The lines on his face deepened as he listened intently to the message. After a moment, he picked up his Eversharp pencil and made one or two notes on a pad at his elbow. Finally, he replaced the receiver and amid an expectant silence slowly opened a drawer and extracted a magenta folder. As he did so, he turned to Bradley with a grim smile.
‘You seem to be a thought-reader, Bradley. We’ve got another murder on our hands, just as you predicted.’ He tore the note from his pad and clipped it neatly inside the folder.
‘Who is it this time?’ It was Street who spoke.
‘A young girl. They picked her out of the river last night,’ announced Sir Graham, wearily.
Even Bradley seemed taken aback.
‘You mean it’s The Marquis?’
The Chief Commissioner nodded. ‘They found the usual small square of white cardboard pinned to her dress,’ he said.
Inspector Ross, a middle-aged sharp-featured individual, who had spoken very little so far, leaned forward in his chair.
‘The man’s conceited, Sir Graham,’ he pronounced, definitely, ‘or he wouldn’t go in for all this card business. It sounds to me like Con Landon. We haven’t heard anything of Con since he was released six months back.’
Forbes shook his head.
He deplored Ross’s weakness of associating known criminals with unsolved crimes. Sometimes it worked, but it was very risky and might mean the loss of a considerable amount of time.
For a few seconds there was silence. Street stood at the window looking gloomily at the traffic rushing along the embankment. At last he turned to ask: ‘Have they identified the girl?’
‘Not yet,’ replied Forbes.
Bradley seemed surprised. ‘That’s damned odd, isn’t it?’ he demanded.
‘Give the boys a chance,’ snapped Ross. ‘They only picked the girl out of the river last night.’
Bradley strode excitedly over to Forbes’ desk.
‘Don’t you see what I’m driving at, sir?’ he said, forcefully.
‘Perhaps you’ll enlighten us, Bradley,’ replied Forbes, in a patient tone.
‘But it’s as plain as the nose on your face. All the other victims of The Marquis were well-known people, celebrities in fact. They were identified almost immediately. Myron Harwood! Sir Denis Frinton! Carlton Rodgers! Lady Alice Mapleton! Their death was bound to get into the headlines.’
Sir Graham pondered upon this for a few moments.
‘There’s something in what you say, Bradley,’ he agreed, at length. ‘Maybe we’ll be able to work on this angle.’ Bradley was about to enlarge upon his theory when he was interrupted by the arrival of a sergeant who brought the Chief Commissioner a note marked Urgent and Strictly Confidential. Forbes read it carefully, then let it fall on his desk. He passed a weary hand over his forehead.
‘Anything wrong, sir?’ asked Bradley.
‘No,’ answered Forbes. ‘Just a note from Paul Temple.’
‘Paul Temple!’ Both Ross and Bradley spoke at once.
‘I thought he was in America,’ said Street.
The Chief Commissioner’s announcement had obviously aroused some interest. ‘Perhaps I’d better read you the note,’ he suggested, picking up the paper again. ‘It may convey more to you than it does to me.’
He read:
Dear Sir Graham,
Steve and I have just returned from the States. Why not dine with us tomorrow evening. Shall look forward to seeing you.
Kindest regards,
Paul Temple.
‘Sounds innocent though,’ sniffed Bradley.
‘Just a minute,’ said Forbes slowly. ‘There’s something else here.’ After a pause, he read:
‘P.S. Is it true what they say about Rita?’
Ross looked across at Street in obvious bewilderment.
‘Is it true what they say about Rita?’ Bradley repeated.
‘Who the devil’s Rita?’ asked Ross, in puzzled tones.
‘Why has Temple come back, anyway?’ Street wanted to know. ‘D’you think the Home Secretary has cabled him?’
Any further speculations were cut short by the ringing of the telephone. After a brief conversation, consisting mainly on his part of a series of ejaculations, Forbes swung round in his chair and declared: ‘They’ve identified the girl.’
‘Good work,’ approved Street. ‘Who is she, sir?’
‘Her name,’ said the Chief Commissioner deliberately, ‘was Cartwright. Rita Cartwright.’
WHEN Steve heard Temple direct the taxi-driver to the nearest airport, she could not repress a start of surprise.
‘I had no idea we were going to fly back,’ she said, as they settled inside the taxi. ‘When did you decide that, Paul?’
‘As soon as I received that second message,’ he replied, calmly. ‘A criminal who is sufficiently on the inside to know that the Home Office had cabled me, and furthermore who has a copy of the secret code, is a man who is going to take some catching. So it seems to me that there’s no time to be lost.’
At the aerodrome, they were fortunate enough to secure the last two available seats in a plane which was due to start for New York in just under an hour. When they had partaken of a light meal in the aeroplane, Temple settled down to compose a message to the Home Office, then decided to defer sending it as his code book was not easily accessible. Eventually, he telephoned London just after they landed, and was agreeably surprised to learn that if he applied to the commanding officer of a certain military aerodrome, there would be transport facilities supplied for himself and Steve in the next Liberator to be ferried over.
They found themselves in London four days later.
Pryce welcomed them as inscrutably as ever. Temple had telephoned him from the aerodrome. They were busily unpacking one or two essentials when the man-servant remarked: ‘I forgot to mention, sir, that there’s a young lady who’s rung up several times. A most persistent young person by the name of Cartwright.’
Steve and Temple looked at each other in perplexity
