Paul Temple Intervenes. Francis Durbridge
Чтение книги онлайн.
Читать онлайн книгу Paul Temple Intervenes - Francis Durbridge страница 3
‘There, I think that’s about all, Mr. Temple. I think this should make just about the best interview I’ve tackled this year. Glad the network’s taking it.’ He paused, then added as an afterthought: ‘Oh, just one more question. Do you know anything about this person who calls himself The Marquis?’
Temple shook his head.
‘Only what I’ve read in the papers. His – er – activities seem to have come to light since I sailed.’
‘H’m,’ murmured Guest, ‘the police over there don’t seem to be making much headway. The fellow just commits one murder after another and, so far as I can make out, gets away with it. You ought to see the headlines in a batch of English papers I received yesterday.’ He paused, then added curiously: ‘I suppose Scotland Yard haven’t sent for you by any chance?’
Temple smiled. ‘Not to my knowledge,’ he replied, in some amusement.
‘Oh well,’ shrugged Guest, turning to his secretary. ‘That last question’s off the record, Lesley.’
As quickly as Miss Wharton typed out the contents of her notebook, Guest and Temple went through them, deleting a sentence here and there, adding an occasional explanatory phrase, sometimes re-writing a whole paragraph. When they had finished, Guest read through the final version with a stopwatch in his hand, and discovered that they would over-run by two minutes. So another question and answer were cut out. The final result was passed back to Miss Wharton to make a final draft.
Guest stood up and stretched himself.
‘Twenty-five minutes before we’re due on the air. Time for a cup of coffee with Mrs. Temple,’ he announced, offering Temple a cigarette.
In the lounge, a loudspeaker, turned right down, was playing dance music which was being broadcast at that moment on a network programme from New York. Just as they had joined Steve, a breathless young man in an open shirt came up to Guest.
‘Same layout, Cran?’ he asked.
Guest nodded.
‘Twelve minutes,’ he replied. ‘One minute commercial to start and finish, and the introduction for Mr. Temple I gave you this morning.’
The young man smiled at Temple.
‘This is Harvey Lane, one of our announcers – Mr. and Mrs. Temple,’ Guest introduced them briefly. Lane chatted pleasantly for a minute, then made a hurried departure.
‘Never a minute to breathe, poor devils,’ commented Guest, stirring his coffee. ‘Oh well, we’ve all had to go through it – station breaks, forenoon plugs, lunchtime commercials – it’s all in the game.’
Temple and Steve exchanged a smile.
‘How’s it going, darling?’ she asked.
‘I shan’t be sorry to see the clock pointing to nine-fifteen,’ he admitted, dryly.
‘Perhaps Mrs. Temple would like to come in the studio,’ suggested Guest.
Steve shook her head. ‘I’d much sooner listen in here,’ she declared.
At ten minutes to nine, Guest led the way into a small studio, where the main object of furniture was a flat-top desk with two microphones on it. There was a chair in front of each microphone, and on the opposite wall was a large clock with a red second hand slowly moving round the dial. Under the clock stood a large window commanding a view of the control room, complete with its gramophone turntables and banks of meters.
At one minute to nine, after Temple and Guest had settled themselves comfortably in their chairs, Miss Wharton rushed in with the completed scripts.
Guest began glancing through his copy. ‘Plenty of time to look through it,’ he told Temple, as the announcer came in and took his stand in front of a microphone.
The engineer behind the glass panel held up his hand. Ten seconds to go. Temple had always found these last few seconds before a broadcast completely awe-inspiring. One hardly dared to breathe. It was as if some world-shattering event, like the downfall of an empire, was due to take place at the split second of nine o’clock.
There was the sound of a distant fanfare of trumpets – played on a record in the Control Room – and the engineer dropped his hand. Harvey Lane faced the microphone squarely.
‘The Pan-American Fruit Combine brings you the Cranmer Guest programme!’ he announced impressively …
They finished promptly at nine-fourteen, and following a significant jerk of Guest’s head, Temple rose and joined him outside the studio.
Steve rose to meet them as they came through the door.
‘I’d no idea I had married such an accomplished actor,’ she smiled. ‘You both sounded extremely professional.’
‘Forget it!’ said Temple laconically, and Cranmer Guest laughed. ‘Care to take a look round while you’re here?’ he offered, and proceeded to conduct them over the large building, where Steve was particularly impressed by the News Rooms with their tape machines ticking busily and sub-editors frowning beneath gaily coloured eye-shades.
When they stood in the foyer once again amid a crowd queuing up for the ‘Southern Skies’ programme, billed to take place at ten-fifteen, the Temples shook hands with Guest and bade him good night.
‘Where to now?’ asked Steve as Temple summoned a taxi.
‘A little speakeasy I used to know in Prohibition days,’ he told her. ‘Rather a cosy little place – they used to call it Maisie’s Craze.’
He gave this name to the taxi-driver who shook his head.
‘Maisie don’t live there any more, brother. They call it the Appenine Club these days.’
‘All right,’ agreed Temple. ‘Take us there.’
But the Appenine Club proved disappointing, at any rate to Temple.
‘It isn’t the same without Maisie,’ he sighed regretfully, as they sat eating an indifferently cooked supper. He turned to the waiter who was uncorking a bottle of wine.
‘What’s happened to Maisie?’ he asked.
The waiter shrugged. ‘Last time I heard of her she was in New York, singing at the Three-Fifty.’
‘Who is this Maisie, anyway?’ asked Steve.
‘Oh, just a friend of mine,’ replied her husband, with an indifference that would have intrigued any woman.
‘Did you know her very well?’ persisted Steve.
‘Quite well! She was a very human sort of person. We had a lot of fun together in the old days.’ Steve noted the distant light in his eyes, and was more curious than ever. But she managed to restrain her curiosity, and after witnessing a very second-rate cabaret act, they returned to their hotel. It was not until he was taking off his coat to put on a dressing-gown that Temple remembered the blue envelope