Send for Paul Temple. Francis Durbridge
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you see the night watchman, Dale, before he died?’
‘No, sir, but Harvey did.’
‘Well, Harvey?’
‘He was pretty groggy when I saw him,’ the Superintendent said. ‘The doctor wouldn’t let me stay above a couple of minutes.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Yes,’ said Harvey quietly, ‘as a matter of fact, he did.’
Superintendent Harvey spoke strangely, and both the Commissioner and Chief Inspector Dale directed puzzled looks at him.
‘Well, what did he say?’ the Commissioner demanded.
‘It was just as I was on the verge of leaving.… He turned over on his side and mumbled a few words. They sounded almost incoherent at the time. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t until a minute or so later that I realized what he’d said—’
As he broke off, the Commissioner became more and more impatient.
‘Well, what did he say, Harvey?’
Quietly the superintendent replied. ‘He said: “The Green Finger”!’
‘The Green Finger…’ said Dale.
‘Yes.’
‘But—but that doesn’t make sense.’
‘Just a minute, Dale,’ said the Commissioner, deep in thought. ‘You remember that man we fished out of the river about a month ago. We thought he might have had something to do with that job at Leicester. I think you found his print on part of—’
Dale interrupted him. ‘Oh, yes! “Snipey” Jackson. I was with Lawrence at the time we found him. The poor devil was floating down the river like an empty sack.’ He paused, then suddenly exclaimed: ‘I say…don’t you remember? Don’t you remember what he said just before he died? I’m sure I’m right! Why—’
‘He said, “The Green Finger”!’ The Commissioner spoke slowly, emphasizing each syllable.
‘Yes,’ repeated Dale, ‘“The Green Finger”.’
‘The—the same as the night watchman,’ added Harvey. ‘But—what is this Green Finger? What does it mean?’
‘That, my dear Superintendent,’ replied the Commissioner with dry humour, ‘is one of the many things we are here to find out.’
‘I don’t think there’s any doubt that “Snipey” Jackson was tied up with that Leicester job,’ said Dale. ‘Henderson found two of his fingerprints on one of the show-cases.’
‘Yes,’ replied Sir Graham. ‘I reckon that was the reason why you and Lawrence had the pleasure of fishing him out of the Thames. The people we are up against know how to deal with incompetence; that’s one thing I’ll say for them!’
‘Sir Graham,’ asked Dale slowly, ‘do you believe the same as Harvey and Inspector Merritt, that we are up against a definite criminal organization?’
Sir Graham got up and walked to the fireplace. There he stood with his back to the glowing flames while Dale and Harvey swung round in their chairs until they faced him again. For some time he said nothing. Then at last, he seemed to have made up his mind.
‘Yes, I do, Dale!’ he said quietly.
‘I suppose you’ve seen the newspapers, Sir Graham?’ It was Harvey who asked the question.
A faint flush spread over the Commissioner’s cheeks. The subject seemed to irritate him. ‘Yes!’ he snapped impatiently. ‘Yes, I’ve seen them. “Send for Paul Temple”! “Why doesn’t Scotland Yard send for Paul Temple?” They even had placards out about the fellow. The Press have been very irritating over this affair. Very irritating!’
‘Paul Temple,’ said Dale thoughtfully. ‘Isn’t he the novelist chap who helped us over the Tenworthy murder?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he caught old Tenworthy!’ Dale went on. ‘I’ll say that for him.’ Suddenly he turned towards the superintendent. ‘He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he, Harvey?’
‘I know him,’ said Harvey.
‘Temple is just an ordinary amateur criminologist,’ said Sir Graham Forbes, with a vast amount of scorn in his voice. ‘He had a great deal of luck over the Tenworthy affair and a great deal of excellent publicity for his novels.’
Superintendent Harvey was inclined to doubt this. ‘I don’t think Paul Temple exactly courted publicity, Sir Graham,’ he said quietly.
‘Don’t be a fool, Harvey, of course he did! All these amateurs thrive on publicity!’
‘Well, you must admit, Sir Graham,’ laughed Dale, ‘we were a little relieved to see the last of the illusive Mr. Tenworthy!’
‘Yes!’ exclaimed Sir Graham. ‘And just at the moment, I should be considerably relieved to hear the last of Mr. Paul Temple. Ever since this confounded business started, people have been bombarding us with letters— “Send for Paul Temple!”’ His tones, impatient and bitter to start with, had gradually worked up into a fury. But he was prevented from going any further. As he finished his sentence, the door opened and Sergeant Leopold, his personal attendant, appeared. The Commissioner looked round, angry at being disturbed.
‘What is it, sergeant?’ he asked.
‘The map, sir,’ Sergeant Leopold replied. ‘Remember you asked me to—’
‘Oh, yes,’ the Commissioner interrupted him.
‘Put it on the desk, sergeant.’
Sergeant Leopold cleared a space on the fully loaded desk, and left the room. Instead of continuing his heated discussion the Commissioner opened the map and spread it flat over the top of his desk.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said, as the two officers stood up and bent over it. ‘This is a map covering the exact area in which, so far, the criminals have confined their activities.’ He pointed to the circles, and other marks, which had been neatly inscribed in the Map Room at Scotland Yard. ‘You will see the towns which have already been affected. Gloucester, Leicester, Derby, and Birmingham.’ He pointed to each of the four places in turn. ‘The map, as you see, starts at Nottingham and comes as far south as Gloucester…covering, in fact, the entire Midlands.’
The Commissioner stood back from the table. He flourished his hand with all the emphasis he might have used in addressing a large and important gathering.
‘Gentlemen, somewhere in that area are the headquarters of the greatest criminal organization in Europe. That organization must be smashed!’
The press of the country had seized on the idea of a mysterious gang holding the Midlands in its grasp, and were making the most of it. Both Spanish and Chinese War news had begun to grow wearisome. Moreover, news editors found it both difficult and tedious to try to follow the latest moves. Only an occasional heavy bombardment, the capture of a big city, or the sinking of a British ship could now be sure of reaching the front pages.
The mere killing of hundreds of men a day had long ceased to be news. There had not even been a really good murder story for months, and editors were falling back on such hardy annuals as Gretna Green and the ‘cat’ for their very large and strident headlines.
Then suddenly, out of the blue, the ‘Midland Mysteries’ arrived. The circulations of the evening papers immediately reached