Paul Temple and the Madison Case. Francis Durbridge

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      Steve stood up and put a hand on the back of the chair.

      ‘Oh dear …’

      ‘What’s the matter?’

      ‘The cabin’s swaying … I hope it’s not going to be rough …’

      ‘You’re imagining things. We’re only just passing Ellis Island.’

      Room service had brought the Temples breakfast in bed, served on two trays with short legs. The lavish spread was entirely wasted on Steve, who could only nibble a piece of toast and sip a cup of coffee. Temple had got up and dressed soon afterwards and taken the lift down to the Promenade Deck. He wanted to get some exercise and had made three circuits of the ship before he paused, leaning on the rail and looking out over the bows. The ship was sailing at her cruising speed of 29 knots.

      It was a fine, sunny day and the sea was calm. America had long since slipped down over the horizon, somewhere beyond the straight white wake churned up by the twelve blades of the twin propellers.

      ‘Excuse me, sir … Mr Temple?’

      Warily Temple turned to look at the man who had come up to lean on the rail beside him.

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘My name is Portland.’

      Temple’s face relaxed into a warm smile. ‘Oh, good morning, Mr Portland.’

      ‘I had the pleasure of meeting your wife last night, Mr Temple …’

      ‘Yes, so she told me.’

      ‘I was wondering how the little lady was feeling this morning.’

      ‘She’s not too good, I’m afraid.’

      ‘On a diet?’ Sam Portland suggested tactfully.

      ‘Strictly on a diet,’ Temple replied with a straight face.

      ‘Well now, that’s too bad. If there’s anything I can do for Mrs Temple, please let me know.’

      ‘That’s very kind of you.’

      A little posse of youngsters in jogging gear trotted past, laughing and joking amongst themselves. Temple pointed to the deck chairs which had been set out by the crew.

      ‘Won’t you sit down?’

      ‘Why thank you, sir!’ Sam Portland lowered himself carefully into a chair and held up his large half-smoked cigar. ‘Does my smoking bother you?’

      ‘Not at all.’

      ‘Would you like a cigar?’

      ‘Thank you, not at the moment.’

      The American drew thoughtfully on his Havana cigar. ‘Mr Temple, I was very thrilled when I saw your name on the passenger list last night.’

      ‘Indeed?’

      ‘I’ve been an admirer of yours for some considerable time. As a matter of fact I once wrote you a letter.’

      ‘I can’t recall ever having received a letter from you, Mr Portland.’

      ‘No, you didn’t receive it, for the simple reason that I didn’t post it.’ Portland chuckled. ‘My wife persuaded me to change my mind.’

      ‘I see,’ Temple said, somewhat mystified.

      ‘Mr Temple, forgive me talking shop at this time of the morning but have you heard of a private investigator – a detective – by the name of Madison?’

      ‘Madison? No.’

      ‘I rather imagine he’s pretty well known in your country.’

      ‘Well, he can’t be very well known or I should have heard of him.’

      ‘Are you sure you haven’t? Madison.’ Portland spelt the name out letter by letter.

      ‘Quite sure.’

      ‘Well, now that’s very curious.’ Portland shrugged ‘Still, why should I worry if he gets the results.’

      ‘Is he working for you?’

      ‘Er-yes. Actually he’s employed by my London representative, a man called Hubert Greene.’

      ‘What is Madison doing exactly?’

      ‘He’s on a research job.’

      ‘Sales? Statistics?’ Temple prompted.

      Portland paused, then said slowly ‘No, no, no, nothing like that. Purely a private investigation. He’s trying to find out who I am.’

      Temple stared at him. ‘Who you are?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Portland, nodding.

      ‘But you know who you are! You’re Sam Portland.’

      ‘Sure. Sure, I’m Sam Portland. Samuel L. Portland, President of the Portland Yeast Company. New York, Chicago, Detroit, Michigan and all points west. I’m one of the wealthiest men in America, Mr Temple, did you know that?’

      Temple laughed. ‘I had a shrewd suspicion.’

      ‘Right now I could lay my hands on four hundred million dollars. It’s an awful lot of dough.’

      ‘It’s an awful lot of dough, Mr Portland.’ Temple agreed seriously. He drew his legs in as another group of joggers, more elderly ones this time, ambled past.

      ‘Four hundred million bucks and I don’t know who I am! Mr Temple, would you like to hear my story?’

      Too late Temple was regretting the encouragement he had given the American.

      ‘Well, as a matter of fact I did promise my wife …’

      ‘You’re going to hear it anyway, so you might just as well relax!’

      Temple echoed Portland’s laugh. The American leant on the arm of his chair and spoke in a confidential tone.

      ‘Thirty-five years ago, on October 9th 1952 to be precise, a Chicago policeman by the name of Dan Kelly arrested a young man for jay walking – you know what I mean, trying to beat the traffic. The young fella turned out to be something of a problem. He was suffering from what the doctors called amnesia, or to put it bluntly, just plain loss of memory.’

      Portland waited for a couple who had paused in front of them to move on.

      ‘Go on …’ said Temple, intrigued in spite of himself.

      ‘The young man was acquitted and the policeman – Kelly – took him СКАЧАТЬ