LITMIR.BIZ

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news surprised him. ‘I ain’t ’ad nothin’ to do with that. You know me, Mr. Temple. I draw the line at murder …’

      ‘All right, Sammy,’ said Temple, softly. ‘If you don’t know anything about Rita Cartwright’s death, perhaps you can enlighten us about The Marquis.’

      In the faint blue light from the dashboard, Sammy’s features were distorted with doubt and fear.

      ‘The Marquis?’ he repeated. ‘I don’t know nothin’ about ’im. I don’t want to know nothin’ about ’im. And if you takes my tip—’

      Temple snatched at the wheel as they lurched dangerously towards a bus that was running down from Waterloo Bridge.

      ‘Do be careful!’ cried Steve, in considerable alarm.

      ‘This steering seems to be playing tricks,’ murmured Temple, gently easing the wheel. ‘Ah, that’s better …’ The car was now proceeding quite normally across the bridge.

      ‘What were you saying, Sammy?’

      ‘I was saying I don’t know a thing about this ’ere Marquis – and that’s the truth.’

      ‘The whole truth and nothing but?’

      ‘You know me, Mr. Temple. I wouldn’t ’old out on you; not for all the bloomin’ gold in America.’

      ‘I’ll take your word for it, Sammy,’ replied Temple, a trifle puzzled nevertheless.

      ‘Funny you should ask me about The Marquis,’ mused Sammy. ‘I bumped into a bloke at the Black Swan only a week ago, who asked me the same question. Smart lookin’ young feller, took him for a “con” man at first, but I was wrong.’

      ‘He didn’t tell you his name?’

      ‘Yes, an’ I got it on the tip of me tongue! – Storey! – that’s it – Roger Storey.’ A new thought seemed to cross Sammy’s mind.

      ‘Look here, Mr. Temple, he wouldn’t be a rozzer, would he? Because if he is, I’ll—’

      ‘Paul!’ interposed Steve, urgently. ‘Pull over for that lorry.’ They were rushing along the embankment at thirty miles an hour, but the lorry was rapidly overhauling them. Temple accelerated a trifle, and they drew away.

      ‘This boss of yours, Sammy,’ he said. ‘Who is he?’

      ‘I don’t know, Mr. Temple – honest, I don’t. Never set eyes on ‘im before. I just got me orders from a feller named Dukes …’

      ‘Then you don’t know that 79A Bombay Road was raided?’

      ‘Raided?’ Sammy was patently scared.

      ‘It’s all right, Sammy – the police didn’t find a thing to incriminate you. All the same, I’m coming along to take a look at this boss of yours. Just in case it’s—’

      ‘The Marquis?’ queried Sammy, with a gulp. ‘But I tell yer it can’t be, Mr. Temple. The Marquis has got—’ He broke off and clutched Temple’s arm. ‘Look out, sir, or that three-tonner’ll bounce us right into the river!’

      Temple tugged at the wheel, but the steering seemed to be completely out of action. As the lorry came level, he snatched at the handbrake, but the front wheels of the overtaking vehicle suddenly swung into the car. To the accompaniment of breaking glass, screaming brakes, and the crash of metal they smashed into the wall of the embankment. Sammy Wren was thrown hard against the windscreen, which immediately collapsed, precipitating him between the embankment wall and the bonnet of the car. The driving wheel saved Temple from a similar fate, though the sudden blow in the chest winded him for some time.

      Just before the crash, Steve had flung herself on the floor at the back, and so escaped with a shaking.

      ‘Paul!’ she cried. ‘Are you all right?’

      For a minute he was too breathless to reply. Then he wiped the blood from a cut on his cheek, felt his limbs carefully and shook bits of glass from his clothes.

      ‘I’m O.K., Steve,’ he announced, eventually. ‘How about you?’

      When she had reassured him, he suddenly realised that Sammy had vanished. Leaping out of the car, he quickly discovered the little man. By now, the lorry had backed on to the road again, two policemen had arrived on the scene, and a crowd was gathering, avid for details of the accident.

      Someone caught Temple’s arm, and swinging round he saw, by the limited light from the headlamps, a breathless young man in dark grey flannels.

      ‘I say, are you all right?’ demanded the newcomer.

      ‘Help me to move the car,’ urged Temple, indicating the spread-eagled form of Sammy Wren.

      ‘Why yes – yes, of course,’ agreed the young man. They were joined by the two constables, who assisted them to extricate the unfortunate Sammy Wren, now unconscious and bleeding from a gash at the back of the head. Neither of the constables had a first-aid outfit, but the young man proved surprisingly efficient in contriving a temporary bandage with the help of a couple of handkerchiefs.

      When at last the ambulance arrived, and the inert form of Sammy Wren was carried away, Temple turned to the young man.

      ‘Thanks for helping us out,’ he said.

      The other smiled, a very pleasant, engaging smile, and pushed a strand of fair wavy hair back from his forehead.

      ‘Not at all, I was only too glad to help. I hope the poor devil will be all right. It must have been a shock for you. Your wife, too.’ He switched his infectious smile in Steve’s direction.

      ‘If you’ll excuse me, sir,’ he continued, politely, ‘your face seems familiar. Aren’t you Paul Temple?’

      ‘Yes.’

      The young man smote his right fist into the palm of his left hand.

      ‘What an amazing coincidence! I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all the evening.’

      ‘Indeed?’ said Temple, somewhat surprised.

      ‘It’s quite providential we should meet like this,’ went on the young man exuberantly, reminding Temple rather of an excited undergraduate. ‘If you will permit me to introduce myself …’ He paused to get his breath, then said: ‘My name is Storey—Roger Storey.’

       CHAPTER VI

       Roger Storey Explains

      As SOON as Sammy Wren had been safely extricated, Temple’s next objective had been to discover the driver of the lorry. But the intervention of Roger Storey had temporarily diverted him, and it was Storey himself who gave him a reminder.

      ‘I say, where the devil is the fellow who drove the lorry? I haven’t seen him, have you?’ Storey spoke in a public school accent that was as unmistakable as his old Harrovian tie.

      Temple’s brows contracted.

      ‘No,’ he replied. ‘And I have a hunch we shan’t.’

      ‘But surely the fellow can’t run away and leave his lorry. I mean to say it could be traced to his boss and—’

      ‘It’s just an idea of mine,’ put in Temple, gently, ‘that the lorry was stolen. However, we can soon check up on that.’ He indicated a police sergeant who was approaching them from the other side of the lorry.

      ‘Nasty smash, sir. Anyone else hurt?’

      ‘Just the one case, sergeant. Pretty hopeless, I’m afraid.’

      The sergeant nodded. ‘I’ll

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