never believe me!’ she exclaimed. ‘This man Lorraine is—’
‘I’m not so sure that he wouldn’t, Steve,’ Paul Temple interrupted. ‘The Commissioner isn’t quite such a fool as people think. He’s got his head screwed on all right. Even though he won’t send for Paul Temple!’ he smiled, as an afterthought.
‘But they don’t even believe my brother was murdered!’ Steve Trent put in excitedly. ‘If they think he committed suicide, then they’re—’
Paul Temple was able to stem even Steve Trent’s rapid flow of words.
‘I can prove to them that he did not commit suicide,’ he said quietly. ‘If they need any proof!’
‘You can!’
‘Yes. According to Horace Daley, the landlord of “The Little General”, when your brother came downstairs, he asked him to change a pound note, and Daley then went into the back parlour to get the money.’
Steve Trent looked at Paul Temple expectantly.
‘Well,’ he continued, ‘why should he go into the back parlour? There was thirty-seven and sixpence in the till behind the bar counter. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Because I examined the till when Daley went upstairs to fetch Miss Parchment down. In fact, that’s why I sent him.’
Steve Trent showed she realized the importance of his discovery. Nevertheless, she had no intention of being so blinded by it that she could not see any of the other facts.
‘Of course, there may be a perfectly simple explanation,’ she said. ‘Perhaps the landlord didn’t want to—’
‘Oh, yes. There may be quite a simple explanation. But there’s just one other little point. Your brother was holding the revolver in his left hand.’
Steve Trent looked puzzled. ‘But Gerald was left-handed,’ she said.
‘Yes, of course,’ replied Temple, quietly. ‘That’s just the point.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Steve.
‘I mean, my dear Miss Trent, that your brother was murdered by someone with a little too much imagination and not sufficient intelligence.’
A journalistic training had sharpened Steve Trent’s already quick powers of perception. Moreover, she never accepted facts at their face value but preferred to look both behind and beyond them.
‘But if it’s so very obvious that my brother was murdered, why do the police think he committed suicide?’
‘What makes you so certain that the police think he committed suicide?’ asked Paul Temple.
‘Why, it’s been in all the newspapers, and even at the inquest, they…they—’ she broke off, apparently in deep thought. Suddenly she exclaimed with a queer note of surprise in her voice: ‘You think they know he was murdered?’
‘I’m almost sure of it.’
‘Then why on earth did they make out it was suicide?’ she asked. ‘Surely—’
‘I expect they have a reason, Steve. And I shouldn’t be surprised if it isn’t a very good one.’
Paul Temple slowly stretched his legs, poured more coffee out for each of them, then strolled towards the sideboard and returned with the bottle of cherry brandy between his fingers. He refilled their glasses and offered Steve another of the Turkish cigarettes she had liked so much.
Then he blew through his long cigarette holder, watched the butt end of his cigarette go flying into the fire, and carefully replaced the holder on the mantelpiece. Paul Temple was by no means a cigarette smoker, but he liked an occasional cigarette, especially while drinking tea or coffee.
He now brought forth the briar pipe which had been his constant companion for three years. It was alight and going well before he sat down again.
‘Who was the lady that was staying at the inn? Miss…er…?’
‘Miss Parchment?’ asked Temple. ‘She’s a retired schoolmistress with a passion for old English inns. Very old English inns. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, no particular reason,’ Steve replied. ‘I noticed her at the inquest, that’s all.’ She paused. ‘I called in at “The Little General” last time I was down here. I don’t trust that man Daley – there’s just something about him that makes me suspicious.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Temple quietly. ‘Yes – I can understand that. As a matter of fact, there’s something rather peculiar about the inn itself, if you ask me.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, according to Miss Parchment, the inn wasn’t always called “The Little General”; it used to be known as “The Green Finger”!’
‘“The Green Finger”…that’s a peculiar name.’
‘Yes, it’s peculiar in more senses than one,’ replied Paul Temple. ‘After the Birmingham robbery, the night watchman died. He was chloroformed. Before he died, however, he said “The Green Finger”.’
‘You don’t think this inn – “The Little General” – is used as a sort of meeting-place? That would account for—’
Temple interrupted. ‘Yes. I did think of that,’ he said quietly.
‘It might be a good idea to have the place watched.’
‘Merritt’s watching it,’ Temple informed her. ‘He’ll let me know if anything funny happens.’
Steve puckered her brow. ‘Merritt? Who’s Merritt?’
Paul Temple looked puzzled in turn. Then he burst out laughing. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Inspector Charles Mortimer Merritt! Dear, oh dear, he would be flattered!’
Steve appeared to think for a moment or two, then her forehead became its normal attractive self again.
‘Oh, I remember. He was helping Gerald and Chief Inspector Dale over the jewel robberies. Is he a friend of yours?’
‘By Timothy, yes!’ exclaimed Paul Temple. ‘Merritt and I get along like a house on fire.’ He grinned widely. ‘He’s a funny little devil, always got some wild sort of theory at the back of his head, but he’s really as cute as a box of monkeys. I’m sure you’d like him.’
‘Have you known him long?’
‘About five or six years,’ replied Temple, as he took his briar out of his mouth and carefully scraped the burnt ash out of it. ‘He hasn’t been in this country all that long. He was out in New Zealand for a little while, I think, or somewhere like that. If he wasn’t so damned rude to his superiors,’ he added with a smile, ‘they’d have had him at the Yard ages ago.’
‘Paul!’
