Paul Temple and the Front Page Men. Francis Durbridge
folk; sailors from tramp steamers of every nationality, many of them looking every bit as desperate as their prototypes in the more bloodthirsty class of film.
On this particular evening, however, the bar-parlour was rather quieter than usual, and Mrs. Taylor, the hostess, had taken the opportunity to embark upon a long account of some grievance for the benefit of one of her customers.
She was a large, flamboyant woman of about forty-five, obviously a little too much inclined to sampling her own wares. Although it was still comparatively early in the evening, Mrs. Taylor’s tongue had received sufficient lubrication to set it going merrily.
‘“My Gawd!” I said to ’er,’ she ended her story, ‘“to ’ear you talk anybody would think your ole man were a blasted admiral, instead of a yellow-bellied first mate on a perishin’ tramp steamer.”’
This seemed to tickle Jimmy Mills, a shifty young man of about thirty, who was rather too well dressed for his surroundings. He had a cruel mouth, which rarely relaxed from its thin, set line, except when he laughed rather too loudly, and he wore an expensive soft felt hat, pulled a little too far to one side.
‘I bet she was nonplussed, Mrs. Taylor,’ he remarked, stressing the long word, as if proud of his vocabulary.
‘It took the wind out of ’er sails, I don’t mind telling you,’ nodded Mrs. Taylor. ‘Can I get you anything else, love?’ she suggested pleasantly, noticing that Mills’ glass needed refilling.
‘Yes,’ ruminated Mills, ‘I’d like another dry ginger; but this time you can put in a drop of—’
Suddenly his jaw dropped, as he caught sight of Paul Temple standing in the passage outside.
‘Who is it?’ asked Mrs. Taylor nervously. She had always been a little jumpy since the place had been raided last year. ‘Who is it?’ she repeated urgently.
‘A fellow called Temple,’ Mills told her. ‘The last time I saw him was—’
‘Phew! You ’ad me all of a jitter for a minute. I thought it was that dirty swine Brook, or one of his river cops.’
‘Sh, he’s coming in here,’ cut in Mills. ‘Now, the name’s Smith – remember that!’ he ordered curtly.
*
Temple came up to them and leaned against the bar, slightly nauseated by the odour of stale beer, foul tobacco-smoke, and the general uncleanliness of the bar-parlour.
‘Good evening, sir. What can I get you?’ primly demanded Mrs. Taylor, in her politest manner.
Temple ran a speculative eye over the bottles at the back of the counter.
‘Well now, I think I’ll have a ginger ale,’ he decided.
‘Yes, sir, very good, sir,’ answered the obsequious Mrs. Taylor, and busied herself with bottle and opener. Meanwhile, Temple moved over to her late companion.
‘Well, well! Look who’s here! If it isn’t Jimmy Mills!’ he ejaculated.
‘The name’s Smith,’ retorted Mills, shortly.
‘Smith?’ Temple seemed amazed. ‘Not one of the Devonshire Smiths?’
‘Don’t try to be funny!’ snapped Mills, savagely, and Paul Temple laughed.
‘Still the same old Jimmy. Tell me, what happened to that Canadian gold mine of yours? Don’t say there wasn’t any gold. Dear me, what did the shareholders have to say at the general meeting? Or perhaps there wasn’t any general meeting, Jimmy?’
Apparently the shot went home.
‘Look ’ere, Temple,’ snorted Mills, ‘there’s no need for any of this funny business. If a fellow can’t keep to the straight and narrow without some busybody shovin’ ’is nose where it’s not wanted, then it’s come to something!’
‘Jimmy, I’m disappointed in you,’ pronounced Temple, appearing to be hurt. ‘You’re dropping your aitches again. It’s a bad sign, Jimmy, it’s a bad sign!’
‘Ah, you are a one, Mr. Temple!’ laughed Jimmy, but his laugh was somewhat reluctant and rather hollow, and he was by no means at ease. He had decided that his policy was to play up to Temple without giving anything away.
‘I’m glad to see you again, Mr. Temple,’ he went on. ‘Looking pretty fit, too. I heard you was married. Is that right?’
‘That’s right, Jimmy,’ nodded Temple.
‘Seems to agree with you. I suppose you’ve gone out of the business now.’
‘Business?’ queried Temple.
‘Yes … you know …’
Paul Temple smiled enigmatically. ‘That depends …’
‘I thought of settling down meself,’ pursued the other. ‘But, well, things ain’t too good in my line just now, and—’
‘What exactly is your line nowadays, Jimmy? You’re so versatile, I never know quite—’
‘I’m a commercial man now, Mr. Temple.’
‘What sort of commerce?’
‘Oh, buyin’ and sellin’ things you know,’ said Jimmy vaguely. ‘All above board and legitimate,’ he hastened to add. ‘I’ve got a cosy little office in the West End.’
‘Really?’ smiled Temple.
Mrs. Taylor placed a badly chipped glass of ginger ale in front of the novelist, and noticing Mills’ empty glass, he invited him to have another drink.
‘I don’t mind if I do, Mr. Temple. Ginger ale, please, Mrs. Taylor.’
As she moved away, he turned to Temple. ‘I’m on the wagon these days – going straight, you see, Mr. Temple.’
‘I should have thought that there would have been rather more congenial pubs near your West End office,’ said Temple pensively.
‘Oh, I dunno. You get a hankering to see the old places,’ replied Mills, with a shrug.
Mrs. Taylor brought the drink, and would obviously have had no objections to joining in the conversation, but neither of the men encouraged her, and she eventually returned to the tap-room.
Temple lifted his glass and sniffed it suspiciously. It smelt strongly of beer. He took a quick gulp by way of acknowledging Mills’ salutation, and set the glass aside.
‘It’s always hard for a bloke like me to convince people what knew ’im in the old days that he’s running straight,’ persisted Mills, but Paul Temple was paying little attention. A newcomer had entered the bar parlour.
Dressed in sober black, the stranger had a thin face and ascetic appearance. He wore a clerical collar, but no hat. His dark hair was plastered smoothly, but free from any unguent, and Temple thought he detected a roguish glint in his eyes. He might have been any age between thirty and forty-five. For a second he stood in the doorway; then Jimmy Mills hailed him heartily.
‘Mr. Hargreaves! Come over here and vouch for me to this gentleman.’
‘Certainly I will!’ agreed the newcomer, joining them.
‘This is the Reverend Hargreaves – Mr. Temple,’ Mills introduced them, and the parson shook hands warmly. ‘He’s in charge of the Seamen’s Hostel just round the corner,’ explained Mills for Temple’s benefit. ‘Knew me before I took to the straight and narrow.’
Hargreaves managed to get in a word at last.
‘Not—Paul Temple, by any chance?’ and there was a note of astonishment in his voice.
‘Yes, that’s right, Reverend,’ corroborated Jimmy Mills.
‘Well, indeed, this is a pleasure,’ enthused Hargreaves.