taken up literature as a trade rather than an art, and he instinctively kept well abreast of the latest moves and developments.
After Temple adjourned to the library Steve decided to wander about the grounds for half an hour, then to come back and map out two or three new features for The Evening Post. She had already accepted Temple’s invitation to stay for supper but had made up her mind to leave for town immediately after the meal. She had to be back in Fleet Street early the next day. But first Steve had a ‘story’ to telephone to her editor.
The ‘story’ of the climax to their ‘Send for Paul Temple’ campaign. As Temple left her to start his work upstairs, she began scribbling a few lines on a pad to read out to the telephonist at the office. Already she could see the posters that would throng the streets forty-eight hours later—‘Paul Temple Sent For!’ The news would still have to be ambiguous, however, as Temple was not yet sure exactly why Sir Graham Forbes wanted to see him.
That evening, a few minutes after they had finished supper, there was a ring at the bell, followed by Pryce’s now habitual inspection through his little grill. He opened the door and came in to announce Inspector Merritt.
Paul Temple jumped up and went out to welcome him. ‘Hello, Charles. This is a pleasant surprise.’
‘Just thought I’d drop in for a chat,’ replied the inspector. ‘Happened to be passing.’
‘Why, yes, of course,’ exclaimed Temple, at the same time introducing the inspector to Steve.
‘I hope I haven’t interrupted a private—’ Temple cut him short.
‘No, of course not, Charles,’ he replied with a smile of amusement. ‘Have you had dinner?’
‘Yes, but if there’s any of that really excellent brandy of yours, then—’
‘Help yourself, old man. It’s on the cocktail cabinet.’
Merritt looked round and saw the bottle of fine old brandy where its owner had indicated. He poured a little into the bottom of a big glass which stood in readiness, and warmed it in his hands before savouring it. Inspector Merritt appreciated his host’s fine taste for the better things of life. And not least of them, in the inspector’s opinion, was the wonderful old matured brandy Temple always managed to acquire.
Meanwhile, Steve had risen from the luxurious depths of the armchair into which she had sunk after dinner, and declared her intention of returning to town. She felt the two men might be more at their ease if she made her departure. In any case, it was already half-past eight, and she was still faced with the long drive back to London.
‘Well, I really think I ought to be getting along, Paul,’ she was saying. ‘If you’re coming up to town on Monday, then—’
‘I’ll pick you up about three. We’ll go along to the Yard together, Steve.’
‘You really think I ought to tell Sir Graham all I know about—’ Steve Trent spoke quietly and very seriously. Temple hastened to reassure her.
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
Steve hesitated for the last time. Then she made up her mind. ‘Very well. Good night, Inspector,’ she added brightly.
Paul Temple went out with her to the car which had remained parked in a corner of the drive all day. The engine started up after Steve had touched the starter once or twice. Then suddenly she turned a switch, and flooded the drive with the brilliant flood of light from her headlamps.
Temple noticed her hand resting on the side of the car, and after a little while he took it in his own. ‘Look after yourself, Steve,’ he said softly.
She smiled, slowly disengaged her hand, pushed the tiny stump of a gear lever into position, and with a roar of the engine was gone. As the car’s lights lit tree after tree down the long drive, Temple stood watching her; then as he saw the car turn into the lane which led into the main London-Warwick road, he walked slowly back to the house.
‘I say, look here, Paul,’ Inspector Merritt started, with some slight embarrassment and no little alarm, ‘I hope I haven’t butted in on a private little—’
Temple hastened to relieve him. ‘No, of course not, Charles. Of course not. How’s the brandy?’ he asked inconsequently, both to change the conversation and to try to forget the alarm he suddenly felt for Steve Trent’s safety.
‘Fine!’ answered the inspector, in no way discouraged. ‘She’s a pretty girl, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, yes, she is rather. Surprised you’ve never met her before. She’s a reporter on The Evening Post.’
‘Did you say her name was Trent?’
‘Yes, Steve Trent,’ answered Temple. ‘At least, that’s the name she works under on the newspaper. Her real name is Harvey. Louise Harvey. She’s the sister of Superintendent Harvey, the fellow who was—’
Inspector Merritt looked startled. ‘Sister!’ he exclaimed with surprise.
‘Yes. Why, what’s the matter?’
‘Oh, nothing, only…only I never knew Harvey had a sister.’ The inspector paused to assimilate this new fact. ‘Why wasn’t she at the inquest?’
‘She was, but she didn’t give evidence,’ replied Temple. ‘Well, any news?’ he asked at length.
‘I’ve had the inn watched,’ Inspector Merritt replied. ‘Everything seems to be above-board as far as I can make out. I checked up on that “Green Finger” story. The inn did used to be known as “The Green Finger” – but that’s certainly going back some years.’
‘I still think there’s something funny about that inn, Charles,’ Paul Temple replied. ‘I don’t know what it is, but I intend to find out.’
Merritt looked thoughtful. ‘Yes, I think there’s something there too,’ he said slowly.
‘By the way,’ continued Temple, ‘you might be interested to know that the Commissioner wants to see me.’
‘He does!’ exclaimed Merritt, obviously surprised. ‘Well, that’s certainly good news.’
‘Of course, he may only want to ask me a few questions about this business with Harvey. On the other hand—’
Merritt suddenly interrupted him.
‘Oh, just a minute, Paul!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have got a little news which might interest you. One of my men went into “The Little General” yesterday morning, and on coming out, he bumped into a fellow known as Skid Tyler.’
‘Skid Tyler,’ repeated Temple, puckering his brows.
‘Yes. Know anything about him?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Temple thoughtfully. ‘Skid Tyler …Skid—’ Suddenly he jumped up. ‘Yes, I’ve got him!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘He used to be a driver at Brooklands. He was warned off the track in 1930 and served a term of imprisonment in 1931 for share-pushing…or was it ’32? I’m not sure which.’
‘Well,
