Paul Temple and the Madison Case. Francis Durbridge
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our man all right,’ Temple said, moving back out of sight.
‘Steve, is this the only exit from the snack-bar?’
‘Yes, I think – watch out, Paul! He’s coming this way!’
The man had risen from his seat clutching a Samsonite suitcase. He started towards the steps at the top of which Steve and the two men were waiting. Whether he spotted Steve or was warned by some instinct no one would ever know. He halted abruptly, then turned on his heel and ran towards the door which led to the kitchen. A waitress entering with a loaded tray was bowled over by the heavy suitcase.
‘Stay here, Steve,’ Temple commanded, as he raced down the flight of stairs and through the tables of the snack-bar.
He had to step across the fallen waitress and the scattered dishes to push open the door leading to the kitchen. The chefs in their white coats and cylindrical hats had stopped work and were gaping at the wild figure which was already at the tradesman’s entrance, struggling with one hand to open the door.
Temple gained ground on his quarry through the kitchen. Outside on the pavement he had to pause for a moment. Which way had the man with the suitcase gone? Then he saw him, twenty yards away, heading for the busy High Street. For someone burdened with a heavy suitcase he was moving fast. Temple gained on him again during the short sprint to the main thoroughfare. The entrance to an Underground station yawned invitingly beyond the stream of traffic. The man threw one backward glance over his shoulder, then made his fatal mistake. Missing the warning painted on the roadway to LOOK LEFT, he looked right and walked straight into the path of a taxi bowling fast along the bus lane against the stream of traffic.
The taxi driver slammed on his brakes but it was too late. The man was caught by the front mudguard and slammed against a lamp standard. Temple heard the sickening crunch of his head against the solid metal. The suitcase was projected fifteen feet along the gutter.
‘Sorry we’ve been so long, Steve.’
Half an hour had passed before Temple and Forbes were able to rejoin Steve in the snack-bar. They found her starting on her third cup of coffee.
‘What happened?’
‘He was killed, Steve,’ Forbes told her. ‘Went straight under a taxi. It must have been instantaneous.’
‘Oh Paul, I feel awful.’ Steve shook her head, near to tears.
‘Now Steve, listen, there’s no point in reproaching yourself about this,’ Forbes reassured her. ‘If he hadn’t run for it this wouldn’t have happened.’
‘No, I suppose not. Who was he, do you know?’
‘According to this diary which we found on him, his name’s Mark Kendell.’ Forbes had the diary open at the first page. ‘78A Nelson Towers, Chelsea. I’ll get Vosper to check that.’
‘Anything else of interest?’ Temple had sat down beside Steve and put a hand on her arm to comfort her.
‘No, there doesn’t seem to be. Just a minute.’ Forbes was flicking through the pages of the diary. ‘Apparently he had a date this evening. October 19th 8.45. The Manila. Appointment with C.B.’
‘The Manila?’ Temple echoed. ‘That name’s familiar.’
‘Yes, don’t you remember, darling? Mrs Portland mentioned it. She said that her step-daughter was engaged … Now that’s funny. She said that her step-daughter was engaged to a man called Chris Boyer, who regularly frequents the Manila Club.’
‘C.B.,’ said Temple. ‘Don’t you think there are too many coincidences here, Sir Graham?’
‘M-m,’ Forbes conceded. ‘It looks as if Kendell really was mixed up in the Portland affair.’
‘And he broke into our flat thinking we had the watch-chain?’ Temple saw, not without alarm, that his wife’s face had an expression which he knew all too well. It meant she was hot on the scent of something.
‘Paul, wouldn’t it be an idea if we went along to the Manila Club tonight and simply asked Boyer if he had an appointment with this man Mark Kendell?’
‘Quite an idea,’ Temple said without enthusiasm, ‘but unfortunately neither of us happens to be a member of the Manila.’
To his exasperation, Forbes said with a grin, ‘We can easily get over that, Temple.’
‘Don’t say you’re a member, Sir Graham,’ said Steve.
‘No, but Archie Brooks is. He’ll fix you up all right.’
‘Who’s Archie Brooks?’
‘One of our best undercover men. We keep him on tap for occasions like this. I’ll tell him to meet you both at the Manila at ten o’clock. Is that all right?’
‘Fine,’ said Temple with a resigned shrug.
‘Well, I’ll get back to the Yard.’ Forbes was turning away when a uniformed constable came into the snack-bar. He was carrying the Samsonite suitcase. ‘We found the key to this in the deceased’s pocket, sir,’ he told Forbes. ‘The Inspector said he’d prefer you to open it.’
The PC handed the suitcase over. Forbes was taken unawares by the weight. It dragged his arm and shoulder down.
‘I say, it’s pretty heavy, isn’t it? I wonder what the fellow was carrying in it.’
Forbes heaved the case up onto the table. Temple, Steve and the PC crowded behind him as he inserted the key in the lock. It opened with a snap. Forbes released the two side catches and lifted the lid.
‘By Timothy!’ Temple whispered.
Inside, tightly packed, were row upon row of neat bundles of notes. Forbes picked one of the packets up, stared at the top note for a moment then silently handed the bundle to Temple.
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