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‘Ah yes, nasty business,’ growled Blakeley. This was the last subject he wished to discuss with Briggs.
‘I was reading in the Evening Post that Scotland Yard consider that the Front Page Men are really an organisation of—’
‘The newspapers print too much damn rubbish,’ said Sir Norman abruptly.
‘Yes, but all the same, Sir Norman, don’t you think—’
‘I think I’d like that money as soon as possible, if it isn’t troubling you too much,’ retorted Sir Norman sarcastically.
So he was going to be unpleasant, was he, ruminated Briggs. All right, he would have to be shown that two could play the same game.
‘You realise, of course, Sir Norman,’ he cleared his throat rather ponderously, ‘this cheque will make you about four thousand overdrawn? Of course, there will be no difficulty about that, but I thought you may have lost track of your affairs lately in view of this—er …’ He cleared his throat again.
‘That will be all right. I shall be paying in some big dividends during the next week or two,’ Sir Norman informed him.
‘Quite, Sir Norman; I hope you did not mind my mentioning the matter.’
‘Not in the least; I presume you will charge the usual rate,’ replied Blakeley, hoping that the note of sarcasm in his tones did not escape Briggs.
‘It may take a little while to get the notes,’ continued Briggs, moving a pile of red-sealed documents from one side of his desk to the other in a manner which seemed to suggest that Sir Norman was trying to get a glimpse of them. This was one of Briggs’ favourite little tricks. ‘You see our main stock of banknotes are numbered consecutively. We may have to send out to the other banks.’ He shrugged his shoulders, as if to impress upon his visitor the many intricacies of the banking system.
Sir Norman fumed inwardly.
Meanwhile Briggs meandered on. He touched upon the refugee problem, National Service, unemployment and Sir Montagu Norman.
After what seemed an eternity, the young cashier returned, carrying a bulky package, and Briggs dismissed him with a curt nod.
‘Would you care to run through the notes, Sir Norman?’ he asked.
Sir Norman half-heartedly fingered the notes, then put them into his suitcase. He hardly imagined that the receiver would quibble if there were twenty pounds short. He took his leave of Briggs as rapidly as he could, but the manager insisted on following him to the outer door of the bank.
Curiously enough, Sir Norman’s prediction concerning the weather had been fulfilled, and rain was falling sharply. He was both irritated and annoyed to find that the taxi was nowhere to be seen. He distinctly remembered telling the man to wait for him. ‘Confound the impudence of the fellow!’
Sir Norman glanced down the practically deserted thoroughfare, and instinctively turned up the collar of his coat.
There was no sign of a taxi. Just as he was turning away from the bank, however, a powerful American limousine swung out of a side-street and came sleekly to a standstill level with the kerb. Sir Norman was delighted to find that he at once recognised the man sitting in the back of the car.
‘Jump in, Sir Norman,’ called Andrew Brightman smilingly as he swung open the door of the car. Sir Norman sank into the heavily sprung seat with a sigh of relief. He was feeling tired, and rather apprehensive about forthcoming events. Placing the suitcase on the floor beside him, he tried to relax.
‘I had a taxi waiting for me, but the fool disappeared,’ he explained, for Brightman’s benefit. Brightman smiled again, and produced his cigarette-case.
‘Lucky I was passing,’ he commented. ‘Where can I drop you?’
‘Well, I’m really on my way home,’ Sir Norman informed him, ‘if that isn’t taking you too far out of your way.’
Brightman shook his head. ‘As a matter of fact, I was going home myself to pick up some documents, so it’s only a question of a couple of minutes.’ He produced a gold petrol-lighter and lit Sir Norman’s cigarette.
Sir Norman puffed contentedly, and felt more at ease than he had done all day. ‘By the way, Brightman, how did you get on at the Yard yesterday?’ he asked at length, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
Brightman made a faint moue which might have meant anything.
‘They were very polite, but rather vague. I suppose one expects that of a Government department,’ he laughed. ‘Though Sir Graham did seem rather interested in my information. He’s a good man, Forbes, though inclined to be a little too independent. In a case like this, Sir Norman, I maintain that Scotland Yard cannot afford to ignore the most trivial clue.’
Sir Norman nodded. ‘It was very decent of you to go along there and tell them all you knew,’ he murmured, drowsily, flicking the ash off his cigarette. ‘Very decent indeed …’ This was a very comfortable car, he reflected, though a trifle overheated. Like most of these latest American models, it was designed to nullify the rigours of their climate. Sir Norman leaned forward in an attempt to open the window. To his surprise, he found that his head swam alarmingly the moment he moved his body. He remembered that he had had no food that morning … yes, that would be the trouble …
He raised his hand to his forehead, and the cigarette fell through his fingers on to the expensive upholstery. Brightman picked it up and held it out to Sir Norman. For the first time, Blakeley noticed that the smoke was a peculiar bluish-green colour. There was a strange taste in his mouth, too. Brightman was looking at him intently.
‘You must finish your cigarette, Sir Norman,’ Brightman was saying. There was something strange about that smile of his. In spite of the fact that his head was swimming, and his vision was more than a little blurred, Sir Norman made a mental note that Andrew Brightman was not to be trusted. For some unknown reason, he reminded him of Briggs, the bank manager … and he had never liked Briggs … had … never … liked … Briggs … had never liked …
Andrew Brightman opened the window of the car about two inches and tossed the cigarette into the road. At precisely that moment, Sir Norman fell from the seat across the brown leather suitcase.
‘Why Mayfair?’ several of Paul Temple’s acquaintances had demanded when they heard he had taken a flat in that exclusive and somewhat ‘Michael Arlenish’ neighbourhood.
‘Why not?’ urbanely replied the novelist. ‘We’ve got to live somewhere, and one might as well start married life in the best possible surroundings. Besides, I adore seeing Steve in a riding habit, and living so near the Row encourages her.’
Paul Temple was confounding the sceptics who declare that a bachelor is too settled in his habits to make a success of married life. Nowadays he took more exercise, had lost a certain amount of weight, and looked all the better for it. His wife had even persuaded him to cut down his smoking, thereby disconcerting various other cynics who hold the opinion that a man never changes after he is married.
So far, Paul Temple had only one complaint against married life – he was so immersed in the novelty of its routine after his bachelor existence that he found little time, and not a great deal of inclination, to concentrate upon his latest novel.
When Gerald Mitchell, his publisher, brought his wife, Ann, to see the new flat one day, Temple was only too well aware that the visit had a dual purpose. Gerald Mitchell was anxious to discover if the new book was likely to be completed to schedule.
Mitchell