Send for Paul Temple Again!. Francis Durbridge
‘He nearly forced us into that shop window,’ she said breathlessly. Temple nodded.
‘It was done deliberately, no doubt about that.’ He was debating in his mind whether to give chase to the black saloon, but the arrival of a constable forestalled that. Temple briefly gave him particulars, but on an impulse refrained from giving the number of the saloon, of which he had caught a fleeting glimpse. For one he was not quite certain, for another he thought he might like to follow up this clue himself. Unfortunately, neither he nor Steve had been able to recognise the man who was driving – he had worn a hat pulled well down, and his overcoat collar was turned up round his ears. After making one or two notes, the constable allowed them to proceed.
‘Why did you hesitate when he asked you the number?’ said Steve, as she changed gear.
‘Because,’ he answered softly, ‘I think I saw it. I wouldn’t be quite certain, but it looked like DVC629.’
‘Can’t you have it traced?’ asked Steve eagerly.
‘I didn’t want an official job made of it, in case I happened to be wrong. What’s more, number plates can be changed pretty quickly. And then again…’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, supposing this business has got something to do with Rex?’
‘With Rex!’ echoed Steve, completely staggered. ‘But it can’t have.’
‘But supposing it has!’ insisted her husband.
‘Well?’
‘Well – would you still want me to trace that car number?’
Steve suddenly swung round, a determined light in her eye.
‘Yes!’ she replied in a definite tone. ‘Yes, I would. Forget that promise if you really want to.’
Temple slapped his right fist into his left palm. ‘Okay, Mrs. Temple! If that’s how you feel, pull up for a minute and we’ll change places.’
She did so. Then a thought seemed to strike him as he caught sight of a telephone-box, and he asked Steve to wait while he made a call. When he returned he looked very pleased with himself.
‘All right, darling, we’re all set. Hold on to that precarious hat of yours, and off we go.’
‘But, Paul, where—?’
He smiled.
‘To a little pub in Limehouse known as the “Twisted Keys”.’ He noted her expression. ‘It’s all right, darling, it’s not such a dive as all that. They’ve even got a saloon bar!’
However, the Twisted Keys certainly did not look very inviting from the outside when they arrived there, though Steve could find little fault with the saloon bar, which had obviously been modernised.
‘I take it we’re supposed to be meeting somebody here,’ said Steve, as she settled in a corner with a pink gin.
Temple looked round cautiously.
‘Yes, an old friend of mine named Spider Williams. He specialises in car jobs – knows who’s out on the road and what they’re up to. If ever a car gets stolen, trust Spider to hear about it in next to no time. I told him to ’phone his pals and let me know if he heard anything about a Milford saloon – gave him the number, of course, though that may not mean much.’
He did not seem inclined to talk any more, but thoughtfully drank half a pint of ale and then ordered another. Half an hour slipped by; people drifted in and out, some eyed them suspiciously, others seemed intent only upon quenching their thirst, and minding their own business. Temple fetched Steve another pink gin and grinned at her cheerfully.
‘You don’t seem very impressed by this establishment,’ he said.
‘Is one supposed to be?’ asked Steve.
‘Of course! It’s one of the most famous pubs in London. At least it was, before the brewery decided to modernise it. Since then, the place has lost its tone. I don’t suppose there’s been a free fight here for months. Of course, they still get a few of the old-timers, but you have to know when to catch them – and they never use this bar.’ He grinned reminiscently. ‘That’s why Spider sounded surprised when I told him I’d be in here.’
‘What sort of man is this Spider Williams?’ inquired Steve, rather more intrigued.
Temple shrugged.
‘Oh, he’s just a little chap who knows most of the answers.’
‘Why do they call him Spider?’
‘Possibly because his web explores most of the corners of the underworld as far as his own particular line is concerned.’
Steve smiled somewhat wistfully. ‘I can’t understand you, darling. I really can’t. Surely Sir Graham could have found out about the car?’
Temple took a gulp at his beer.
‘If I’m going to investigate this business, I’ll do it in my own sweet way,’ he announced calmly. Then the door swung open and he said, ‘Ah, here’s our friend. Now don’t laugh – he takes himself very seriously.’
Under the large peak of his cloth cap, the beady eyes of Spider Williams swiftly surveyed the room. Then he caught sight of Temple and came over at once. He was the type of man familiar to habitués of racecourses, where his prototypes abound in hundreds – hangers-on who somehow contrive to make a living at the game.
‘Ah Mr. Temple!’ he began breezily. ‘Sorry I’m late. ’Ad a bit of a job gettin’ ’ere.’
‘Sit down Spider,’ smiled Temple, turning to introduce his wife.
‘You don’t ’ave to tell me who this is!’ grinned Spider. ‘Could spot her a mile off. Glad to know you, Mrs. Temple. Sorry I’m late, Mrs. Temple. ’Ope you ain’t tired of ’angin’ about. I ’ad a bit of a job gettin’ ’ere.’
Temple obtained a drink for the newcomer.
‘Any luck, Spider?’ he asked, when they had gathered round the table.
Spider shook his head. ‘Not a blamed thing, guv’nor,’ he replied, taking a swig at his beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I bin through to five or six what’s in the know, but they ain’t ’eard nothin’. What sort of car did yer say it was?’
‘I told you,’ said Temple rather impatiently. ‘So far as I could see, it looked like a Milford.’
‘And what time was this?’
‘I couldn’t say to the minute. I left Broadcasting House soon after seven-thirty, and we were on our way down to Piccadilly.’
‘It couldn’t have been much after eight when you ’phoned me,’ said Spider. ‘You’ll ’ave to gimme a bit more time, guv’nor. Maybe something’ll turn up. These cars ain’t so easy to trace, yer know—’
He was interrupted by the barmaid, with whom he seemed on be on rather more than familiar terms. She told him that he was wanted on the telephone, and with a knowing wink at Temple he went out to take the call.
Temple took the opportunity to order another drink, and was about to make some remark to Steve when he noticed her looking at someone behind him. The next instant he felt a resounding smack between the shoulders, and a voice said in a pronounced Welsh accent: ‘Hello, Simon! Who would have thought of seeing you here!’
Temple looked round inquiringly, and saw a dark young man who now appeared highly embarrassed.
‘Lordy!’ he exclaimed in a half whisper. ‘You’re not Simon!’
‘I’m rather afraid I’m not,’ smiled Temple, not a little amused at the other’s dismayed expression. It was, in fact, the little Welshman who had been present at the discovery of Norma Rice’s body, though Temple was