Paul Temple and the Harkdale Robbery Page 5

‘It’s like I was saying to the inspector,’ declared Mrs O’Hanrahan, ‘it’s all very mysterious!’

  Paul glared at her. ‘Inspector Manley, the girl apparently telephoned to say that she had been held up. Do you know where she telephoned from?’

  ‘Her father thought London, but he couldn’t be certain.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Steve, ‘she went back to London because she’d forgotten something.’

  The inspector shook his phlegmatic head. ‘We’ve spoken to her landlady. She hasn’t gone back to her flat.’

  Paul thought for a moment and then said, ‘I’m going back to Town.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Temple, I’ll look after Steve –’

  Paul smiled weakly at Mrs O’Hanrahan and went through into the living room. He gathered together the papers he might need. While he was deciding whether or not to ring Kate Balfour and warn her that he would be coming the inspector wandered into the room.

  ‘May I come in?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, of course, Inspector.’

  Manley leaned against the door and sighed. ‘According to Mrs O’Hanrahan, this man Renson came here to talk to you about the Harkdale robbery. I wonder why.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector, I wonder why. Do you suppose the thieves are falling out? How much money was involved? I’ve seen various sums mentioned in the press.’

  ‘Forty-two thousand pounds,’ he said sourly. ‘But this was the fifth robbery in the series. There’s big money involved.’

  Paul grunted. He went upstairs to the study, and the inspector followed him. The inspector looked disapprovingly at all the books and papers.

  ‘Of course, he may simply have lost his nerve,’ said Paul. ‘With three of his colleagues dead and a policeman killed, he may have got scared.’

  ‘I would understand that,’ said the inspector. ‘I can see that a simple minded crook might get scared when he finds himself in the big time. But what I still don’t understand is you, Mr Temple. Why did he come and see you?’

  Paul smiled non-committally. He wished he knew.

  ‘By the way, Inspector, if anything develops, or if you want me for anything, give me a ring. You should have my number at the station.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘I’ll be back here sometime tomorrow.’

  Downstairs in the kitchen Mrs O’Hanrahan was playing with the dog. The game consisted of chasing it and throwing one of Paul’s best slippers across the room. Steve was laughing delightedly.

  ‘Darling,’ she said as the dog cannoned against Paul’s legs, ‘what are we going to do about Jackson?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Paul tried to retrieve his slipper without appearing to be a spoilsport, but the dog thought he was joining in the fun. ‘He isn’t our responsibility.’

  ‘I know he isn’t.’ Steve was tentative. ‘I just wondered what was going to happen to him.’

  ‘We’ll talk about Jackson later.’

  ‘Yes, darling.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Are you off now?’

  The car was still in the drive. Paul tossed his briefcase into the passenger seat and opened the door. He wondered whether the dog could be trained to frighten off undesirable visitors, like burglars or Mrs O’Hanrahan.

  ‘By the way, Inspector,’ he said suddenly. ‘Forty-two thousand pounds is a lot of money for a small bank in Harkdale. Were the robbers tipped off by someone with inside knowledge?’

  ‘We think so, but at the moment we haven’t a clue who it was.’ He slammed the door after Paul had climbed into the car. ‘The money only arrived at Harkdale the night before, and it was due for distribution the following afternoon.’

  Paul started up the engine and then waited for Steve to catch the dog from somewhere under the rear wheels. He laughed. Perhaps London was the most peaceful place to be after all.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Betty Stanway? I don’t know what you think she’s been up to, Mr Temple, but I can assure you that she is an extremely respectable girl. I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

  Paul smiled his most reassuring smile. ‘I know, Mrs Garnett, she’s a very nice girl, but she’s in trouble. I’m trying to help her. Perhaps I could have a word with you?’

  It was many years since Paul had lived in conflict with landladies, yet somewhere in his stomach there was a twinge of apprehension. The breed didn’t change. She stood in the doorway of the Belsize Park Gardens house like a symbol of morality in the face of lust and late night parties and men.

  ‘Betty doesn’t live here any more.’

  ‘She’s in trouble,’ Paul repeated. ‘She’s young and in love and it’s up to us to help her. We are mature and responsible people.’

  It worked. ‘I told her not to fall in love with that man of hers, but she wouldn’t listen. She was getting ideas in that night club where she worked. It turned her head.’ She showed Paul down the steps into the basement of the house. ‘This is where Betty lived. She was an attractive girl, and London is hard on attractive girls. I should know.’

  ‘Really?’ Paul asked in polite surprise.

  ‘She thought I was only her landlady, as if spoiling a girl’s fun comes naturally to landladies. But I know what it’s like. I arrived in London with only my looks to show for it and I was swept off my feet by a charming layabout.’

  ‘You say she doesn’t live here any more?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Mr Garnett paid for this house, but he never earned a penny more than he could spend on booze while he was alive. He dreamed of easy money and a comfortable life, but the most profitable thing he ever did was to get run over one night at closing time. I bought this house with the insurance money.’

  ‘Did she give in her notice?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Betty Stanway.’ Her furnished flat was two rooms, a bedroom and a kitchen. Her possessions were still in place. The vast range of clothes and a dressing table piled with cosmetics. It was difficult to form an impression of the girl through the muddle. A Degas reproduction on the wall, a few books by Noel Streatfeild and Angela Thirkell. ‘When did she leave here?’

  ‘She called in this afternoon. Paid me a week’s rent in lieu of notice and said that she would send for her things.’

  ‘Who was with her?’

  ‘Nobody. She was by herself.’ The woman was nearly sixty, a bird of prey with a hooked nose and an eagle eye for trouble. ‘What is Betty doing, Mr Temple?’

  ‘I don’t know. Did she tell you where she was going?’

  ‘No. She said she was off to the club.’ The woman sat on the edge of Betty’s unmade bed and shook her head forebodingly. ‘Betty was a funny girl. I think she was probably romantic, lived in a dream world out of her children’s books. She was usually unhappy.’

  ‘You must have known her very well,’ said Paul.

  Mrs Garnett smiled with sinister indulgence. ‘Somebody had to look after her, and I must admit that I tried. She used to come home at all hours, but of course that was part of her job. She used to drink quite a lot, but those men at the club have to pay for it. It wasn’t a life that could go on forever. I suppose she didn’t know how to change it and settle down. She didn’t have many friends.’

  Paul left the house feeling slightly sad for the girl. The bedsit life was fun for a couple of years when you were twenty, but Betty had been too old for it and she had seen defeat coming. He hoped she wasn’t too desperate. Wherever she was.

  ‘Why,’ Paul asked his favourite barman, ‘why would a gang of bank robbers try to involve an attractive dancer in their activities?’

  Eric polished a few glasses and served a sporty type with a half of bitter while he thought about it. ‘Search me, Mr T,’ he said at last. ‘What’s the answer?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Perhaps they like having attractive dancers about the place.’

  Paul sipped his whisky and stared at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. It could be, of course, simply that Desmond Blane always took three weeks to
make up his mind.

  ‘I’m going to the Love-Inn to find out,’ said Paul.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Eric. ‘I’m off duty in ten minutes.’

  ‘That would help with the parking,’ Paul said discouragingly.

  He telephoned the Love-Inn and asked for Rita Fletcher. He explained that he was worried about Betty Stanway and wanted to come and see her.

  ‘Betty?’ the woman asked cheerfully. ‘The police have been here asking questions, but I’m not aware that anything is wrong. Betty is due here this evening, and as far as I know she’ll be turning up as usual.’ There was a pause, and she added, ‘But come and see me by all means. I have been worried recently about Betty.’

  Eric Jordan was usually infallible about the London scene, but he couldn’t tell Paul much about the Love-Inn. It was owned by some American who had never yet ventured into any other business. It was run by a dynamic woman. It was run well and had never been raided by the police. It was just another club, with no known criminal connections.

  ‘What time shall I pick you up, Mr T?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Paul, ‘that’s a good question.’

  ‘I could always come in with you if you wanted. Just in case you find what you’re looking for.’

  It was half past ten in the evening and the streets of Soho were still thronged with people in search of the permissive society. The dark narrow streets with their glitter of neon and aura of naughtiness, the furtive figures in doorways, all contributed to the feeling Eric Jordan obviously had that he was missing out on something. He had agreed instantly to chauffeur Paul into the West End, and now he was visibly reluctant to leave.

  ‘I’d like to see what the other half look like,’ he murmured sadly.

  ‘This is business,’ said Paul. ‘You’d better give me an hour. I’ll see you here at eleven thirty.’

  He got out of the car and glanced up at the flashing sign which announced The Love-Inn. There were photographs of The Melody Girls in the open foyer, startlingly pink and jolly, revealing enough flesh to belie the claim, ‘As seen on TV’. There were photographs of male crooners in evening dress who had been popular fifteen years ago, and there was a series of portraits of a strip tease dancer labelled teasingly, ‘Now Showing’. Paul turned apologetically to Eric Jordan.

  Eric was nodding amiably at a young man who was going into the Love-Inn. He was a fair, sharply dressed young man and Paul caught a whiff of hair lotion as he passed. Eric grinned.

  The young man went through a door marked Private which clearly led back stage, so Paul followed him. The noise of the orchestra was brashly close at hand and it sounded as if something unpleasant was happening on stage. The soaring trumpet was ecstatic, and from the reaction of the saxophones and drummer you would never think the musicians had seen it all before. There were show girls wandering unconcerned along the corridor, and stage hands were pushing past in readiness to strike sets and wheel on props as if they had seen it all before and forgotten what it was.

  ‘Hey, you!’ An aged stage door keeper was leaning out of his cubby hole at the end of the corridor waving at Paul. ‘How did you get in here? Yes, you!’

  Paul pushed through to the man. ‘I want to see Miss Fletcher. She is expecting me.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ he said disbelievingly. ‘What name?’

  ‘Paul Temple.’ The fair haired friend of Eric’s appeared from one of the dressing rooms with a tall chorus girl. Paul gave the stage door keeper a ten shilling piece. ‘I telephoned about an hour ago.’

  ‘You’d better wait in her office. It’s more comfortable in there.’ He grinned toothlessly and pocketed the money. ‘I’ll tell her you’ve arrived.’

  The office was a converted dressing room, but the expensive furniture and the well stocked drinks cabinet indicated that Rita Fletcher was doing very nicely. A wall of photographs to My Darling Rita indicated that all the best show-biz people recognised her success.

  ‘By the way,’ said Paul, ‘who was that young man we just passed in the corridor? Fair haired young chap with wandering hands.’

  ‘Him? Name of Sampson.’ The stage door keeper scratched his behind in disapproval. ‘A proper bleedin’ twit he is. I don’t know why Mr Coley lets him hang about here all the time.’ He hitched up his trousers. ‘I’ll tell Miss Fletcher.’

  Paul sat in a deep leather armchair and lit a cigarette. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the applause of the audience and there was a renewed flurry of activity in the corridor. Then the door opened and a short man in a dinner jacket came in. He had an empty glass in his hand and he moved across the office to the drinks cabinet as if he knew his way about. But he stopped abruptly as he saw Paul.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Paul. ‘My name’s Temple. I’m waiting for Miss Fletcher.’

  ‘Tam Coley,’ the man explained. ‘Glad to know you.’ He raised his glass in salute, then continued across to the cabinet to pour himself a large gin. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Temple,’ said Paul.

  Tam Coley nodded. ‘That’s right. I know that name.’ He was an American and from his accent Paul placed him tentatively as a New Yorker, the Bronx rather than Brooklyn. ‘Heard the name before somewhere. Don’t you write books or something?’

  ‘Books,’ Paul said mildly. ‘What do you do, Mr Coley?’

  ‘I own this joint.’ He laughed at the improbability of it. ‘Say, wait a minute! You didn’t come here to write a book?’

  ‘No. I’ve just told you, I came to see Miss Fletcher.’

  Tam Coley looked slightly relieved, but he sipped his gin in silence. ‘Is Rita a friend of yours?’ he asked doubtfully.

  ‘No. I’m interested in a friend of hers, and I hoped she might put me in touch with him.’

  ‘Oh? Who’s that?’

  ‘A man called Desmond Blane.’

  Coley was relaxed again as he shook his head. ‘Never heard of him. Doesn’t sound like a man, sounds more like a seaside resort. Bognor Regis, Desmond Blane, Ashby de la Zouche.’ He smiled at the empty glass. ‘Did you know, Mr Temple, that Ashby de la Zouche is not by the seaside? The popular song has it all inaccurate!’

  ‘Blane is a friend of Betty Stanway’s,’ said Paul. ‘Now don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Miss Stanway?’

  ‘Sure I’ve heard of her. She works for me.’ He chuckled and filled his glass again. ‘Are you sure it isn’t Miss Stanway you’re interested in, eh, and not Mr Blane?’

  ‘I’m interested in both of them.’

  Paul had decided that the man was not a fool. He was a wiry little American, middle aged and amiably alcoholic, but he had enough shrewdness to move in on the ruthless London club scene. He probably traded on people taking him for a fool.

  ‘What’s going on, Temple?’ he asked cautiously. ‘The police dropped in on the club this afternoon and they asked a whole lot of questions about Betty Stanway. How long had she been working here, they asked, when did we last see her, had she a regular boyfriend. Pretty pointless damned questions.’

  ‘If they asked so many questions,’ Paul intervened, ‘it’s my guess they mentioned Mr Blane.’

  Tam Coley blinked. ‘Come to think of it, I believe they did.’

  ‘I thought you hadn’t heard of him?’

  Coley suddenly grinned at him. ‘Say, you’re bright! Very bright! I must read one of those books of yours.’

  The door opened and a buxom woman in her forties flounced in. A smartly fashionable woman with a frill too many and an air of determination. She glared at Tam Coley and stayed holding the door open.

  ‘I thought you were out front,’ she said to him. ‘There’s a football crowd out there and I’d like someone to keep an eye on the girls.’

  Tam Coley padded cheerfully out with a nod to Paul, but he stopped as a thought occurred to him. ‘Oh, ah, has Betty arrived?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, but she isn’t staying. She wants to give in her notice –’
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  ‘You mean she has another job?’

  Rita Fletcher spread out her hands in bewilderment. ‘I don’t know, Tam. She probably isn’t well.’

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’

  ‘Goodness knows, but leave her alone, Tam. Take it easy, will you?’

  Coley stared at her for a moment. ‘Look, Rita, I don’t know what that kid’s been up to, but whatever it is I don’t want any trouble. Right now this lousy dump has a highly respectable reputation, and I wanna keep it that way.’

  Rita nodded obediently. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Tam.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. We don’t get involved, remember that.’

  ‘Yes, Tam.’

  With the serious interlude completed Tam Coley turned back to Paul and grinned. ‘Nice meeting you, Mr – er –?’

  ‘Temple.’

  ‘Mr Temple.’ He raised his glass in farewell and left.

  Rita waited until he was safely away before slamming the door behind him.

  ‘He’s a boring little lush,’ she explained to Paul, ‘but he owns the place. I suppose he owns most of us who work here as well. Sit down, Mr Temple. I’m sorry I kept you waiting.’

  She sat behind the desk. She gave an impression of irritable energy, but Paul assumed that was something to do with the football supporters. The energy, authority and mature good looks appealed to him. She was a successful woman.

  ‘So you gave Betty a lift into Oxford yesterday,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right. And I’d like to know what happened to her after I dropped her off near her home.’

  ‘So would I.’ Rita Fletcher took a cigarette from the silver box on the desk, lit it and inhaled deeply. ‘I’ve been talking to her for twenty minutes and I can’t get any sense out of her. She isn’t interested. She wasn’t even interested when I told her the police had been here asking questions.’ The woman’s eyes met Paul’s. ‘Is she in real trouble, Mr Temple?’

  ‘Perhaps. And her friend Desmond Blane is certainly in trouble. But I believe you know Mr Blane. Didn’t you introduce him to Betty?’

  ‘Yes, I introduced him to Betty. But he isn’t a friend of mine.’ She went restlessly across to the drinks cabinet and offered Paul a whisky. ‘There are hundreds of people like Desmond Blane who come to the club regularly. If they’re wealthy we try to be nice to them.’ She handed Paul a glass.