FRANCIS DURBRIDGE

Paul Temple and the Geneva Mystery

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by

Hodder & Stoughton 1971

Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1971

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: 9780008125721

Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008125738

Version: 2015-07-24

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

About the Author

Also in This Series

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Paul Temple had returned to the real world after ten long weeks of concentration on death, disruption and deduction. He found to his relief that the world was not at war, he wasn’t being sued for libel and his wife was still radiantly attractive. All good reasons for a celebration.

‘Darling, how nice,’ Steve murmured as they went into L’Hachoire, ‘I haven’t been here before.’

‘They do the best pigs’ trotters in London,’ said Paul. ‘They were recommended to me by my publisher.’

‘Ah, Scott Reed. Was he pleased with the new novel?’

It was one of those exclusive little restaurants that achieve rustic simplicity at conspicuous expense, with genuine décor and furnishings from Provence and genuine Provençal chefs and waiters. There was a lot of unvarnished wood, an oven range squandered space that could have been occupied by three tables and a dog replaced three possible diners. The place was crowded with rather trendy Londoners and a few slightly surprised French tourists. The head waiter showed them to a table in the corner marked ‘Reserved’.

‘No no, we haven’t booked –’ Paul began.

‘A cancellation, Mr Temple. Please be seated. Madam.’

The pigs’ trotters were called pieds de porc Sainte Menehould on the menu, and Paul felt obliged to order them. The wine waiter brought the sherries they asked for at once and later produced a 1953 vintage Burgundy which they hadn’t asked for. Paul hoped that Steve wouldn’t notice the celebrity treatment they were receiving. It would have made her suspicious.

‘You didn’t answer my question, darling,’ she said. ‘Did Scott rub his hands together with joy at the book?’

‘He hasn’t read it yet, but I suppose he’ll call it a classic story of its kind. He always does.’

‘You sound jaded.’ Steve laughed mischievously. ‘When you finish a novel you always become like a woman who has just made love, rather tired and slightly depressed. The only remedy is to begin again or take a holiday. Darling, that’s a good idea – why don’t we take a holiday?’

Paul raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. ‘Do you feel depressed after –?’

‘It’s a dangerous mood. You’re inclined to become involved in other people’s crimes or contemplate writing a heavyweight psychological study of murder. Let’s go away while you still have your mind on me.’

‘Yes, why not?’ He paused thoughtfully and then said, ‘How would you like to go to Switzerland?’

‘Gstaad?’

‘Gstaad, or Geneva, wherever you like.’

‘I’ll think about it.’ Steve quickly refilled their glasses. ‘Yes! I’ve thought about it. But if we go to Switzerland –’

Paul finished the sentence for her. ‘You’ll need an awful lot of new clothes, darling.’

‘Well,’ Steve laughed, ‘it’s true, isn’t it? You wouldn’t want me to look twelve months out of date.’

‘A fate worse than death,’ Paul agreed. But he knew as he spoke that he was being tiresomely male in joking about her clothes. ‘I want you always to look as elegant as you do tonight,’ he added gallantly.

They discussed Switzerland for the next half hour. Steve wanted to book a hotel and arrange a flight immediately and Paul was reluctant to go before Friday. He was being interviewed on Friday by a lady from one of the posh Sunday papers, and Paul didn’t want to postpone it. She was bound to talk about symbolism in his work and the place of good and evil in the English detective novel. She would produce the kind of article that pleased Scott Reed.

‘Scott still feels that if a novel is popular he shouldn’t have published it,’ Paul laughed. ‘But a piece of pretentious criticism will knock ten thousand off my sales and he’ll be able to tell his accounts department that it’s literature.’

He would have developed the idea, but Steve’s attention had strayed to a bland man at the table by the service door. He was wearing a well cut grey suit and made-to-measure shoes. The carnation in his buttonhole added a single touch of flamboyance.

‘Paul, that man over there keeps staring at us.’

‘I thought,’ he said flippantly, ‘that elegant women were accustomed to approving stares.’

‘Do you know who he is?’

Paul nodded. ‘I’ve seen his photograph in the business supplements. He’s a financier called Maurice Lonsdale. He owns a lot of property in the West End, including several restaurants. As a matter of fact, I think he owns this place.’

‘How disappointing. I thought the man who owned this would wear a beret and have a perpetual Gauloise hanging from his lip.’

The financier took a cigar from his waistcoat pocket, summoned the head waiter for a brief consultation and then left through the service door. It had been a minor intrusion, and Steve was quickly back on the subject of ski trousers.

‘Mr Temple?’ It was the head waiter. ‘Excuse me, but Mr Lonsdale wonders whether you could spare him a few moments, when you have finished your meal. Perhaps I could take you to his office…’

Paul glanced across at his wife and shrugged. ‘I always enjoy meeting millionaires, don’t you? They help to reconcile me to being merely well off.’

‘What does he want?’ Steve asked severely. ‘Paul, I’m not having anyone come between you and my holiday in Gstaad. Just be careful!’

Maurice Lonsdale was not the traditional unhappy, ascetic millionaire; his office at the top of the building was luxurious and smelled of cigar smoke. He poured them large brandies and waved to the antique sofa and armchairs.

‘Please sit down, Mrs Temple. Mr Temple. I’m grateful to you for coming. I hope you’ll forgive me for staring at you just now, but when I saw you sitting at that table I could hardly believe my eyes.’

‘It’s a first class restaurant, Mr Lonsdale,’ said Steve. ‘No need to be surprised –’

‘It seemed such a remarkable coincidence,’ said Lonsdale. ‘I was talking to Scott Reed only yesterday about you, and I was meaning to give you a call.’

Paul sank back in the deep armchair and warmed the brandy glass in his cupped hands. He avoided the sharp glance from Steve. ‘What were you going to call me about, Mr Lonsdale?’

The man hesitated apologetically and sat behind the old oak desk. ‘It may sound fanciful, Mr Temple. I expect I’ll be wasting your time.’ In spite of the good taste in dress, the grooming and good manners, Maurice Lonsdale had an edge of ruthlessness that was difficult to pinpoint. Perhaps it showed in the voice, with its trace of a Manchester accent, or in the watchful eyes. He was feigning the apologetic manner.

‘I wanted to discuss my sister Margaret. You may remember her as Margaret Beverley, she was an actress until six years ago when she married Carl Milbourne.’

‘Yes, I remember her,’ said Paul. ‘Although I didn’t know she married Carl Milbourne. He was killed in a car accident a fortnight ago.’

‘Yes, he was killed,’ said Lonsdale. ‘But of course, you probably knew Carl. I suppose as a novelist you know most of the publishers in London.’

Paul was about to agree that he’d met Carl Milbourne once or twice at literary parties when Steve intervened. ‘Where did his accident happen?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘In Geneva.’

Paul looked suitably astonished at the coincidence, but she merely glared at him.

‘It was a dreadful business,’ Lonsdale continued. ‘Margaret, poor darling, has been in a terrible state since it happened. I can tell you, Mrs Temple, the last two weeks have been pure hell for her.’

‘It must have been a dreadful shock,’ Steve said reluctantly. ‘Was she with her husband when it happened?’

‘No, he was in Switzerland alone, on business. One afternoon he went for a walk and was knocked down crossing the road. I had to take Margaret out to Geneva to identify the body.’ He emptied his brandy glass and shuddered. ‘Believe me, that was quite an ordeal. The body was difficult to identify. Carl was appallingly smashed up, his head had been crushed –’

‘It must have been an ordeal for both of you,’ Paul cut in.

He nodded. ‘Poor Margaret was always highly strung, but I’m afraid this has quite unbalanced her. That’s why I wanted to discuss the case with you, Temple. You see, she’s got this extraordinary idea into her head that – well, that Carl isn’t dead.’

‘Isn’t dead?’ Paul repeated in surprise. ‘But surely you were satisfied? You saw the body?’

‘Yes, I saw it.’ Lonsdale poured them all more brandy. ‘The body was mutilated, but it was Carl all right. I’m positive it was Carl.’ He returned the bottle to the tray and remained there, fidgeting with the array of drinks. ‘Apart from anything else, I recognised the suit he was wearing. Carl had absolutely no dress sense. Nobody else would wear a mustard coloured suit like that.’

Then why,’ asked Steve, ‘should your sister think it wasn’t her husband who was killed?’

Lonsdale sighed and went back to his desk. ‘Well, for one thing she consulted a medium. A very well known medium, I believe, among people who know their mediums well. Margaret asked her to get in touch with Carl and the medium failed. Failed completely. I’m afraid Margaret thinks this proves that Carl is still alive. It’s ridiculous, of course, but you know what women are when they get ideas into their heads.’

It was logical, Paul thought, although not very sensible.

‘To make matters worse for Margaret, she seems to have quarrelled with Carl just before he left for Geneva. They normally got on well together, but on this one occasion when they did happen to quarrel…’

It was an unpleasant irony, Paul agreed.

‘I’m afraid my sister’s completely dominated by this obsession of hers,’ Maurice Lonsdale was saying. ‘So much so that she’s made up her mind to consult you, Mr Temple.’

Which was the second time that Lonsdale had made an equation between mental imbalance and talking to Paul Temple. Paul decided he had reservations about the successful businessman’s sensitivity. ‘Why should she want to consult me?’ he asked.

‘Can’t you guess?’ Lonsdale was supercilious. ‘She wants you to find her husband for her.’

Paul rose to his feet. He thanked the man for the warning and for the excellent brandy. It was time to continue the evening.

‘I hope you’ll be nice to Margaret,’ Lonsdale said. ‘Listen to her, listen to all she has to say.’ He opened the door and held out his hand. ‘But please, for her sake, don’t take her seriously. The poor darling isn’t herself these days.’

Steve shook his hand and smiled icily. ‘It’s not really surprising, is it, Mr Lonsdale? You know what we women are like – we sometimes take things very much to heart.’ She swept from the room leaving Lonsdale staring.

Paul followed her down to the street in silence. It was a full moon and the Thames was looking serene, the reflections of light almost motionless in the water. He took Steve’s arm and went along the Embankment in search of the car. They passed Cleopatra’s needle before he ventured to speak.

‘I love Westminster in January –’

‘I’m not talking to you!’

‘Oh.’

They walked past the spot where Paul had thought the Rolls should be. It wasn’t there. He remembered that he had parked by a pillar box. Perhaps it had been another pillar box.

‘The whole evening was set up,’ said Steve. ‘You knew about that publisher and his mysterious accident. Scott Reed arranged the meeting with Lonsdale and I was taken for a prize idiot!’

Paul stopped and held on to her hand. ‘Hang on, darling, that isn’t quite true. Scott isn’t as clever as that, and incidentally we seem to have lost the car.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing: I’ve lost interest in going to Geneva. I want a holiday in the Highlands of Scotland.’

‘All right,’ said Paul as he glanced up and down the road, ‘we’ll go to the Highlands of Scotland.’

‘And I hated that man –’

‘So I noticed.’

Steve launched into a savagely accurate imitation of Lonsdale’s manner. ‘You know what women are when they get ideas into their heads,’ she said angrily. ‘Of course I know what women are! Paul, are you listening?’

‘Yes, darling. But I’m afraid the car has vanished.’

‘Serves you right.’ She chuckled unsympathetically. ‘I hope the newspapers make an idiot of you in the morning. Paul Temple’s Rolls Stolen, that’s what the headlines will read, Private Eye Sends for Scotland Yard.’ The thought seemed to cheer her up and she took his arm again. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she said softly. ‘It’s very worrying. What are we going to do?’

They walked across the road to Scotland Yard.

The M1 was beautifully clear before them like a yellow band stretched forward into infinity. There were a few long-distance lorries on their way to Edinburgh flashing private signals at each other, an occasional car, but Den Roberts cruised smoothly past them all. It had always been his ambition to steal a Rolls.

‘Goes like a bird,’ he murmured for the fifth time.

‘Yes,’ said Lucas. ‘Listen, keep it down to seventy. We don’t want the law to stop us.’

He was cautious. Den had wanted to drive through the gates of Buckingham Palace and watch the sentries salute. They could have driven round the parade ground and out again, nobody would have stopped a Rolls. But Lucas wanted to reach Birmingham by midnight.

‘I still think we should have hoisted an ordinary car,’ Lucas grumbled. ‘I mean, a mini can be re-sprayed and sold for a few hundred quid. But a bloody Rolls! You suffer from delusions of grandeur!’

Den grinned happily. He didn’t try to explain. Lucas was a petty thief and he would die knocking off the occasional mini between stretches inside. But Den was an artist, he had soul. Through two years of Borstal he had sustained himself with the knowledge that he would drive his own Rolls one day and have every copper on point duty salute him.

‘You don’t need to worry about the number of miles on the clock with a Rolls,’ said Den. ‘You don’t need to worry about what year it was built. This is British craftsmanship!’

‘Shut up. We’re being followed.’

Den peered into the driving mirror at the glaring headlamps behind them. It was impossible to see the car and it dazzled his eyes just to look. ‘Shall we leave it behind?’ he asked. ‘We could easy –’

‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s trying to overtake us.’

‘Yes, maybe,’ Den muttered. ‘Although it’s been on our tail for a few miles now.’

It was worrying. The other alternative was to stop. And if it were a police car…The car behind them slowed down as well. Den sighed and prepared himself for battle.

‘They’re coming round on us,’ Lucas hissed. ‘Quick, do something, Den, for God’s sake. Let them stop and then try a racing start to leave whoever it is behind.’

Den glanced over his shoulder as the car drew level with them. It was a large black saloon – a Rover, probably, although it was too dark to be certain. He couldn’t quite distinguish the people inside it, though there seemed to be two, and the second was crouched by the open passenger window. Pointing a revolver at Den’s head.

‘My God!’ cried Lucas. ‘Look out, he’s got a gun!’

Den stamped on the brakes and wrenched the steering wheel over to his left. At that moment a yellow spark flickered from the revolver and the windscreen of the Rolls disintegrated. Den struggled with the car as it slithered across the soft shoulder of the motorway and hit an RAC box. A second bullet thudded into the car, blowing away the side of Den Roberts’ face. Then the Rover accelerated towards Birmingham.

‘Are you all right?’ whimpered Lucas. ‘Den, are you all right? What’s the matter with your –? Oh my God!’

Paul went down to breakfast feeling irritable. He had woken up with the knowledge that something was wrong, and it had taken him several seconds to remember what it was. Then it had dawned on him. As he dressed he peered casually out of the window, pretending not to expect the car to be parked in the mews. It wasn’t.

Steve was already past the porridge and well into the bacon and eggs. Healthy breakfasts were her most serious character defect. She would follow with toast and marmalade. Paul tried not to notice. He went towards the door leading into the garage, but stopped himself. Instead he poured some black coffee.

‘A bath and shave haven’t done you much good,’ said Steve.

‘They wouldn’t help to get the car back,’ he said. ‘The Rolls was stolen last night if you remember.’

‘I know, I’ve been reading about it.’ She tossed the newspaper across to him. ‘You see, they’ve used that old photograph of you looking like a lean and glamorous bloodhound.’

Paul read the item: ‘Mr Temple, usually so self-possessed, was highly irritable when our reporter spoke to him last night about the stolen car. “Don’t ask me what happened”, snapped Britain’s number one Private Eye, “I haven’t a clue.” The police are treating this as a routine case…’ He looked up at the spluttering sound coming from Steve.

‘I never said that,’ he complained. ‘I never said a word about not having a –’

Kate Balfour bustled in from the tiny hall. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Mr Temple, but Inspector Vosper is asking to see you.’

‘Vosper?’ he stared at the housekeeper in disbelief. ‘But Charlie Vosper wouldn’t be on a routine case of –’ He stopped as she gestured that the inspector was standing behind her. ‘Oh well, ask him to come in, will you, Kate?’

Vosper made his way directly to the coffee and sat at the table beside a spare cup. ‘Good morning, Temple. That’s very welcome, yes, I’ll have white with three lumps, please. Good morning, Mrs Temple.’ He was obviously pleased with himself. Either he had bad news for Paul or his retirement was due next week.

‘So what news about my car?’ asked Paul.

‘Ah yes, your car. A sad business when you can’t leave a Rolls Royce parked all evening in a London street, isn’t it?’ His grey eyes glittered maliciously. ‘How many thousand pounds does a car like that cost? Or was that the one you were given as a bribe?’

‘It was offered as an inducement for me to accept a case,’ Paul agreed stiffly. ‘But I paid the price for it when my wife wouldn’t let me return it. My wife enjoys sitting in the back making plans for new ways to furnish it.’

Vosper finished his coffee and then said casually, ‘Well, we found it late last night, but it needs more than new furnishings. I’m afraid there was a very bad accident the other side of Newport Pagnell.’

‘Tell me more,’ Paul said with a glance at Steve.

‘We found it in a ditch beside the M1. The car seems to have left the road, hit an RAC telephone box and then rolled down the bank. The radiator is damaged and the windscreen smashed.’

‘Any trace of the driver?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Vosper. ‘He was still at the wheel, with a bullet through his head. I forgot to mention the mess on the upholstery.’

Steve had risen to her feet. ‘Oh, Paul!’ She turned away and began pouring more coffee. ‘So that’s why you’re here.’

‘Who was the man?’ Paul asked. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Yes, we know him. He was a small-time car thief called Den Roberts. There were fake number plates in the back of the car; I daresay he planned to change them over in Birmingham.’

‘Was Roberts alone in the car?’

‘He was alone when we found him.’

Paul thought for a moment. Roberts may have quarrelled with his accomplice, although it seemed unlikely that anybody would shoot the driver of the car he was travelling in. It was a problem.

‘What’s happened to my car now?’ asked Paul.

‘It’s in the Pentagon Garage at Newport Pagnell. They’ll telephone you when it’s repaired.’ Charlie Vosper raised himself ponderously from the chair, picked up his plain clothes trilby and announced with deliberation that it was all go, wasn’t it? ‘If there’s nothing else, Temple…’

‘I’ll see you out.’

Paul took the inspector into the passage and closed the kitchen door. He glanced up the stairs behind him to the main part of the house, to make sure that Kate Balfour wasn’t listening. ‘Charlie,’ said Paul, ‘there’s just one thing.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘This man Roberts. I wondered – could he have been mistaken for me?’

Vosper was surprised. ‘Well, he wasn’t much like you to look at, but it happened at night. Anybody overtaking the car might have been under the impression…I suppose it’s possible. Do you think it was an attempt on your life, Temple?’

‘No,’ Paul said lightly, ‘I haven’t an enemy in the world. But let me know if there are more developments.’

He watched Inspector Vosper pad away down the cobbled mews and turn into Chester Square. Then Paul went back into the kitchen. He smiled reassuringly at Steve and began pouring more coffee.

‘We’ll have to book up for Geneva or the Highlands of Scotland this morning –’

‘Darling, I suppose it didn’t occur to Inspector Vosper that whoever shot the car thief might have been under the impression they were shooting you?’

‘Good Lord, Steve, whatever put that idea into your head?’

‘Don’t tell me Britain’s number one Private Eye didn’t think of that one,’ she said seriously. ‘It was your car, in the dark, and the number plates hadn’t been changed. Anyone following the car must have thought you were driving it.’

‘You’re being fanciful, darling. I expect you’re worried about travelling by bus for the next week or so.’ The telephone rang at that moment and Paul hoped it would be somebody to take Steve’s mind off the subject.

‘Mr Temple!’ called Kate Balfour. ‘It’s Scott Reed for you!’

‘I’ll take it up in the workroom,’ said Paul.

‘Yes, it was a classic story of its kind – I sat up until three o’clock. Couldn’t put it down. Absolutely riveting, although I still don’t know who committed the murder. Was that intentional?

‘But it will keep me solvent for another year,’ Scott Reed concluded. ‘Might even pay for this academic study of history and the myth of potency which I’ve just published.’

‘What was that about?’ Paul asked politely.

‘I’ve no idea.’

Paul sat in the swivel chair at his desk and swung round with his feet in the air. Scott was a difficult man to keep to the point. And the idea of a scholarly work proving that politicians were national sex symbols seemed absurd.

‘Before you ring off, Scott,’ he interrupted, ‘hang on, I want to ask you about Carl Milbourne. What made you think I’d want to get involved? Is there something mysterious about his death?’

‘Good lord, no,’ Scott said nervously. ‘He was a friend of mine, that’s all, and naturally when his wife told me she needed to talk to a skilled investigator –’

Paul laughed. ‘I don’t believe you, but it doesn’t matter. Steve is dragging me off on holiday at the end of the week. You’re a devious old devil. We’ll see you when we come back.’

He replaced the receiver and swung his chair round to the desk as Kate Balfour tapped on the door. She showed in a dramatically attractive woman. Paul didn’t need telling that this was the ex-actress widow of Carl Milbourne. She was dressed in mauve and she swept in with the distraught air that had thrilled gallery first-nighters in play after play during the post war years. She began pouring out her troubles as Paul was shaking her gloved hand.

‘It’s no use, Mr Temple,’ she said tensely, sitting in the chair which Paul had indicated and peeling off the gloves, ‘the more I think about it the more certain I am that the dead man we saw that morning was not my husband.’

Paul nodded sympathetically and asked why she hadn’t said so at the time.

‘I was upset. Confused.’ A rapid glance at Paul and then she looked down again at the hands in her lap. ‘I really didn’t know what was happening.’

‘But your brother was with you, Mrs Milbourne, and he also identified the body. Surely he wouldn’t have –’

‘Maurice was upset too,’ she intruded. Her tone suddenly changed. ‘You mean you’ve seen Maurice? You’ve been talking to him?’

‘My wife and I had dinner out last night – at L’Hachoire Restaurant. Your brother was there, and he invited us into his office for a drink.’

‘What did he say about me?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘He said that you were still very upset, Mrs Milbourne, and that you simply refuse to face up to your husband’s death.’ Paul sat on the sofa next to her. ‘I didn’t know your husband well, Mrs Milbourne. I only met him once, and that was several years ago. I don’t believe he was married then.’

‘We were married six years ago.’

‘I remember him as a very charming man. I’m not surprised you find it difficult to imagine a world without him. You must feel very lonely now. I gather you don’t have any children?’

Margaret Milbourne had acted in enough problem dramas to understand the significance of Paul’s question. ‘That’s true. We both wanted children, but it wasn’t to be.’ She sighed. ‘Mr Temple, you might think this business has been too much for me and that I’m perhaps – a little unbalanced. But I assure you –’

‘Don’t worry about what I think, Mrs Milbourne. For the moment let’s concentrate on the facts. What was your husband doing in Geneva?’

She was slightly pained by the efficient manner. ‘Carl went on business, to see Julia Carrington.’

Paul knew the legend of Julia Carrington, the beautiful American actress who had retired after her tenth film and taken her dollars to Switzerland. Scandals still attached to her name as the dream factory hinted at indiscipline on the set and orgies between films.

‘Carl had heard a rumour that she was writing her memoirs,’ explained Margaret Milbourne. ‘He was anxious to find out whether that was true.’

Yes, he would have been, Paul reflected. Julia Carrington’s memoirs would be a scoop for any publisher. A success and sex story with famous names thrown in. Beautiful women, temperamental stars and bankers with several millions of dollars at stake. The only people who could be more interested in them than a publisher would be the famous names, the film company and the bankers.

‘I didn’t want him to go,’ Margaret Milbourne was saying. ‘I had a feeling, I don’t know why. Julia Carrington doesn’t bring other people luck. She has a doomed aura –’

‘Mrs Milbourne, I don’t doubt your sincerity. I don’t doubt that you really believe that your husband is still alive. But feelings and aura and the word of a medium are not evidence.’

She smiled ironically. ‘I have evidence.’ She took a piece of paper from her handbag and passed it across to Paul. ‘Is this evidence enough for you, Mr Temple?’

When she and her brother had returned from Switzerland after the accident Mrs Milbourne had found a parcel waiting at her home. It was addressed to Carl Milbourne from a shop in St Moritz. It contained the hat which Milbourne had been wearing when he left.

‘Your husband’s hat?’ Paul repeated.

‘Carl had a weakness for buying hats, he was constantly buying them. His dress sense was something I never quite adjusted to, even after six years of marriage. I knew at once what had happened. Carl had bought a new hat in St Moritz, and he had asked the shop to post his old one home.’

‘But obviously,’ Paul murmured, ‘this must have happened before the accident.’

She raised an imperious hand. ‘I’m coming to that, Mr Temple. You see, the hat was no use to me and I gave it away. I gave it to the gardener, as a matter of fact. And the day before yesterday he came to see me. He had found this piece of paper in the brim of the hat.’

Paul examined the paper. It was a note, dated January the sixth. ‘Please don’t worry,’ it read. ‘Have seen Randolph and everything will be all right. Will contact you later.’ Paul looked enquiringly at Mrs Milbourne.

‘January the sixth, Mr Temple, was two days after the accident.’

He nodded. ‘Are you sure this is your husband’s handwriting?’

‘Positive.’

‘So who do you suppose was killed by that car, Mrs Milbourne?’

‘I haven’t the remotest idea.’

Paul sighed. ‘And I suppose you don’t know anyone called Randolph. All we know is that whoever this note was addressed to it was never sent, otherwise it wouldn’t have been in your husband’s hat.’

‘You’re the private investigator, Mr Temple.’

Paul winced. She made him sound like a man in a raincoat spying on adulterers. One of these days, when he was grey and sporting a beard, he would call himself a criminologist. ‘What did you want me to do, Mrs Milbourne?’

‘I’d like you and Mrs Temple to come out with me to Switzerland.’ She continued in a puzzled tone, ‘I’d like to know what Carl was doing in St Moritz. He didn’t tell me he was going there, and he hates winter sports.’

They were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. ‘Excuse me,’ murmured Paul. He picked up the receiver.

‘Is that Paul Temple?’ asked the anxious voice. ‘Darling, you won’t remember me –’

‘Dolly! Of course I remember you. How’s the dancing now? Are you working again?’ He shrugged apologetically at Mrs Milbourne. ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?’

‘I’d like to talk to you, Mr Temple, darling. It’s terribly important.’

‘Of course. Why don’t you come round –?’

‘No no,’ the voice said anxiously, ‘I’d sooner meet you somewhere else. In the open somewhere, the park or somewhere like that.’

‘The Zoo?’

‘That’s a wonderful idea! Just the place! I’ll be inside the main gate in about forty minutes. See you then, darling.’

Paul replaced the receiver and turned back to Mrs Milbourne. ‘I’m sorry, an old friend of mine seems to be in trouble.’

‘That’s all right, Mr Temple,’ she said. ‘I rather think we’ve finished, haven’t we? I’ll arrange the flight –’

‘There is one more thing. A personal question. Did you and your husband quarrel before he left for Geneva?’

She laughed dismissively. ‘Actually, yes we did. I suppose Maurice told you?’ She rose to her feet and began putting on her gloves. ‘There was only one subject we ever quarrelled about, but unfortunately it happened to crop up just before he left. Carl was anxious to avoid paying death duties. He always took it for granted that he would go first, and…’ Her voice quickened dramatically. ‘He just would insist on talking about death. I hated the subject, simply hated it, Mr Temple. I used to tell him, “You’re only forty-eight!” But he would insist on discussing it.’

‘He talked about death and estate duties the night before he left for Geneva?’ Paul asked thoughtfully.

‘Yes, he did.’

Chapter Two

Paul Temple paid off his taxi outside the main entrance to the London Zoological Gardens. It was an exhilarating January morning with a low sun filtering through the clouds. Paul went in and bought a bag of peanuts for the monkeys; they deserved a treat in this temperature, although they looked perfectly cheerful.

The last time Paul had seen Dolly Brazier she had been in the dock for her part in a drugs scandal. He had known her for many years. She had played the part of a pop singer in a stage thriller he had written. The play had been a disaster, because the director had cut out most of the clues and all the explanations, but Dolly had remained his friend. A few years later when she was arrested Paul had persuaded Arnold Waldron to defend her, and Arnold had got her off with a twelve months’ suspended sentence.

There was no sign of her yet, so Paul found a telephone kiosk and put through a call to the Pentagon Garage in Newport Pagnell. The drive across London with a talkative cockney taxi driver had convinced Paul that he needed the Rolls.

The news was unpromising. His car had been returned to the factory for a new radiator, a new windscreen and some panel beating. The cheerful indifference of the mechanic was tiresome, especially when he concluded that it would be about ten days before the work was completed. Paul hung up and went back to feed the monkeys.

‘Hello, Paul! Here I am, darling!’

Dolly Brazier ran up through the west tunnel waving her handbag. She was a vivacious little red-head with a black maxi coat billowing to reveal the shapely legs of a chorus girl. She embraced him and left a smear of lipstick on his cheek.

‘Nice to see you again,’ said Paul. ‘Although you don’t look worried out of your mind to me.’ She had that kind of face. ‘Where are you working these days?’

‘Oh, I’ve done all sorts of things since the summer season in Scarborough last year.’ She laughed and took his arm. ‘I even did secretarial work, until they discovered that I couldn’t spell.’

‘You haven’t answered my question,’ said Paul. ‘Where are you working now?’

She tried to sound casual. ‘I’m – you know, I’m a night club hostess. It’s work, isn’t it?’

‘Where?’

‘Oh, in Soho.’ She took a peanut and threw it to a weary orang-utan. ‘Shall we go across to the cafe by the penguin pool? I’m dying for a coffee.’

They walked across the gardens, past the screeching gibbons, the lions and the love-lorn panda, until they reached the refreshment stall. Paul bought two coffees and a packet of chocolate biscuits for Dolly.

‘Now,’ he said when they were sat down in full view of the penguins, ‘you’re working in a Soho club and you’re in trouble. Tell me more.’

‘Oh no, I didn’t mean I was in trouble, darling. I’m worried about you. I mean, you’ve always been very kind to me, even though I was murdered in the first act of your play, and – well, you’re in awful danger. Listen, Mr Temple, I wish you wouldn’t get mixed up in this Swiss affair.’

‘You mean Mrs Milbourne and –’

‘I don’t want to see anything happen to you, or that wife of yours. She was always terribly sweet and…’ Her voice broke off incoherently.

‘Do you know Mrs Milbourne, Dolly?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘But I’ve heard of her, in a roundabout way. She’s been talking to you, claiming that her husband isn’t dead.’ She put her hand on Paul’s. ‘Are you going to help her?’

Paul shrugged. ‘She only spoke to me this morning.’

‘Well, don’t help her, Mr Temple. Don’t get involved, darling, it isn’t worth it’

‘I’m grateful to you for being so concerned,’ Paul said, slightly amused, ‘but you know, Steve and I have come up against a few ruthless people in our time. We’re still alive to tell the tale.’

Dolly cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. ‘Well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. I’d never have forgiven myself if I hadn’t passed the word. But I must get back. If I’m seen with you –’

‘But you haven’t passed any word, Dolly! You haven’t told me a damn thing.’ As he walked beside her towards the south gate he asked, ‘Is Carl Milbourne dead? Was he really killed in that accident?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know anything about Carl Milbourne. All I know is that – that a certain person doesn’t want you to help Mrs Milbourne.’

‘Who, Dolly?’ He took her by the shoulders and made her look at him. ‘Why won’t you tell me all you know?’

‘Because I’m scared.’ She smiled helplessly. ‘You see, darling, I’m too young to die. I’m sorry.’ She broke away from him and ran out of the gate.

Paul wandered down past the wolves, deep in thought. There were too many things he needed to know, such as whether the man killed in the car had been alone and whether there were witnesses to the accident. Paul liked the wolves, they were elegant and wild, and they didn’t smell so strongly in winter. He admired the one standing guard on the top of the air raid shelter. Supposing the dead man were not Carl Milbourne, Paul reflected. Did that mean Milbourne had arranged an accident so that he could disappear? In which case, as somebody’s body had definitely been dead, was Milbourne involved in murder?

Paul glanced at his watch. Nearly twelve o’clock. He decided to telephone Steve and ask her to meet him for an early lunch.

Kate Balfour watched from the kitchen window as a black Wolseley drew up in the mews. She heard Steve come down the stairs and answer the door herself.

‘Mrs Temple? My name’s Stone, of the Pentagon Garage.’

‘Oh yes,’ she heard Steve say, ‘you have my husband’s car.’

‘That’s right, Mrs Temple. But it will take a couple of weeks to put right, so your husband has hired this for the meantime.’

Kate was an ex-policewoman and it pleased her to see that Paul would be driving something more appropriate than the Rolls. In her day all black Wolseleys were police cars and she knew their performance. Not that Mr Stone looked like a policeman. He was standing by the car with Steve, handing over the keys and pointing out the logbook.

‘Kate,’ said Steve excitingly. ‘I’m just off to meet Paul for lunch. I’m mobile again.’

‘Yes, Mrs Temple.’

As Kate watched Stone walk off towards Chester Square the Wolseley shuddered and then purred gently away.

Beautiful cars, she thought, what a shame the police are driving about in any old vehicle these days; all those blue flashing lights and vulgar klaxons. Her reverie was interrupted by the telephone ringing.

‘Hello, Kate. Is my wife there?’

‘No, Mr Temple, she’s just left in the new car to meet you for lunch.’

‘Oh good, she must be psychic.’ There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘What did you say about a new car?’

‘From the Pentagon Garage, the one you hired. It was delivered a few minutes ago and Mrs Temple went straight off-’

‘The Pentagon Garage is in Newport Pagnell, Kate. I didn’t hire a car from them or anybody else!’

Kate Balfour slammed down the telephone and ran from the house. She had her mini in the mews and she set off in pursuit as if she had klaxons blaring and blue lights flashing. She nipped round Chester Square and through the streets of Chelsea with angry motorists aghast and hooting in her wake. Which way Steve had gone was sheer guesswork, but Kate assumed she would have gone up Kensington Church Street, through Sussex Gardens and along Marylebone Road. There was only one recent change in the traffic system, but Kate found herself doing forty miles an hour in the wrong direction along the new one-way street towards a bus. She gritted her teeth and decided to let the bus driver have a heart attack. Kate was in too much of a hurry to lose a game of chicken.

The bus veered into a garage entrance and frightened a postman. Kate sped on, jumping traffic lights where necessary and waving the occasional V-sign at self-important taxi drivers. She had reached Baker Street and was beginning to think she had come the wrong way when she saw the black Wolseley at the lights ahead.

Kate went round an island into the wrong side of the road and drove on. With a hand pressed firmly on the hooter she kept going until a bus came nose to nose with her, then she jumped out and ran the twenty yards more to the black Wolseley.

‘Hey, missis, that’s no place to park while you do your shopping,’ bawled the bus driver. Four taxi drivers joined in the chorus.

Kate pulled open the Wolseley door as Steve was about to drive off. ‘Come out of that car, Steve,’ she said urgently. ‘There may be a bomb –’

Steve nipped out quickly, without any flustered argument. That was what Kate admired about her, she was both attractive and sensible. She argued afterwards. ‘Car hire firms wouldn’t be so careless,’ she began.

‘Mr Temple telephoned soon after you left and said he hadn’t ordered a car!’

There were two commotions now: one doing nicely in front of the abandoned mini and another starting up behind the Wolseley. A policeman was padding purposefully towards them. ‘What’s going on?’ he was demanding. ‘You can’t leave a car in the middle of the road like this!’ The crowds on the pavement were stopping to watch the fun and a traffic warden was threading her menacing way through the jam.

‘Wait in the mini, dear,’ said Kate. ‘I’ll dump the Wolseley round the corner.’

‘Madam, you’re obstructing the traffic,’ the policeman insisted. ‘You’ll have to move that car immediately.’

‘I’d like to examine it first,’ said Kate. ‘I have reason to believe –’ The bonnet of the car lifted suddenly, there was a crash of tearing metal and the front of the Wolseley exploded. Steve ducked instinctively. There were pieces of steel scattering in every direction, smashing windows and cutting into other cars. A taxi driver fell to the ground beside his cab. It seemed nearly half a minute between the hideous bang and the eventual silence which followed. Then somebody screamed, the taxi driver began to curse to himself, and the people on the pavements moved forward among the metal and broken glass.

Steve looked appealingly comic sitting up in bed with a piratical bandage across her forehead. The urchin grin she gave as Paul burst into the bedroom was apologetic. But Paul was too shocked to be amused. He sat on the bed tight lipped and anxious.

‘How are you now, Steve?’

‘Darling, I’m perfectly all right. I’ve a slight headache which would disappear if you’d let me get up and make a pot of tea.’

‘Kate is already making tea.’

Steve looked slightly bashful. ‘Is Kate all right?’

‘Of course she’s all right, she’s an ex-policewoman. A little shaken up to begin with, but I increased her salary and she brightened up at once. The only other casualty was a taxi driver, and he was discharged from hospital as soon as they’d stuck some elastoplasts on his knee. So relax, stay in bed and be pampered.’

Kate came bustling in with tea and biscuits. The whiff of crime was obviously in her nostrils – the tea was not of her usual standard and while it had been standing she had telephoned the Pentagon Garage to establish that they didn’t know a Mr Stone.

‘Well, we had to check,’ said Paul. ‘Perhaps you’d have another go at contacting Mrs Milbourne?’

‘Yes, Mr Temple,’ and she bustled out.

‘Paul, what happened this morning?’

He poured the tea and passed her a cup. ‘This morning?’ he repeated innocently.

‘With Dolly Brazier.’

‘Oh, she tried to borrow some money from me. Poor Dolly, she’s always in some kind of trouble.’

‘Did you lend it to her?’

‘Of course not. She wanted a hundred pounds, and you know how these things develop. Once you start lending people money –’

‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ Steve interrupted. ‘If Dolly had needed money you’d have lent it to her. I know you, Paul. What did she really want?’

Paul rearranged the flowers he had brought for her. They were gladioli and he wondered absently where flowers came from at this time of year. ‘She told me to take care,’ he said quietly. ‘Not to become involved.’ Perhaps they were imported from the Bahamas. If they have gladioli in the Bahamas.

‘Involved in what?’ Steve asked. ‘In the Milbourne affair?’

‘I didn’t intend to tell you about this, Steve,’ he said. ‘Not today. You need to rest –’

‘I’ll rest when I know what’s going on. I have to be kept in the picture, and you just remember that, Temple!’

Paul laughed and said, ‘Of course I will, darling.’ He kissed her and ruffled her hair so that it partially covered the bandage. ‘I’ll rest better myself when I know what’s going on.’ He went to the door and blew her a kiss. ‘Sleep well, darling.’

He found Kate in his workroom, sitting at his desk and talking briskly on the telephone. Daunting, Paul thought to himself, she must have routed crime like a battleship in her day. He had a brief mental picture of her tossing gangsters across the police station, reducing full grown bruisers to tears.

‘No lead there, Mr Temple,’ she said as she hung up. ‘Mrs Milbourne didn’t tell anyone about her visit, except her brother. She hasn’t seen many people socially since her husband –’

‘I’m not surprised. Kate, will you stay and keep an eye on my wife for a couple of hours? I think I’d better visit Mrs Milbourne’s brother. And after that I might find out a little more about Dolly Brazier’s current job.’

Maurice Lonsdale greeted him like an old friend and insisted that they should dine together. ‘So much more civilised than talking in the office,’ he said. ‘I’m told the trout is superb this week.’

Paul agreed to sample the trout.

‘I’m glad you saw my sister, Temple.’ He had a good memory and ordered the dry sherry Paul had had the last time. ‘But I hope you didn’t take her story too seriously. You see, Margaret has always been highly strung, even when she was in the theatre.’

‘Apart from being highly strung,’ said Paul, ‘she’s also highly intelligent. I don’t think we can completely dismiss everything she says.’

‘Good gracious me, of course not,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m not suggesting we should, Temple. Not for one minute. But I did go out to Switzerland with her. I saw Carl after the accident and I identified him.’ He paused while the waiter placed the soup before them. ‘However, you’re a busy man. I’m sure you had a particular reason for coming to see me this evening.’

Paul nodded. ‘I want to know who else you’ve discussed this business with. Who, apart from your sister, knows that I’ve been consulted?’

‘A curious question,’ he murmured thoughtfully.

‘An important one.’

Lonsdale thought for a moment. ‘I may have mentioned you casually to some friends or acquaintances when we were talking about my sister. I would have seen no reason for not doing so.’ He tipped the bowl in the wrong direction to reach the last spoonful of soup. ‘Why is it so important?’

‘Because,’ Paul said grimly, ‘while my wife and I were talking to you last night my car was stolen. The man who stole it was shot – in mistake for me. And at lunchtime today there was a deliberate attempt to kill my wife.’

Lonsdale stared in amazement. As he blinked it looked as if he were lowering shutters over the cold grey eyes to keep out the truth. ‘And you think that both these –’

‘I think that someone is deliberately trying to stop me taking an interest in the Milbourne case.’

Lonsdale shook his head and muttered, ‘No, it’s not possible. No, never.’ He pushed the empty plate aside and looked again at Paul. ‘There’s only one person, but she’s the soul of discretion. I discussed my sister and the car accident at length with a very good friend of mine, and I remember I did mention you. She had read several of your books –’

‘Could you tell me her name?’

‘Freda Sands.’

Paul had heard of Freda Sands. She ran a secretarial bureau in Baker Street, and whenever highly successful businesswomen were needed by television or press interviewers they contrived to interview her. She was dynamic, attractive, and she didn’t believe in the equality of the sexes because she knew she was superior to any man. She made good copy and she photographed well. Paul wondered where she found the time to read his books.

‘You must meet her,’ said Lonsdale, ‘I’m sure both you and Mrs Temple would enjoy her company. I’ll arrange a little dinner party one evening.’

‘That would be pleasant,’ Paul murmured.

He was wondering whether this was the flaw in Lonsdale’s character – the social ambitions of a millionaire to know and be seen with the fashionable people of the moment. As Paul was thinking this through the waiter approached the table with a message.

‘Excuse me, Mr Lonsdale,’ he said, ‘but I have a message for Mr Temple. An Inspector Vosper telephoned. He wants to see you immediately, sir, at the Middlesex Hospital.’

‘Did he say why?’ asked Paul, rising in alarm.

‘No, sir. But it sounded urgent.’

Lonsdale rose to his feet as well. ‘Gaston, send my chauffeur round to the entrance. I’m sorry, Temple, I hope it’s nothing to do with your wife’s accident. My chauffeur will run you to the hospital in ten minutes.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’

Charlie Vosper was sitting in the corridor of the casualty wing, smoking an impatient cigarette under a No Smoking notice when Paul arrived. He stubbed out the cigarette on the gleaming floor. ‘So you got my message,’ he said. ‘I telephoned your home and Detective Sergeant Balfour –’

‘You mean Kate,’ he interrupted. ‘What’s happened? Who has been hurt?’

‘About an hour ago one of our people found a woman called Dolly Brazier in a cul-de-sac off the Kilburn High Road. She’d been very severely done over, I’m afraid.’

‘How severely?’ Paul snapped.

‘Very,’ he sighed. ‘I don’t suppose she’s going to die, but that isn’t everything, is it? She was obviously an attractive girl before –’ He smiled sadly. ‘The poor kid’s only spoken twice, and on both occasions she asked for you.’

Paul went into the tiny ward. He scarcely heard the doctor say something about having given her an injection. He moved the screen aside and sat by the bed. The brutality of her attackers made him feel sick.

‘Can you hear me, Dolly?’ he asked softly. ‘It’s Paul.’

Her hand moved slightly and Paul took it in his. A plastic bag was connected to her arm transfusing blood, and her face was swathed in white dressings. The room was silent except for Dolly’s laboured breathing beneath the broken ribs.

‘Who was it?’ he asked. ‘Who did this to you, Dolly?’

‘I don’t know,’ she whispered.

‘You must tell me,’ Paul said firmly. ‘I’ll make sure nothing else happens to you –’

But she wasn’t listening. ‘I’m going to get better, aren’t I, Paul? I’m too young to die –’

‘Don’t be silly, of course you’re going to get better.’ He squeezed her hand and waited for her to recover herself. She seemed to have that phrase, ‘too young to die’, firmly lodged in her mind. It was the second time she had used it.

‘I asked the doctor about my face,’ she said, speaking with difficulty. ‘About the stitches. But he wouldn’t tell me anything. Is it a mess, Paul?’

‘You’ll soon be beautiful again,’ he said with false cheerfulness. ‘It’s a bit of a mess now, but you’re in good hands. Just be a good girl and tell me why you were attacked.’

Eventually she whispered, ‘I told you, keep out of this affair. You mustn’t…’

The nurse tapped Paul on the shoulder and indicated that his time was up. Dolly had fallen asleep and the drug would keep her that way for several hours. There was no sense, he thought, in such savagery, no necessity at all.

‘She’ll be all right, Mr Temple,’ said the house doctor as they left the ward. ‘But her head wounds are rather delicate so we have to take care.’

‘Of course,’ said Paul. ‘Do everything you can for her, please. I’ll pay whatever is necessary, and if it’s a question of plastic surgery phone Sir Thomas Staines, he’s a friend of mine.’

‘Don’t worry, Mr Temple.’

Don’t worry. Paul went off down the corridor. His footsteps echoed and in the distance trolleys and pans made noises that reverberated through the tiled passages. Hospitals were full of impersonal sounds at night. No, he wouldn’t worry. The lift gates clattered and he left Dolly Brazier five floors behind. It read ‘Theatre’ on the signboard for Dolly’s floor.

She had told Paul not to worry, throughout rehearsals and even after the appalling reviews. Don’t worry, darling, it’s your first play, you can always write another one. She had been a resilient, happy kid. Loyal and affectionate. She didn’t deserve to end up in a heap behind the Kilburn High Road.

Paul stepped into the road and waved down a taxi.

Chapter Three

Margaret Milbourne said good evening to the commissionaire as he held open the door. It was ten past six, an appropriate ten minutes late. She didn’t approve of punctuality, it cheapened one so, however anxious she was to meet this mysterious Danny what’s-his-name. As she walked through the foyer she glanced at the wall mirror and lifted her head a shade higher. It was important to look serene in the midst of tragedy.

Danny Clayton, that was his name. He had sounded young and American on the telephone, and he had some information about her husband. She pushed through the swing doors to the cocktail bar. A smattering of customers, a desultory air of opulence, and a forlorn man playing muzack at the piano. She thought it should be possible to recognise Danny Clayton by instinct – he would be the slim, hawk nosed youth who was watching the other customers with something like amused contempt.

‘Can I get you anything?’ asked the barman.

‘Not for the moment, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m meeting a Mr Clayton. I believe he’s staying here.’

He was the slim, hawk nosed youth. He ordered drinks and guided Margaret across to a corner seat. His absentminded good manners unnerved her slightly. He said it was good of her to spare the time, but he spoke with such casual insincerity that she couldn’t think how to reply.

‘Who are you exactly?’ she asked. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’m Danny Clayton, I’m thirty years old, I was born in New York, I work for Julia Carrington, and I wanted to see you about your husband.’

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