Light-Fingers Read online

  FRANCIS DURBRIDGE

  A Present from Paul Temple

  AND

  Light-Fingers

  Two Christmas Short Stories

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in

  The Daily Mail Annual for Boys and Girls 1950, 1951

  Introduction from the Paul Temple Library 1964

  Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1950, 1951 and 1964

  All rights reserved

  Francis Durbridge has asserted his right under the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

  Cover image © Shutterstock.com

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008148003

  Version: 2015-11-04

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  INTRODUCTION: How I Created Paul Temple

  A Present From Paul Temple

  Light-Fingers

  SOLUTION TO: Light-Fingers

  About the Author

  Also in This Series

  About the Publisher

  INTRODUCTION

  How I Created Paul Temple

  It was in April 1938 that I created the character of ‘Paul Temple’ and Martyn C. Webster, the famous BBC Producer, put the first of the series on the radio.

  I had been thinking about the character for almost three months before I actually came across the person whose manner, voice and attitude suggested to me the man-of-the-world novelist with an interest in criminology. I was hurrying to catch a train to Birmingham, where I lived in those days, after a visit to London. The train was, in fact, already moving as I scrambled in.

  There was one other occupant of the compartment and he slowly raised his head at my unexpected entrance. As far as I can remember he was tall and dark and was reading a battered copy of Arnold Bennett’s Imperial Palace. We never spoke, but for some unknown reason after he had left the train – he got out at Leamington Spa – I started thinking about him.

  I remembered the quiet, casual manner in which he had inserted a cigarette in an unusual type of holder; the keen, intelligent face; the smiling eyes a little crinkled at the corners; the friendly nod he gave the inspector as he showed his season ticket.

  The man had other characteristics which fascinated me. He was obviously interested in literature and not merely a casual reader; one could tell that by the way he pondered over the novel he was reading.

  That night, when I arrived home, I started to read Somerset Maugham’s First Person Singular, and I came across the following paragraph:

  ‘I think, indeed, that most novelists, and surely the best, have worked from life. But though they have had in mind a particular person, this is not to say that they have copied him, or that the character they have devised is to be taken for a portrait. In the first place they have seen him through their own temperament, and if they are writers of originality this means that what they have seen is somewhat different from fact.’

  This passage by Somerset Maugham made me think again about the man on the train. I jotted down a few details about him. From these details, plus, of course, a certain amount of elaboration, emerged the character of ‘Paul Temple’.

  Francis Durbridge

  1964

  A Present from Paul Temple

  One morning, two or three weeks before Christmas, the telephone rang in Paul Temple’s flat and Mrs. Temple – known affectionately as Steve – lifted the receiver.

  ‘Is that you, Steve?’ asked a man s voice.

  For a moment Steve was puzzled, then suddenly she recognised the voice. The speaker was Dr. Raymond, the Headmaster of St. Conrads.

  St. Conrads was a famous public school at Downbeach in Sussex and Dr. Charles Raymond, author of several well-known text-books on Forensic Medicine, was a very old friend of Temple’s.

  After a word or two with Steve, Dr. Raymond said, ‘I’d like to speak to that famous husband of yours, Mrs. Temple!’

  ‘I’m sorry but Paul’s in the bathroom,’ said Steve. ‘Can I deliver a message?’

  Dr. Raymond hesitated. ‘I’d like to see Temple,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve a very serious problem on my hands, Steve, and I need help.’ There was no mistaking the note of urgency in his voice.

  ‘I’ll have a word with Paul the moment he comes out of the bathroom,’ said Steve. ‘He’ll ring you back, Charles.’

  Ten minutes later the famous private detective emerged from the bathroom and put a call through to St. Conrads. An hour later Paul and Steve were on their way to Downbeach.

  Dr. Raymond was a squat little man with a high forehead and a long thin nose. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and when he smiled – which was frequently – his pale-blue eyes twinkled with good humour.

  The moment Temple and Steve arrived at St. Conrads he took them upstairs to his study. The study was on the fourth floor and on a clear day it was possible to see almost as far as Beachy Head.

  ‘Now what seems to be the trouble, Charles?’ asked Temple.

  The doctor took an old briar pipe from his pocket and crossed over to the tobacco jar on the mantelpiece.

  ‘I’m terribly worried, Temple,’ he said thoughtfully, leaning against the mantelpiece and slowly stuffing tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. ‘One of my pupils – a boy called Brian Walters – has mysteriously disappeared. Early yesterday morning Mrs. Bridie, the Matron, reported that Brian had made a rope out of his bedclothes and lowered himself out of the dormitory window.’

  Temple smiled. ‘Well, it’s not the first time I’ve been asked to investigate the disappearance of a schoolboy!’ He was thinking of the Curzon case.

  Dr. Raymond said: ‘I had to send for you, Temple, otherwise it meant reporting the matter to the police. I only want to do that as a last resort.’

  ‘What kind of a boy is Brian Walters?’ asked Temple. The headmaster smiled thoughtfully.

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly describe him as a typical boy,’ he replied. ‘He hates games, and spends most of his time on the cliffs chasing after butterflies. He has quite a collection. As he is not very strong I don’t compel him to play games; I think his hobby probably does him more good.’

  ‘He sounds pretty athletic to me – clambering out of windows in the small hours,’ grinned Temple.

  ‘He may have been after some special moth. He’s rather an eccentric little boy. His father is a professor at Cambridge and his mother does a lot of lecturing, so Brian has been left to his own devices quite a bit.’

  ‘Hasn’t he any friend in the school?’ asked Steve, anticipating her husband’s question by a fraction of a second.

  Dr. Raymond took his pipe from his mouth and tapped it on the palm of his hand.


  ‘Yes, strangely enough, he’s on quite friendly terms with a boy named Dickson, who is the reprobate of his form. I’ve caught Walters helping him with his prep several times, and they work together in the lab and sit next to each other as often as they get the chance.’

  Temple exchanged a glance with Steve and said:

  ‘I think we might have a chat with Master Dickson.’

  ‘Of course,’ nodded Dr. Raymond. ‘I’ll have him sent up immediately.’ He picked up the telephone on his desk and gave the necessary instructions.

  ‘You don’t think the boy has run away because he’s tired of school?’ suggested Steve.

  Dr. Raymond shook his head.

  ‘Walters has been very happy with us. Besides, it’s only a week to the end of term. Why should he run home now?’

  At that moment there came a nervous knock at the study door, and in response to the headmaster’s ‘Come in,’ the door opened slowly and the figure of a boy of about eleven edged itself somewhat cautiously into the room. He was rather an untidy little boy with his hair over his left eye, and a tie that was moving in the direction of his right ear.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Dickson,’ said the headmaster. ‘We want to have a word with you. Shut the door.’

  ‘Please, sir,’ burst forth Dickson. ‘It was an accident! There happened to be a little pool of sulphuric acid on my bench, and Mr. Tolworth was just leanin’ on the desk, and his hand happened to…’

  ‘That will do, Dickson,’ interposed Dr. Raymond in a severe tone, though Steve noted a twinkle in his eyes. ‘We want to talk to you about Walters. This is Mr. Temple…’

  ‘Not Paul Temple?’ exclaimed Dickson, his eyes widening in surprise.

  ‘Mr. Paul Temple,’ corrected his headmaster.

  ‘Come and sit down, Dickson,’ invited Temple. ‘I want to have a little talk to you about your friend Walters.’

  ‘But I don’t know anything else, Mr. Temple,’ protested the boy. ‘I’ve done an hour’s detention for letting him down the rope out of the dorm window…’

  Steve could not suppress a smile at the little boy’s indignation.

  ‘Did Walters tell you where he was going?’ asked Temple.

  ‘He said he thought he could get a super moth,’ replied Dickson.

  ‘Did he say where?’

  ‘In a little wood on the top of the cliffs by Sidley Cove.’

  ‘Does Walters often make these night expeditions?’

  ‘Oh no, sir. This was something special. He’s a bit cracked you know when it comes to’ butterflies and moths,’ added Dickson confidentially.

  ‘I quite understand,’ said Temple seriously. ‘Now Dickson, I want you to think carefully, and see if you can recall anything in the least unusual about Walters during the past few days.’

  Dickson stroked the back of his head with a grubby hand, frowning .thoughtfully. Then his eyes lighted up.

  ‘He had a super new watch given him last Saturday,’ he informed them. ‘One of the latest Swiss wrist-watches. It looked like real gold, but of course it couldn’t have been.’

  ‘Who gave it to him?’ asked Steve.

  ‘Some artist who’s always painting on the cliffs. I think he said his name was Crowther. He’s painted old Walters with his butterfly net and all that, and he gave him the watch for sitting still so that he could paint him.’

  All the time he was talking, Temple had been sizing up young Dickson very shrewdly, and presently he turned to Dr. Raymond.

  ‘I should be very grateful, Doctor, if you could let me have this boy as an assistant for a day or so,’ he said. ‘I have an idea he may be a considerable help.’

  The headmaster gravely inclined his head in assent.

  Dickson was unable to believe his ears.

  ‘You mean I can cut school – and prep for a whole day?’ he enquired in incredulous tones. ‘Oh super! Thank you, sir,’ he added,’ turning to Temple.

  The first thing that Paul Temple asked the boy to do was to take them to the cliffs where Dickson assured them that the artist, Crowther, was to be found.

  ‘I always thought artists were long-haired chaps with beards and all that,’ Dickson confided to Temple and Steve, as he led the way along the narrow lane which wound down to the top of the cliffs. ‘This fellow isn’t a bit like that.’

  Master Dickson’s meaning was obvious presently when they saw the artist perched on a piece of rock near the top of the cliffs. He wore an old mackintosh, a pair of shabby flannels and an ancient felt hat pulled over his eyes. He was making a rough sketch of the scene below.

  When Temple told him that young Walters was missing, he seemed quite concerned. ‘What can have happened to the little fellow?’ he said.

  ‘We thought you might have seen something of him, as he said he was coming in this direction,’ replied Temple.

  Crowther shook his head.

  ‘I haven’t seen him for some days,’ he replied. ‘Not since I finished his picture – I suppose you heard about that. He had rather an unusual face, something like Orpen’s “Bubbles”, and he agreed to let me paint him with his butterfly net and cyanide jar.’

  ‘And you gave him a present?’ put in Steve.

  ‘Oh, it was only a cheap wristwatch,’ said the artist, nonchalantly adding one or two strokes to his picture. ‘The boy seemed to like it…’

  ‘It was a smasher!’ interposed young Dickson, and his elders exchanged a smile. Temple was unable to gain any further information from Crowther, so presently they left him and strolled farther along the cliffs.

  ‘I must say I don’t trust that gentleman,’ said Temple to Steve, when they were out of earshot of the artist.

  ‘You don’t think he’s a spy do you, Mr. Temple?’ piped the small voice of Dickson.

  ‘Not the sort of spy you are thinking of, Dickson,’ replied Temple. ‘But I certainly think he does something else besides sketch the scenery.’

  ‘You mean he’s watching for something?’ queried Steve.

  ‘That’s about it.’

  Temple climbed on to a little mound to see if he could get a peep at the artist while he was unobserved. The man seemed to be busy with his drawing again, and after watching him for some minutes Temple was about to rejoin Steve and Dickson when a glint of light from out at sea caught his eye. It was followed almost immediately by another. Temple gave a low whistle.

  ‘Someone out at sea is signalling,’ he told them.

  ‘You mean with a mirror?’ asked Steve.

  ‘That’s right, and they’re using the Morse Code,’ announced Master Dickson, who had clambered up beside Temple.

  ‘Do you know the Morse Code, Dickson?’ asked Temple.

  ‘You bet! I’ve just passed my Scout test,’ Dickson informed him.

  Temple whipped an envelope and pencil from his pocket.

  ‘Is it slow enough for you to read?’ he asked.

  ‘Rather,’ said Dickson, and began to decipher a series of letters, which Temple jotted down. When the message finally ceased, Dickson said .disappointedly:

  ‘It didn’t make sense, sir!’

  ‘I know,’ said Temple. ‘It’s in some sort of code. Don’t worry, Dickson, we’ll fathom it sooner or later.’

  ‘D’you think they were signalling to Crowther?’ asked Steve.

  ‘It’s possible,’ nodded her husband. ‘Anyhow, let’s get back to the school, and I’ll have a shot at deciphering this code.’

  They walked briskly back to St. Conrads, and just as they came in sight of the familiar red brick building Dickson said:

  ‘I say, Mr. Temple, would you’ mind if I went off and did a bit of exploring on my own? After all, the Head gave me a day off, and I thought I might look round one or two of the places where Walters and I used to snoop about.’

  ‘Good idea, Dickson!’ nodded Temple. ‘But I want you to promise me that you’ll be extra careful, and if you should see any suspicious characters come back here at once.’

&nb
sp; ‘Oh, yes, Mr. Temple, I’ll cut back like a shot,’ agreed Dickson.

  After the boy had departed Temple went into the headmaster’s study and settled down with a pile of foolscap paper. He had always prided himself on his skill at deciphering secret codes; this particular one, however, proved considerably more complicated than he had expected, and at one time he was inclined to conclude that young Dickson had misread the signal.

  In the end, he took a final scrap of paper and wrote out what seemed to be almost the complete message. It read:

  WILL LAND AT LOW TIDE TONIGHT

  FALCON’S CAVE HAVE CAR READY

  Feeling very satisfied with himself, Temple immediately telephoned the local police station and arranged with the inspector in charge to bring a small posse of men over to the school that night at ten-thirty. He had checked that low tide would be just before eleven.

  Just before tea-time, Dickson came rushing in, his eyes alight with excitement. In his hand he clutched a grubby scrap of paper.

  ‘Walters and I have a special hiding-place in a hollow tree halfway down the cliff,’ he explained. ‘We keep all our things there – Walters has his butterfly stuff and I have my catapult and my birds’ eggs. I went down this afternoon to see if everything was all right, and found this bit of paper.’

  He handed it to Temple, who unfolded it and read in schoolboyish scrawl: ‘Something queer in Falcon’s Cave.’

  ‘You see, sir,’ said Dickson excitedly. ‘He’d seen something in the cave, and he had gone down to investigate.’

  ‘You know this cave?’ asked Temple.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Temple. You can only get into it at low tide and even then it’s a bit tricky.’

  ‘I see,’ nodded Temple, ‘and showed him the deciphered message. When Dickson heard that there was to be a police raid on Falcon’s Cave that evening, he was very excited.

  ‘Can I come too, sir? I can show you the way down the cliff, and—’

  ‘I’m afraid this isn’t a job for little boys,’ said Temple.