Both men had to shout their loudest. The ringing of a bell, the continual blast of the lorry’s hooter like a factory siren, added to the cries of the mob, all combined to make a bedlam which was beyond the solitary power of the policeman to control.
‘Just—Just a minute, Constable,’ interrupted the driver nervously. ‘I—I feel like a bag of nerves.’
‘It’s a miracle to me no one was killed,’ Police Constable Roberts went on. ‘Why—’ Again the noisy ringing of the burglar alarm together with the monotonous but strident blast from the lorry’s electric hooter stopped him from speaking. ‘We must stop that noise,’ he shouted above the din. ‘Step on one side, please.’ He drove his way forward making for the driver’s cab of the lorry. Suddenly the constable pulled a loose wire he noticed under the bonnet and the noise miraculously stopped. About the same time, ambulance men had arrived and were pushing their way through the crowd to attend to the prostrate forms on the pavement.
As the town hall clock was striking 7.45, Dixie appeared by the side of the maroon-coloured car. The car was still parked where, a few minutes ago, the constable had vainly endeavoured to persuade its driver to move on, and had been conquered by Diana’s sex appeal. Dixie carried a small brown attaché case.
‘Have you got the stuff?’ asked Diana quickly.
‘Have I! My God, what a smash! It sounded just as if it was on top of me. Is Skid all right?’
‘I don’t know. Drop the bag in the back. Be quick!’
‘I think I ought to come with you and—’
‘No!’ was the sharp reply. ‘Get back to the dress shop and mix with the crowd. Be quick, Dixie. Be quick.’
‘O.K.,’ replied Dixie. ‘And take care of that bag.’
He placed the attaché case on the floor in the rear compartment. Then closed the door. A gear lever was snicked into position and Dixie was nearly sent flying as the car shot forward. A second later Diana was out of sight. Dixie turned and plunged into the crowd which was still struggling violently outside the dress shop.
The Midland jewel robberies served at least one good purpose. Steve Trent and Paul Temple now shared one common aim. Their tastes, their aims, so dissimilar in many ways, now fitted together perfectly. The liveliness and the external flippancy which were part of Steve Trent’s make-up were set off by the more sedate nature of Paul Temple. Indeed, a queer form of platonic friendship had arisen between the two. Although it is doubtful whether either of them would have chosen such a hackneyed word as platonic to describe their friendship.
Paul Temple had told Steve to regard Bramley Lodge as her home, to come and stay whenever she wished, indeed to feel that she had an actual share in the place.
On this particular afternoon, after the two had finished lunch together, Temple announced that he would have to spend the next two or three hours dictating his serial, and that he also intended to do a few chapters on a new book if he had any time over.
He had a large room with a balcony overlooking the garden which he regarded as his office and library. This was upstairs on the first floor. Bookcases lined the walls up to the ceiling. On the whole, it was a mixed collection, and although they included many of the books which had helped him on to his degree, they also included many whose names were more or less unknown, save by the solvers of the more erudite of acrostics and crossword puzzles.
All the cases were glass fronted, save one section which comprised his most used reference books. Fiction spread itself over the house. In the lounge were several bookcases filled with thrillers. Paul Temple, indeed, had formed one of the best collections of thrillers and detective stories in the country. His bookseller had a standing order to supply him with thrillers as a matter of course.
Other novels sprawled about in the dining-room, the drawing-room, and elsewhere in the house. Odd cases even found their way into the hall and into the spare bedrooms. But while Paul Temple read as widely as he did furiously, he was in no sense of the word a bookworm. He had taken up literature as a trade rather than an art, and he instinctively kept well abreast of the latest moves and developments.
After Temple adjourned to the library Steve decided to wander about the grounds for half an hour, then to come back and map out two or three new features for The Evening Post. She had already accepted Temple’s invitation to stay for supper but had made up her mind to leave for town immediately after the meal. She had to be back in Fleet Street early the next day. But first Steve had a ‘story’ to telephone to her editor.
The ‘story’ of the climax to their ‘Send for Paul Temple’ campaign. As Temple left her to start his work upstairs, she began scribbling a few lines on a pad to read out to the telephonist at the office. Already she could see the posters that would throng the streets forty-eight hours later—‘Paul Temple Sent For!’ The news would still have to be ambiguous, however, as Temple was not yet sure exactly why Sir Graham Forbes wanted to see him.
That evening, a few minutes after they had finished supper, there was a ring at the bell, followed by Pryce’s now habitual inspection through his little grill. He opened the door and came in to announce Inspector Merritt.
Paul Temple jumped up and went out to welcome him. ‘Hello, Charles. This is a pleasant surprise.’
‘Just thought I’d drop in for a chat,’ replied the inspector. ‘Happened to be passing.’
‘Why, yes, of course,’ exclaimed Temple, at the same time introducing the inspector to Steve.
‘I hope I haven’t interrupted a private—’ Temple cut him short.
‘No, of course not, Charles,’ he replied with a smile of amusement. ‘Have you had dinner?’
‘Yes, but if there’s any of that really excellent brandy of yours, then—’
‘Help yourself, old man. It’s on the cocktail cabinet.’
Merritt looked round and saw the bottle of fine old brandy where its owner had indicated. He poured a little into the bottom of a big glass which stood in readiness, and warmed it in his hands before savouring it. Inspector Merritt appreciated his host’s fine taste for the better things of life. And not least of them, in the inspector’s opinion, was the wonderful old matured brandy Temple always managed to acquire.
Meanwhile, Steve had risen from the luxurious depths of the armchair into which she had sunk after dinner, and declared her intention of returning to town. She felt the two men might be more at their ease if she made her departure. In any case, it was already half-past eight, and she was still faced with the long drive back to London.
‘Well, I really think I ought to be getting along, Paul,’ she was saying. ‘If you’re coming up to town on Monday, then—’
‘I’ll pick you up about three. We’ll go along to the Yard together, Steve.’
‘You really think I ought to tell Sir Graham all I know about—’ Steve Trent spoke quietly and very seriously. Temple hastened to reassure her.
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
Steve hesitated for the last time. Then she made up her mind. ‘Very well. Good night, Inspector,’ she added brightly.
Paul Temple went out with her to the car which had remained parked in a corner of the drive all day. The engine started up after Steve had touched the starter once or twice. Then suddenly she turned a switch, and flooded the drive with the brilliant flood of light from her headlamps.
Temple noticed her