Paul Temple Intervenes. Francis Durbridge
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man in an open shirt came up to Guest.
‘Same layout, Cran?’ he asked.
Guest nodded.
‘Twelve minutes,’ he replied. ‘One minute commercial to start and finish, and the introduction for Mr. Temple I gave you this morning.’
The young man smiled at Temple.
‘This is Harvey Lane, one of our announcers – Mr. and Mrs. Temple,’ Guest introduced them briefly. Lane chatted pleasantly for a minute, then made a hurried departure.
‘Never a minute to breathe, poor devils,’ commented Guest, stirring his coffee. ‘Oh well, we’ve all had to go through it – station breaks, forenoon plugs, lunchtime commercials – it’s all in the game.’
Temple and Steve exchanged a smile.
‘How’s it going, darling?’ she asked.
‘I shan’t be sorry to see the clock pointing to nine-fifteen,’ he admitted, dryly.
‘Perhaps Mrs. Temple would like to come in the studio,’ suggested Guest.
Steve shook her head. ‘I’d much sooner listen in here,’ she declared.
At ten minutes to nine, Guest led the way into a small studio, where the main object of furniture was a flat-top desk with two microphones on it. There was a chair in front of each microphone, and on the opposite wall was a large clock with a red second hand slowly moving round the dial. Under the clock stood a large window commanding a view of the control room, complete with its gramophone turntables and banks of meters.
At one minute to nine, after Temple and Guest had settled themselves comfortably in their chairs, Miss Wharton rushed in with the completed scripts.
Guest began glancing through his copy. ‘Plenty of time to look through it,’ he told Temple, as the announcer came in and took his stand in front of a microphone.
The engineer behind the glass panel held up his hand. Ten seconds to go. Temple had always found these last few seconds before a broadcast completely awe-inspiring. One hardly dared to breathe. It was as if some world-shattering event, like the downfall of an empire, was due to take place at the split second of nine o’clock.
There was the sound of a distant fanfare of trumpets – played on a record in the Control Room – and the engineer dropped his hand. Harvey Lane faced the microphone squarely.
‘The Pan-American Fruit Combine brings you the Cranmer Guest programme!’ he announced impressively …
They finished promptly at nine-fourteen, and following a significant jerk of Guest’s head, Temple rose and joined him outside the studio.
Steve rose to meet them as they came through the door.
‘I’d no idea I had married such an accomplished actor,’ she smiled. ‘You both sounded extremely professional.’
‘Forget it!’ said Temple laconically, and Cranmer Guest laughed. ‘Care to take a look round while you’re here?’ he offered, and proceeded to conduct them over the large building, where Steve was particularly impressed by the News Rooms with their tape machines ticking busily and sub-editors frowning beneath gaily coloured eye-shades.
When they stood in the foyer once again amid a crowd queuing up for the ‘Southern Skies’ programme, billed to take place at ten-fifteen, the Temples shook hands with Guest and bade him good night.
‘Where to now?’ asked Steve as Temple summoned a taxi.
‘A little speakeasy I used to know in Prohibition days,’ he told her. ‘Rather a cosy little place – they used to call it Maisie’s Craze.’
He gave this name to the taxi-driver who shook his head.
‘Maisie don’t live there any more, brother. They call it the Appenine Club these days.’
‘All right,’ agreed Temple. ‘Take us there.’
But the Appenine Club proved disappointing, at any rate to Temple.
‘It isn’t the same without Maisie,’ he sighed regretfully, as they sat eating an indifferently cooked supper. He turned to the waiter who was uncorking a bottle of wine.
‘What’s happened to Maisie?’ he asked.
The waiter shrugged. ‘Last time I heard of her she was in New York, singing at the Three-Fifty.’
‘Who is this Maisie, anyway?’ asked Steve.
‘Oh, just a friend of mine,’ replied her husband, with an indifference that would have intrigued any woman.
‘Did you know her very well?’ persisted Steve.
‘Quite well! She was a very human sort of person. We had a lot of fun together in the old days.’ Steve noted the distant light in his eyes, and was more curious than ever. But she managed to restrain her curiosity, and after witnessing a very second-rate cabaret act, they returned to their hotel. It was not until he was taking off his coat to put on a dressing-gown that Temple remembered the blue envelope he had thrust in his pocket. He took it out and examined it, then carefully slit open the flap. Inside, there was a piece of blue paper headed ‘Station GSKZ. Special Short-Wave Message transmitted from 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