unfolding the map. He stopped the car outside the first of the cottages.

Temple glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was only half-past six. Steve was busy tracing the route they had followed. ‘We must have done nearly two hundred miles,’ she estimated.

Her husband, who had been surveying the rather unprepossessing cottages, suddenly announced: ‘That second cottage is a shop by the look of things. They’d put us on the right track.’

‘Yes, perhaps it would be quicker,’ agreed Steve. ‘Get me some chocolate, darling – fruit and nut.’

‘You wouldn’t like a juicy steak, by any chance, with sauté potatoes?’ suggested Temple as he climbed out of the car.

‘What, no onions!’ Steve riposted, and the novelist laughed.

Temple approached the cottage, which differed from the others in that it had a roof of slates, and its greystone walls bore no trace of whitewash. He pushed open the heavy door, and a tiny bell clanged discordantly. The interior was gloomy and cluttered with a miscellany of articles ranging from flypapers to sides of bacon suspended from the ceiling.

A tight-lipped Scotswoman in her late forties came into the shop from the kitchen. She had a voice that droned rather than spoke and she eyed Temple with obvious suspicion.

‘What can I get ye?’ she demanded in reply to Temple’s civil greeting.

‘I should like some chocolate, please.’

‘We don’t keep chocolate.’

‘Oh, I see,’ murmured Temple, rather taken aback. ‘Very well, I’ll have some postcards.’

‘A packet?’

‘Yes – a packet,’ agreed Temple, regarding them rather dubiously.

‘Six delightful views of Inverdale,’ announced the woman. ‘Two by moonlight. That’ll be sixpence.’

Temple produced a coin.

‘I’ll put them in an envelope for ye,’ offered the woman rather surprisingly, opening a drawer at the back of the counter.

‘How far is Inverdale from here?’ asked Temple politely.

‘About two miles.’

‘Oh, good. I thought it was farther than that.’

‘No,’ intoned the woman. ‘Two miles.’ She threw Temple’s sixpence into the drawer and closed it sharply.

‘I suppose there’s some sort of an hotel at Inverdale?’

The woman appeared to be searching her memory. ‘Yes,’ she decided at last. ‘There’s an inn.’

‘A good one?’

‘Not bad—it’s not at all bad.’

‘Do I keep straight on from here, or is there a turning before—’

He broke off in some embarrassment before the piercing glance from the steely grey eyes.

‘Ye’re a stranger round these parts?’ she observed coldly.

‘Very much so, I’m afraid,’ he tried to answer in an easy tone.

‘Have ye come far?’

This is practically a cross-examination, reflected Temple. But he said: ‘London.’

‘London? That’s a long way,’ commented the woman, in a rather warmer tone. ‘I’ve a married sister in London. Peckham, I think it is. Would there be a place called Peckham?’

Temple nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there is a place called Peckham.’

‘It must be a wonderful thing to travel,’ sighed the woman. ‘Often wish I had the time, an’ money o’ course. What was it Shakespeare said about travellers?’

‘As far as I can gather, he said quite a number of things,’ smiled Temple.

‘H’m—will ye be wanting anything else now?’ Her voice was cold, almost as if she regretted the previous conversation.

Temple was about to reply when the doorbell clanged violently and a very excited young man entered the shop. He had obviously been running hard, for he stood against the door with almost a sigh of relief.

‘Why, Mr Lindsay!’ exclaimed the woman in some surprise.

‘Hello, Mrs Moffat,’ gasped Lindsay.

‘Gracious me, ye’ve certainly been running!’

‘I’m sorry for bursting in like this,’ he apologised. ‘No, please don’t go, sir!’ There was a note of urgency in his voice as he placed his hand on Temple’s sleeve. In another minute he had recovered his breath.

‘Apart from being out of breath, you seem rather excited about something,’ said Temple. ‘Is anything the matter?’