was obviously mystified. ‘The Golden Cage?’
‘Yes, it’s a public house near the Elephant and Castle. D’you know it, Sir Graham?’
‘No, I can’t say I do.’
‘It’s in one of those narrow back streets,’ Temple explained. ‘You’ll find it’s frequented by quite an old friend of yours.’
Forbes removed his pipe and slowly smiled. He realised that Paul Temple was referring to the illusive Sammy Wren.
UNLESS you knew the district fairly well, you could easily pass The Golden Cage without noticing that it was a licensed house. True, there was a sort of drab signboard over the front door, but the paint had long since faded and the lettering was quite indistinct. However, this in no way deterred the supporters of this little hostelry, who were emphatic in their insistence that no better beer was to be found south of the river.
Paul Temple agreed with their verdict. He had discovered The Golden Cage years ago when seeking material for his second novel. Someone had told him that it was a popular rendezvous for members of the criminal fraternity. He had discovered that this was an exaggeration, but, by way of compensation, he also discovered that the Extra Special home-brewed beer which was so much in demand actually tasted of hops. Temple had never forgotten the tang of that rich brown beverage.
‘So this is where you used to spend your leisure moments, Mr. Temple,’ said Steve, jokingly as they settled in a murky corner of the Smoke Room. The room was crowded with that strange mixture of humanity peculiar to the Elephant and Castle neighbourhood. There were only two other women present, but the regulars did not seem to notice Steve, who was wearing, especially for the occasion, an inconspicuous costume and a somewhat shapeless felt hat.
Temple laughed at his wife’s remark, lighted a cigarette, and retorted: ‘Don’t be silly, darling. All my leisure moments were spent with an exotic blonde from Pimlico. Didn’t I confess all that before you married me?’
‘It must have slipped your memory, darling!’
‘In that case, I’d better buy you a drink. What would you like?’
‘A dry Martini,’ decided Steve, promptly.
‘Not here, it isn’t done,’ he reproved her. ‘We’ll begin with two pints of their Extra Special.’
‘One and a half – in case I don’t like it.’
He beckoned to the barmaid, who was standing with her back to Steve, engaged in lively repartee with a group of young men. As she swung into view, he recognised her at once.
‘God bless my soul, if it isn’t Dolly Fraser!’ he exclaimed.
The girl’s heavily made-up features showed the merest trace of fear before they resumed their former brazen expression.
‘The name’s Smith – Betty Smith,’ she answered, sullenly.
Temple smiled whimsically.
‘Not one of the Shropshire Smiths?’ he demanded, with the merest flicker of an eyelid in Steve’s direction.
‘And what if I am one of the Shropshire Smiths?’ challenged the girl, with a toss of her coppery hair.
‘Would it, in that case, be too much to ask you to bring us a tankard and a glass of your Extra Special?’ demanded Temple, politely.
‘Special’s off – been finished months ago,’ replied the girl, brusquely, pushing back a lock of hair. ‘I’ll bring you some Old Ale if you like. That’s the best we’ve got.’
‘Thank you, that would do nicely,’ said Temple, suavely. With an insolent lift of the shoulder, the barmaid vanished. When she was out of earshot, Steve asked: ‘Do you know that girl, or was that merely a sample of your sales talk?’
Temple grinned.
‘I know her all right. Her name is Fraser – Dolly Fraser. She was one of the shining lights of the Reagan crowd a few years ago. One of the most useful decoys in the game – she’s quite an actress in her way.’
He spoke in a carefully modulated tone, but apparently he was overheard by a tall, thin man who could not find a seat, and was leaning against a partition nearby.
‘That’s quite right, Mr. Temple,’ confirmed the stranger. ‘Her name is Fraser, and she was with the Reagan mob about two years ago when they pulled off the Charteris kidnapping.’
Temple and Steve swung round. The newcomer suddenly found a high stool and perched himself on it, apparently quite at ease.
‘Forgive me if I am intruding, but I couldn’t help overhearing your remark, Mr. Temple. My name is Ross – Inspector Ross of the C.I.D. I think we met just before you sailed for America.’
‘Why of course, Inspector! I’m afraid I didn’t recognise you,’ said Temple, pleasantly. ‘Have you met my wife?’ When the introductions were complete, Temple invited the Inspector to join them in a drink, but he shook his head regretfully.
‘No thanks, Mr. Temple. I’ve had my allowance. I really ought to have been home hours ago. This is an off-duty visit.’
‘All the more reason for a little relaxation,’ urged Temple, but Ross would not be persuaded to change his mind, and eventually bade them good night. ‘I’m keeping an eye on Dolly Fraser,’ he assured Temple in an undertone just before he turned to go.
‘Is he one of the new people at the Yard?’ asked Steve, when the lanky form had disappeared.
‘No. He’s been there for longer than I care to remember. He used to be attached to the Fingerprint Department till Bradley took over. I don’t think they get on very well together. Anyhow, Forbes decided to transfer Ross; gave him a sort of roving commission, and he’s turned up trumps several times. He has the reputation of being a pretty shrewd sort of fellow.’
By this time, Dolly Fraser had returned, and was placing their beer on the table. As Temple fumbled for half-a-crown, she seemed about to speak, hesitated, then finally ventured:
‘I’m sorry I was rude just now, Mr. Temple. It was that Ross – he’s always hanging round here – gets on my nerves. Why can’t he leave me alone?’
‘Take it easy, Dolly. No harm done,’ smiled Temple.
‘It was silly of me to say my name’s Smith. I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of,’ she added with a touch of defiance.
‘Of course you haven’t.’
‘I knew you’d spotted me the moment you came in,’ she continued, rather nervously. ‘And what with Ross being there as well – it sort of got under my skin.’
‘You
