a man with whom one could put the cards on the table. But this feeling was tinged with caution, for he was aware that the doctor must be an adept at breaking down defences, and knew every gambit to suit all types of individuals.
‘To be quite frank, Doctor Kohima,’ he began carefully, ‘I should simply like to ask you a few questions.’
A tiny frown puckered the loose skin round the doctor’s dark eyes.
‘This is not a newspaper interview?’ he asked, still in the same pleasing tone, though Temple noticed that his expression had changed.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing like that.’
‘Then I shall be delighted,’ said the doctor. ‘It will make such a pleasant change. It is always I who am asking the questions, hour after hour – day after day – probing into people’s private thoughts. However, you will not be interested in that. Please go on.’
Temple hesitated a bare second, then suddenly shot the question.
‘Have you a car, Doctor?’
‘A car?’ repeated Kohima, obviously a little surprised. ‘Why, yes – is that unusual for a doctor?’
‘What make is your car?’
‘It’s a Milford. A six-cylinder Milford.’
‘Black?’
The doctor nodded.
‘Registration number?’
‘DVC629,’ replied the doctor, his voice betraying the fact that he was considerably puzzled. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Thank you,’ said Temple. ‘Now I’ll tell you exactly why I am here.’
He went on to detail the story of the accident of the previous evening, telling it in a level, unemotional tone, and noting that his listener paid close attention to all the facts. Doctor Kohima was a perfect audience. When Temple concluded by repeating the description of the car that had forced them into the kerb, the doctor was patently startled.
‘You must have been mistaken!’ he urged.
‘No,’ replied Temple calmly. ‘I have every reason to believe that my description is accurate to the last detail.’
‘But it couldn’t have been my car, Mr. Temple,’ replied the other, a little worried now. ‘Why, my car was never out of the garage at all last night.’
‘Where do you keep it?’
‘Well, actually at my house near Regent’s Park. But all this week it’s been at Sloan’s Garage in Leicester Square for one or two minor repairs. As a matter of fact, I’m supposed to collect it tonight.’ He hesitated, obviously more than a little puzzled, then suggested, ‘Why don’t you ’phone the garage, Mr. Temple? Please, I wish you would.’
‘You’ve no objection?’
‘But of course not!’ He picked up a little black notebook and turned the pages. ‘The number is Temple Bar 7178.’
‘Thank you,’ said Temple, and drew the telephone towards him. The doctor poured himself a glass of water from the carafe on his desk and began to sip it slowly.
‘Sloan’s Garage?’ said Temple into the mouthpiece. ‘I am speaking for Doctor Kohima. Would it be convenient for him to pick up his car this evening?…yes, the Milford…oh…it was ready yesterday? I see. Could you tell me, by any chance, if the car was taken out last night?’ There was a pause while Temple listened to a lengthy explanation.
‘Have you any idea what time that was?’ he said presently. ‘Half past seven? Who brought it back? Oh, the chauffeur – at about a quarter to ten. Right—thank you very much.’
He slowly replaced the receiver and turned to the doctor.
‘Do I understand that the car was ready yesterday?’ asked Doctor Kohima.
‘That’s so. It was also taken out of the garage last night by your chauffeur. He had it between half past seven and a quarter to ten. And of course it was during that period that our little accident happened. So you see it was obviously—’
‘But I don’t understand—’ interrupted Doctor Kohima in a bewildered tone. ‘In fact, I’m afraid you’re going to get rather a surprise…’
But Temple did not seem in the least surprised. With the merest suggestion of a smile playing around his lips, he said: ‘I don’t think so, Doctor Kohima. You are simply going to tell me that you haven’t got a chauffeur!’
As Steve was not waiting with the car outside, Temple decided to walk back to the flat. As he strode along the wide pavements of Wigmore Street he turned over the mystery of Doctor Kohima’s car in his mind. The doctor’s surprise had seemed genuine enough, which was no more than one could expect, for one could hardly suspect an established psychiatrist of repute to be connected with an incident of this character. It was probably a sheer coincidence that his car had been chosen from the hundreds or more in the garage.
And yet there was Mrs. Trevelyan.
No doubt about it, this woman was in some way connected with Rex. There had been those clues on the dead bodies, and she herself had almost admitted as much. She was supposed to be going to tell him more tonight. In fact, she seemed terribly anxious to tell what she knew. Could it be a case of a guilty conscience? Mrs. Trevelyan might even be Rex herself, and tonight’s appointment some sort of trap. All the same, Temple meant to keep the appointment. He had found more than once that if one walked into a trap knowingly and kept one’s wits, the trapper was often himself caught. His mind went back to the elaborate and ingenious plans laid by the Marquis at the October Hotel…but they had culminated in an episode which had revealed the identity of The Marquis. There was such a thing as baiting the trap too generously.
Temple pondered upon these and other similar ideas as he came into Oxford Street and crossed it to turn down into Mayfair. Finding that he had left his latchkey in his other suit, Temple had to ring the bell to be admitted to the flat. He was beginning to wonder if Steve had returned when the door swung quickly open, and a bland yellow face smiled up into his.
‘Good afternoon. You are Mr. Temple, yes?’ said a cheerful voice which was of obvious Oriental origin.
‘Er – yes –’ murmured Temple, somewhat taken aback.
‘Welcome home, Mr. Temple,’ continued the little man, with a slight inclination of his head as he stepped aside for Temple to enter.
‘Thanks very much,’ was all Temple could manage by way of reply.
As the door closed, the man said, ‘I will take your hat and coat, thank you.’
‘Thank you,’ murmured Temple politely, secretly wondering what all this was about.
‘Not at all,’ smiled the other, quite unabashed. ‘It is a pleasure to serve you, sir.’
At that moment, to Temple’s great relief, Steve came out of the lounge.
‘Hello, Paul,’ she greeted him. Then turned to the little man. ‘Oh, Ricky – this is Mr. Temple.’
Ricky smiled even more widely than before.
‘I recognise him,’ he announced proudly. ‘We get on pretty well together – I hope.’
Even Steve seemed slightly at a loss.
‘Yes, well, that will be all now, thank you, Ricky,’ she said, and the little man bowed and went into the kitchen. In the lounge, Temple said, ‘Steve, where on earth did you pick him up?’
‘At the registry office. He was waiting for a job there – and I was looking for someone – and they hadn’t another soul on their books, so I thought, well, there’s no harm in giving him a trial.’
‘By Timothy, what next?’ exclaimed her husband. ‘Ever since Pryce