‘I should like to meet Mr. Phipps sometime. By the way, my name is Temple.’
‘Temple!’ cried the little Welshman, with a dramatic gesture. ‘Not Paul Temple?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Why, yes, of course – I recognise you now. I have seen pictures of you on your novels.’
‘No wonder you didn’t know me!’ grinned Temple.
‘It’s very sporty of you to take it like this, I must say. But I do feel such a fool! And to think I’ve only just finished reading one of your novels.’
‘Oh?’ murmured Temple, in a somewhat indifferent tone.
‘Yes indeed,’ continued the Welshman with gathering enthusiasm. ‘The one called Murder on the Mayflower.’
‘I hope you liked it.’
The other nodded vigorously.
‘It was most ingenious. There was only one thing I didn’t quite like – when that man jumped off the boat so suddenly. Of course, you know I go in for that sort of thing quite a lot.’
‘Jumping off boats?’ asked Temple.
‘Oh no, no! I mean detective novels.’
‘You write them too?’
‘Mercy, no! I read them. I have always got one with me.’ He fumbled in his coat pocket and produced a shabby paperbacked specimen. ‘I read them all day long. Why, in the last two years I have read four hundred and sixty-three detective novels. That’s pretty good going, isn’t it?’
For a moment Temple seemed quite stunned. ‘Yes,’ he agreed at length in a subdued voice, ‘whichever way you look at it, that seems to be pretty good going. You must be fully qualified to embark upon a career of crime.’
‘You will have your little joke, Mr. Temple. But I am an absolute glutton for anything to do with murder, crime or criminology. It is very strange for a docile man like myself. I could not hurt so much as a fly.’
‘Anyhow,’ said Temple, ‘I hope you haven’t remembered quite everything you’ve read, or your brain must be in a considerate state of turmoil.’
At that moment Spider Williams loomed up once more, and the Welshman again made his apologies and withdrew. As he was moving away, he turned and said to Temple in a serious voice, ‘If it’s any consolation to you, Mr. Temple, my friend Phipps is a very good-looking man. Good night, Mr. Temple. Goodnight, Mrs. Temple.’
When he was out of earshot, Steve said, ‘Now what made him think I was Mrs. Temple? You never introduced me.’
‘You look like Mrs. Temple,’ her husband assured her. ‘But, what’s more to the point, what made him think I was Simon Phipps?’ He hesitated a moment, then added thoughtfully, ‘If he really did think I was Simon Phipps.’
But he had no further opportunity to speculate upon this, for Spider was breathing hoarsely in his ear.
‘Bit o’ luck we’ve ’ad, guv’nor,’ he wheezed. ‘One of my blokes, Bert ’Arris struck oil, as yer might say.’
‘Go on,’ nodded Temple.
‘That car was a six-cylinder Milford. Black saloon. DVC629 like you said – ’ad a G.B. plate on the back.’
‘Yes, I seem to remember that,’ said Temple, wrinkling his forehead.
‘I saw it too,’ agreed Steve. ‘Whose car is it?’
Spider Williams chuckled.
‘Quite the little detective, ain’t she, guv?’ Then he became confidential once more. ‘That car belongs to a bloke named Doctor Kohima, 497 Great Wigmore Street.’
‘You seem to have it all off pat,’ said Temple. ‘Has this doctor ever been mixed up in anything?’
‘Not that I know of, Mr. Temple. All you asked me was to find whose car bumped you – and I’ve got you the lowdown.’
‘Are you sure of this, Spider?’ asked Temple rather dubiously.
The little man nodded emphatically.
‘We don’t make mistakes in our racket, Mr. Temple. You know that.’
‘Doctor Kohima,’ repeated Temple thoughtfully. ‘I seem to recall the name. I believe he’s an Egyptian nerve specialist – some sort of psychiatrist.’
‘That’s right,’ nodded Steve. ‘He’s very fashionable just now. I’ve overheard women talking about him at the hairdresser’s or somewhere.’
Temple opened his wallet and passed a couple of banknotes over to Spider, who stowed them away in an inside pocket.
‘If it was Doctor Kohima driving that car,’ said Temple, ‘there doesn’t seem to be much wrong with his nerves.’
They bade Spider good night and went out.
Temple was very silent as he drove back, turning over in his mind the startling events of the evening. Could there be any connection between Sir Ernest’s death and the attempt to smash up their car? And who was that little Welsh fellow? And Doctor Kohima…he found himself more intrigued by that name than any of the others. Why should a fashionable psychiatrist spend his evening charging around the streets in his car? And why should he have homicidal intentions towards Paul Temple?
He was still more than a trifle puzzled the following day when Steve drove him slowly down Great Wigmore Street.
They drew up outside a Georgian mansion and noted the neat brown plate with ‘Charles Kohima’ in white lettering.
‘Did you make an appointment?’ asked Steve.
‘Yes, I ’phoned through this morning. What are you going to do – wait for me in the car?’
She considered this for a moment, then decided that she would pay a visit to a servants’ registry office which was just round the corner.
‘Still looking for a maid?’ smiled Temple. ‘By Timothy! You are an optimist!’ He slowly climbed out of the car and said, ‘I don’t suppose I shall be very long. If you’re not outside, I’ll probably go straight back to the flat.’
She nodded and drove off.
A young maid answered Temple’s ring and conducted him into the waiting-room, which looked much more like a private sitting-room. Lounging on the settee was a fair-haired, sensitive-faced man of about forty-five, carelessly glancing through an expensive American fashion journal. He wished Temple good afternoon in a rather agreeable sort of voice, and started the usual aimless sort of conversation about the weather. As he was obviously waiting to see the doctor, Temple began to wonder if his own appointment would take place at the agreed time.
‘Our friend seems as busy as ever,’ said the man on the settee, when the conversation was showing some signs of lagging.
‘Our friend?’ repeated Temple, slightly puzzled.
‘Doctor Kohima.’
‘Oh!’
The man on the settee eyed Temple keenly. ‘Oh, I’m afraid I was rather jumping to conclusions,’ he said. ‘This is your first visit, perhaps?’
‘Well, yes,’ smiled Temple, ‘I suppose in a manner of speaking it is.’
The other leaned forward and said in an earnest voice, ‘You won’t regret it.’
‘I hope not,’ said Temple, secretly wondering if the other man was quite normal.
‘Kohima’s a brilliant man. Really brilliant. Absolutely first class. Take my word for