‘Could you find out?’
Laura shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘I’m interested in the coat she was wearing at the time of the murder,’ Temple persisted. ‘There was a label inside with the name “Margo” on it.’
‘Margo?’
‘Yes. Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘No, I’m afraid it doesn’t. But I’ll make enquiries if you like?’
‘I’d be grateful if you would, Mrs Kelburn.’
Kelburn had been listening to the exchange with increasing impatience. ‘Mr Temple, surely there’s something we can do – something just a little more progressive than enquiring about a coat?’
‘Take it easy, George,’ Langdon drawled. ‘Mr Temple knows what he’s doing.’
Temple looked pointedly at his watch, glad of his cue to escape from an atmosphere that had become faintly hostile.
‘You have my ’phone number, Mrs Kelburn, if you want to get in touch with me?’
‘Yes, of course…’ she said absent-mindedly, then quickly corrected herself. ‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t.’
‘It’s in the book,’ Temple said with a smile. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr Kelburn, I have a lunch appointment.’
In fact, Temple’s lunch appointment was with Steve at a small restaurant just off the Bayswater Road where they were well known. It was while they were having coffee that she came out with what had been on her mind all through the meal.
‘Paul, do you think the people who kidnapped me were responsible for the murder?’
‘Yes, I do. And I think I know why they kidnapped you, Steve.’ Temple leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘While I was in America a report appeared in one of the Continental newspapers…Well, I’ve got it in my pocket.’ He took out his wallet, extracted a folded newspaper cutting and handed it across the table. ‘Read it for yourself.’
She unfolded the paper and smoothed it flat on the tablecloth. The report was quite brief. After a few lines about the multiple activities of the master criminal known as The Fence, it stated that the celebrated criminologist, Paul Temple, had cut short his American tour at the request of Scotland Yard and was returning post-haste to London.
‘The Fence is that man Raine mentioned?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it true that Scotland Yard have asked you to help them?’
‘No, darling – it’s just a newspaper story. Sir Graham and I have never even discussed The Fence.’
‘But you think that someone read this and…’
‘I think The Fence himself read it and believed it. Remember what that man said to you, Steve. “We did it as a warning and to prove that it was possible, Mrs Temple.”’
Steve nodded, thoughtful and serious.
‘From now on you’ve got to watch your step, dear. Get Charlie to answer the door. Don’t go anywhere on your own if you can help it. Always leave a message as to your whereabouts. Don’t act on any telephone calls without checking. Well – you know the routine.’
‘Yes,’ she said with resignation, ‘I know the routine.’
Temple had been given a lift back from the Boltons by Mike Langdon, but Steve had driven to the restaurant in her MG Metro, and had been lucky enough to find a parking meter close by. Traffic on the Bayswater Road was thick and a hundred yards from Marble Arch it had slowed to a sluggish crawl.
‘Relax, darling,’ Steve said, with a smile. ‘I don’t mind this, I’m used to it.’
‘Delighted to hear it. And you can relax too, your hair’s fine.’
‘My hair?’
‘Isn’t that why you keep looking in the mirror?’
‘As a matter of fact I was watching the car behind. The Escort driven by a man in dark glasses. It was parked outside the flat when I left and it was behind me when I drove to the restaurant.’
Temple did not turn round. As the traffic began to move he said quickly: ‘Take this turning on the left. Yes, this one!’
Steve obeyed instinctively and the car lurched as she made the turn. Temple lowered the anti-dazzle flap and used the vanity mirror to check on the cars behind.
‘Yes, he’s following us all right. Steve, pull in to the kerb behind that taxi that’s stopping.’
‘What’s the idea?’
‘I’m getting out. I want you to drive straight home. I’ll see you there.’
Steve knew better than to question Temple when he was in this mood. He had the door open before she stopped. The driver of the Escort had two options. Either he could pass the Metro and risk losing it or pull in and take the chance of being spotted. Inexperienced at car tailing, he was braking hesitantly when Temple ran out from the kerb, opened the door on the passenger side and slid into the seat.
‘Here, what’s the big idea,’ the man in dark glasses protested, ‘getting into my car like this?’
‘Keep going!’ Temple told him crisply. ‘I’ll explain later.’
‘Who the hell are you?’
Steve had already accelerated away and drivers behind had started a cadenza on their horns.
‘Drive on. People are getting impatient.’
‘I don’t give a damn what people…’
‘Drive on! And there’s no need to follow that Metro, I can tell you all you want to know about it.’
As the engine almost stalled the other man rammed the lever with a crunch into a lower gear. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘I think you know what I’m talking about. You’ve been following that car all the way from Eaton Square. Now I suggest you drive into the Park – we can have a little talk there.’
‘I—’ He started to protest again, then suddenly caved in. ‘Yes, all right.’
‘I should switch the engine off, Mr Wyman.’
Docile now, Tony Wyman reached forward and turned the key. Following Temple’s instructions he had driven into Hyde Park and stopped on a yellow line on the stretch parallel to Bayswater Road.
‘You recognised me, then?’
‘Yes, I recognised you.’ Temple smiled. It would have taken more than a pair of dark glasses to disguise the pop singer, with his outrageous hairstyle. ‘Now, what can I do for you? Why are you following us around?’
‘I’ve read a lot about you in the papers, Mr Temple, and I thought – well, I’m in dead trouble, see? And I thought maybe you could sort of give me a line. I hung around your flat hoping to catch you, but I couldn’t pluck up enough courage to…’
‘All right, so you have a problem?’ Temple was watching a yellow delivery van with a rent-a-van sign painted on the side, which had cruised past slowly and stopped a couple of hundred yards further down.
‘It’s the police, Mr Temple. They’ve put the wind up me. That Superintendent Raine gave me a proper going over. Practically accused me of doin’ the murder.’
‘You mean Julia Kelburn?’
‘Yes, and I never even knew she’d