London, England.’ The message itself, though short, was in code.
Temple picked up his keys and unlocked his travelling trunk. He pressed one of the studs on the outside and a part of the side of the trunk snapped back. From the half-dozen miscellaneous articles Temple chose a tiny notebook. With the book’s help he decoded the message in rather less than two minutes. It ran:
*
‘Request immediate return to assist investigation of the Marquis murders. Cartmell. Home Secretary’s Office.’
Temple was just returning the code book to the trunk when the bedside telephone buzzed.
‘This is Jefferson, Programme Supervisor, GSKZ,’ said a strange voice when Temple had spoken. ‘Mr. Temple, we all liked your little talk tonight. I was dining with J. C. Marriman – he was very much impressed and asked me to invite you to take part in his company’s “Grand Parade” programme tomorrow at eight.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Temple definitely.
‘But look here, Mr. Temple, if it’s a question of money, I know J.C. will be quite willing to—’
‘No, no,’ interposed Temple. ‘I’d have been glad to help you, Mr. Jefferson, but it just isn’t possible. I have other plans.’
The Programme Supervisor pleaded for some minutes, but Temple remained firm, and finally he rang off. As he replaced the receiver, Steve asked: ‘Darling, what are your other plans?’
Temple flung himself into an armchair and lighted a cigarette.
‘I’m afraid this is very sudden – upsets our trip. But it just can’t be helped.’
‘Is it something to do with that message you’ve just read?’ she inquired. He nodded.
‘By Timothy, that reminds me, I must send a reply.’ He went to retrieve his code book, then hesitated. ‘No,’ he decided, ‘I’ll do it in the morning before we start.’
‘Start? Where to?’
He blew a cloud of smoke into the air. ‘Back to England, Steve,’ he announced calmly.
*
It was fortunate that Steve’s experience as a reporter had accustomed her to acting swiftly, and she was up before six-thirty the next morning packing and sending telegrams to secretaries and organisers who were expecting them to lecture at their various gatherings.
At ten o’clock Temple left her still busily occupied, and, having translated his message into code, strolled round to the broadcasting station, to find that the blonde at the information desk had been replaced by a red-head who was even smarter on the uptake.
‘Oh Mr. Temple, it’s a real thrill to meet you in person,’ she blithely informed him. ‘I heard you on the air last night. Say, I do like your voice – it’s so English.’
Temple smiled his acknowledgment, then stated his errand.
‘I understand I can send a code message from here on the short-wave to England.’
‘That’s right,’ she agreed. ‘But talking of code messages, there’s one waiting here for you.’
‘I got it last night, thanks,’ he replied, politely.
‘Oh no you didn’t,’ she insisted. ‘It only came through this morning just after I signed on.’
Without further ado, she handed him another blue envelope. Temple surveyed it in some bewilderment.
‘I think I’d better postpone sending my message until I find out what’s in this,’ he decided at last, and, bidding the receptionist a pleasant good morning, returned to his hotel.
Steve was just putting the finishing touches to their packing when she noticed him puzzling over the flimsy.
‘What’s the trouble, Paul?’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t make this out,’ he admitted. ‘The message is in the secret Home Office code: yet it comes from a complete stranger.’
‘Does it make sense?’
He passed over the slip of paper, and Steve read:
I’ll be expecting you, Mr. Temple – The Marquis.
SERGEANT RUPERT JOSIAH CARRINGTON BRIGGS skilfully guided the narrow police launch through the churning wake of an overloaded tramp steamer and past the gaunt cranes and warehouses which were dimly silhouetted against the heavy night sky. There came the distant rumble of a storm somewhere beyond Greenwich, and a gust of wind rippled across the water, bringing a scurry of raindrops in its train.
Briggs had the heavy jowl of a typical Yorkshireman which gave the effect of an almost perpetual frown, particularly when he was steering the launch with the aid of a single heavily shielded headlamp.
He shivered and tightened the strap of his sou’wester.
‘If this is the Thames,’ he declared, in an embittered tone, ‘you can have it!’
A broad grin split the Cockney features of his companion, Sergeant Hanmer, who had been born within the sound of the river traffic, and had an extensive knowledge of the famous waterway in all its moods. No aspect of the river which carried such a strange assortment of cargoes ever seemed to disturb Hanmer. He began to fasten up his oilskins as he observed cheerfully: ‘I told you to look out for a bit of real life on the old river!’
An empty crate bumped into the side and vanished in their wake. Briggs cursed softly and changed the course a fraction.
‘A hell of a night!’ he shuddered, as the shower of rain developed into a sudden torrent.
‘Not fit for a dog! Have to slow her down.’
‘If you go much slower, we’ll get swept away by the tide,’ chuckled Hanmer, who seemed to be enjoying himself. They were making about four knots by this time, and the rush of rain had obscured all sounds save the steady beat of the engine and the occasional hoot of a tramp steamer’s siren. The darkness seemed to have reached its maximum intensity, and Hanmer prepared his electric lamp ready for any emergency. Together, they steered unblinkingly through the sheets of rain. Once or twice, Briggs sounded his hooter in a tentative fashion. After a few minutes, the rain almost stopped and the sky lightened a little until they could see very faintly the dim outline of the right bank.
Sergeant Briggs shook the raindrops from his sou’wester and ruminated feelingly on the topic that was always in his mind at such moments as these. Had he been wise to turn down that offer of a job from his wife’s father? A nice, steady, nine-till-five job, with an office to himself and a chance of a partnership later on. If only it had been something a bit more exciting than
