Paul Temple and the Front Page Men. Francis Durbridge

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      ‘I thought of settling down meself,’ pursued the other. ‘But, well, things ain’t too good in my line just now, and—’

      ‘What exactly is your line nowadays, Jimmy? You’re so versatile, I never know quite—’

      ‘I’m a commercial man now, Mr. Temple.’

      ‘What sort of commerce?’

      ‘Oh, buyin’ and sellin’ things you know,’ said Jimmy vaguely. ‘All above board and legitimate,’ he hastened to add. ‘I’ve got a cosy little office in the West End.’

      ‘Really?’ smiled Temple.

      Mrs. Taylor placed a badly chipped glass of ginger ale in front of the novelist, and noticing Mills’ empty glass, he invited him to have another drink.

      ‘I don’t mind if I do, Mr. Temple. Ginger ale, please, Mrs. Taylor.’

      As she moved away, he turned to Temple. ‘I’m on the wagon these days – going straight, you see, Mr. Temple.’

      ‘I should have thought that there would have been rather more congenial pubs near your West End office,’ said Temple pensively.

      ‘Oh, I dunno. You get a hankering to see the old places,’ replied Mills, with a shrug.

      Mrs. Taylor brought the drink, and would obviously have had no objections to joining in the conversation, but neither of the men encouraged her, and she eventually returned to the tap-room.

      Temple lifted his glass and sniffed it suspiciously. It smelt strongly of beer. He took a quick gulp by way of acknowledging Mills’ salutation, and set the glass aside.

      ‘It’s always hard for a bloke like me to convince people what knew ’im in the old days that he’s running straight,’ persisted Mills, but Paul Temple was paying little attention. A newcomer had entered the bar parlour.

      Dressed in sober black, the stranger had a thin face and ascetic appearance. He wore a clerical collar, but no hat. His dark hair was plastered smoothly, but free from any unguent, and Temple thought he detected a roguish glint in his eyes. He might have been any age between thirty and forty-five. For a second he stood in the doorway; then Jimmy Mills hailed him heartily.

      ‘Mr. Hargreaves! Come over here and vouch for me to this gentleman.’

      ‘Certainly I will!’ agreed the newcomer, joining them.

      ‘This is the Reverend Hargreaves – Mr. Temple,’ Mills introduced them, and the parson shook hands warmly. ‘He’s in charge of the Seamen’s Hostel just round the corner,’ explained Mills for Temple’s benefit. ‘Knew me before I took to the straight and narrow.’

      Hargreaves managed to get in a word at last.

      ‘Not—Paul Temple, by any chance?’ and there was a note of astonishment in his voice.

      ‘Yes, that’s right, Reverend,’ corroborated Jimmy Mills.

      ‘Well, indeed, this is a pleasure,’ enthused Hargreaves. ‘I’ve read so many of your books, Mr. Temple, that I feel as if, well, as if I’ve known you for years.’

      ‘That’s very kind of you,’ replied Temple, who did not know quite what to make of this unusual cleric.

      He was just a shade too effusive, and Temple did not like the way he constantly looked out of the corner of his eyes at the other occupants of the room.

      ‘You never told me that you were a friend of Mr. Temple’s, Jimmy,’ reproached Hargreaves.

      ‘Well, I don’t know whether you’d call us friends or not, Reverend.’

      Hargreaves seemed to understand, and was obviously amused. ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be friends now, Jimmy.’ He turned to Temple. ‘He’s going straight, Mr. Temple, and making a very fine job of it.’

      ‘I’m glad,’ said Temple. ‘Jimmy always made a very fine job of everything,’ he added cryptically.

      Mrs. Taylor intruded once more.

      ‘Anything I can get you, Parson?’

      ‘No,’ smiled Hargreaves, as though deliberating the point. ‘No, thank you very much, my dear. But I wonder if you would be so kind as to place these bills in a prominent position for me. I’m holding a special concert on Sunday afternoon, and I do hope the attendance will be a record.’

      ‘Well, I’ll do my best, Reverend,’ offered Mills. ‘I’ll bring some of my City pals along.’

      ‘Thank you, Jimmy, that’s very good of you,’ said Hargreaves, laying a friendly hand on Mills’ shoulder.

      ‘I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Hargreaves,’ said Mrs Taylor, taking the bills. ‘I can’t promise nothin’, mind you.’

      ‘Thank you, my dear. I know I can rely on you.’

      ‘Well, I must be toddlin’,’ said Jimmy Mills at length, draining his glass. ‘Good night, Mr. Temple.’

      ‘Good night, Jimmy.’

      ‘Good night, my son,’ said Hargreaves, shaking Jimmy’s hand.

      ‘Cheerio, Lucy,’ called Mills, with a significant wink and backward nod as he passed the tap-room.

      Paul Temple tried to persuade his companion to change his mind about a drink, but the latter shook his head resolutely.

      ‘I have great faith in Jimmy Mills, Mr. Temple,’ said Hargreaves earnestly. ‘He’s changed a great deal in the last two years.’

      ‘I hope you’re right, sir. He used to be one of the cleverest confidence men in the country.’

      ‘Yes, yes, I know, Mr. Temple. How dreadful, how very dreadful!’ deplored Hargreaves, a shade too piously.

      ‘I don’t want to disillusion you, sir, but I think I ought to warn you that Mills has a knack of convincing anybody about anything he sets his mind on. Of course, it’s no business of mine, but—’

      ‘That’s all right, Mr. Temple. I quite understand, and I appreciate your trying to warn me. But I want to give Jimmy a chance.’

      ‘Do you spend much time here, sir – I mean in this part of the world?’ demanded Temple, abruptly changing the subject.

      ‘Oh, a great deal, Mr. Temple. I’m more or less in charge of the Seamen’s Hostel, you know. It’s uphill work, but I’m always doing my best to persuade those unfortunate fellows to regard our hostel as a sort of home from home.’ He added with a sigh, ‘My task isn’t an easy one, Mr. Temple, by any means.’

      ‘I’m sure it isn’t,’ said Temple sympathetically.

      ‘However, one mustn’t grumble. There’s never a dull moment; I’ll say that for my daily round.’

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