FRANCIS DURBRIDGE Send for Paul Temple Again! An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by LONG 1948 Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1948 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. Source ISBN: 978-0-00-812564-6 Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 978-0-00-812565-3 Version: 2015-06-04 Contents
CHAPTER I: Death at the Brains Trust
CHAPTER II: Paul Temple Takes Over
CHAPTER III: Steve Finds a Treasure
CHAPTER V: Concerning Doctor Kohima
CHAPTER VII: Cyanide Is no Tonic!
CHAPTER VIII: Carl Lathom Is Perturbed
CHAPTER X: Ordeal for Mrs. Trevelyan
CHAPTER XI: Doctor Kohima Intervenes
CHAPTER XIII: Mr. Lathom Receives a Visitor
CHAPTER XIV: No Picnic at Claywood Mill
CHAPTER XV: Forbes to the Rescue
CHAPTER XVI: Appointment With Rex
ARTHUR MONTAGUE WEBB had occupied the position of ticket inspector for over fifteen years. It was a position of which he was more than a little conscious, as those unfortunate passengers who tried travelling ‘first’ on a third-class ticket had reason to aware. Even during the war years, when he fought his way endlessly down jammed corridors, his attitude seldom relaxed. Very occasionally, he might install a harmless old lady in a first-class compartment, with an apologetic and slightly anxious glance at the other occupants. Mr. Webb’s raucous, ‘Tickets, please!’ echoed down the corridors of the Manchester–Euston express one rough night in the late autumn. He paused to pull up a window in the corridor which was admitting a half-gale, then opened the door of a compartment which had a single occupant who was stretched full length along the seat. The occupant of the carriage was rather a dark young man of about twenty-seven, with unruly black hair and glistening white teeth, which he exposed in a pleasant smile. He seemed in no way upset at the inspector’s intrusion. ‘Sorry to wake you, sir,’ said Mr. Webb mechanically. It was his inevitable formula on night trains. ‘That’s all right,’ yawned the young man, fumbling in his pocket for his ticket. ‘Lordy, I was hard on!’ Mr. Webb’s ears, attuned to dialects from every corner of the country, immediately registered the young man as being of Welsh origin.
