Читать книгу Paul Temple and the Tyler Mystery - Francis Durbridge, Francis Durbridge - Страница 6

‘What do you know about this Mariano, Steve?’

Temple called through into the bedroom from his dressing-room. He and Steve had been to the theatre and then dined with some friends in Soho. They had refused an invitation to go on to a night club. Temple did not want to blunt his wits or palate on the eve of the outing to Sonning.

‘I’ve never been to him myself. I prefer to stick to my Doris. But I believe he’s really brilliant. Several of my friends have started going to him lately. He must be making a packet out of it. He’s opened several branches in provincial towns.’

‘What sort of person is he himself?’

‘Definitely rather glamorous, darling.’

‘Amorous?’

‘Gerlamorous,’ Steve sang. ‘It’s not very polite to shout at ladies from other rooms.’

Temple undid his tie and walked to the threshold between the two rooms. His own dressing-room was square, utilitarian and exclusively mahogany. It was rather like the captain’s cabin in a small naval vessel. After its dark severity the bedroom made his senses reel. He had given Steve a free hand with it. The carpet was a deep wine colour and all the furniture was white. Over the bed was suspended a kind of panoply, bordered with stiff nylon frills. Temple always felt a little like Don Juan when he invaded this essentially feminine domain.

Steve was sitting before her triple mirrors, sheathed in silk, combing her hair.

‘In what way glamorous?’ Temple asked suspiciously.

Steve stopped combing and gazed at her reflection.

‘Well, he’s handsome – and foreign, of course. Rather an actor, by all I can gather. I mean, he knows how to put himself across.’

‘Put himself across?’

‘Yes, darling. Hairdressing is an art – at least ladies’ hairdressing is. Mariano acts the part of an artist. But he’s a very shrewd business man at the same time.’

‘How long has he been operating this racket?’

‘I don’t know exactly. He’s only been fashionable since the war, but Mrs Tenby-Whiteside was boasting to me the other day that she patronised him over twenty years ago. So he must have come to England in the early ’thirties some time.’

‘Not very shrewd of Mrs T-W.’

‘What wasn’t?’

‘Giving her age away like that.’

‘We all give away something sometimes, darling,’ Steve said.

The silence which the Temples normally observed until they had finished breakfast was broken the following morning when Temple put the paper down beside his plate with an exclamation of annoyance.

‘What’s the matter, Paul?’

‘These confounded gossip writers. If they can’t mind their own business, they might at least try to get their facts right. The cheek of this: “Sir Graham Forbes paid a flying visit to the new home of the Paul Temples in Eaton Square yesterday morning. The conversation turned on the Tyler mystery which has been causing heads to throb in Scotland Yard this past week. This confirms the rumour we reported the day before yesterday that Sir Graham had decided to consult Paul Temple on the Tyler case.”’

‘They really are the limit.’

Temple pushed his chair back.

‘Aren’t you going to have your second cup of coffee, darling?’

‘Pour it out for me. I’ll take it into the study. I have a lot of work to get through before we start for Sonning. You’ll be ready at a quarter to twelve, won’t you?’

Thanks to his dictaphone Temple managed to shift most of his correspondence before he was interrupted by Charlie rapping on his study door. By the clock on his desk – a birthday present from Steve – it was still only a quarter to eleven. Charlie was in shirt sleeves and braces, a garb strictly banned by Temple, and he was wearing a shabby apron.

‘A gentleman to see you, Mr Temple.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Name of Books, Brooks or Broke – something like that.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘I showed him into the drawing-room.’

‘Did you answer the door like that?’

‘Well, I have to do housemaid’s work, see, so naturally I dress like a housemaid.’

‘Since when have housemaids taken to wearing braces?’

Charlie was still trying to think up some unprintable reply when Temple closed the door of the drawing-room behind him. He had been puzzled for a moment by the name but as soon as he saw his visitor he connected it with the young man who had sold him the picture the previous day.

He was standing in the middle of the room with a large rectangular parcel balanced against his right hip. Temple greeted him and nodded towards the parcel.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve brought my picture already.’

Brooks smiled rather self-consciously.

‘We managed to push it through more quickly than I anticipated. Shall I unwrap it for you?’

‘Yes, please do. I’ll ring for someone to take the mess away.’

Brooks produced a manicure set from his pocket and snipped the string with the scissors. Meanwhile Temple had been clearing the oddments from the mantelpiece. He turned his back on Brooks as the wrapping paper rustled.

‘Would you mind putting it on the mantelpiece for me? Then I can get a proper first impression.’

‘Not at all.’ Temple heard Brooks cross the room and place the picture in its place.

‘There we are.’

Charlie entered the room and found Temple in the act of turning. His eyes went past his master to the object on the mantelpiece, and he uttered a simple word:

‘Cor.’

‘Ah, that’s better,’ Temple exclaimed. ‘I really do like it now. What do you think?’

Brooks pursed his lips, studying the picture as if he’d never seen it before.

‘Yes, I must admit I do. When you said you were going to hang it among antiques I wondered. But it doesn’t really clash.’

‘Why should it? Charlie, cart that paper away and ask Mrs Temple if she’d join us.’

Rattling the paper as loudly as he could to illustrate his disapproval of Temple’s purchase, Charlie made a slow exit.

Steve was as delighted with the picture as Temple, but that did not prevent her from paying more than usual attention to Brooks. He had seemed to come to life on Steve’s arrival as if he had suddenly found a friend in a foreign country. It was obvious that he was at his best with women – preferably young and attractive ones – and equally obvious that they were attracted by him.

‘Haven’t you offered Mr Brooks a drink, darling?’

The reproof in Steve’s voice was evident, but Brooks was already holding up his hand.

‘It’s a little too early for me, if you don’t mind. Besides, I must be getting back to the shop.’

Temple was ready to move towards the door but Brooks seemed to be searching for some excuse to stay a little longer. There was that awkward pause which host and hostess feel offers guests a good opportunity to take their leave and which they so often fail to take.

‘I wonder if it would interest you,’ Brooks said hesitatingly – ‘there’s an exhibition of Kappel’s work on in Paris at the moment. I read in the paper that you were going there next week.’

‘That’s right,’ Temple nodded. ‘We must try and get to see it.’

To his annoyance, Steve made a remark which threatened to start the conversation off on a new tack.

‘Do you know Paris well, Mr Brooks?’

‘Yes, I do. I have to go there quite a lot in connection with pictures we buy and sell. As a matter of fact my brother lives there. He’s at the British Embassy. I was wondering—’ Brooks’ face had gone a little redder and he was registering almost boyish embarrassment. ‘I was wondering if I could ask a favour of you. You see, my brother’s birthday is just two days after you arrive in Paris. Would you think it awful cheek if I asked you to take over a present I’ve bought for him? It’s a box of some special Havana cigars which he can only get here in London. There won’t be any duty to pay because I’ll open the box and take one out.’

Temple was surprised at this request from a comparative stranger, but Steve seemed to find it quite natural.

‘We can do that, can’t we, Paul?’

‘Yes, of course, though in fact the customs—’

‘That’s very kind of you. I’ll drop them in a day or two before you leave. I only wish I could take them myself. Paris is marvellous at this time of year. Do you stay anywhere special?’

‘We usually go to the Hotel Pompadour,’ said Steve.

‘The Pompadour? Then you’ll be quite close to the Kappel exhibition; it’s in the Rue Royale.’

Temple at last managed to shepherd the talkative Brooks out of the flat. He went back to the drawing-room to find Steve at the window, waiting to watch their visitor as he went along the street.

‘Something peculiar about that chap. You and he seemed to be getting on like a house on fire.’

‘Does that make him peculiar? I liked him but I felt that we weren’t seeing the real person. All that surface charm seemed switched on for your benefit.’

‘For my benefit? Come on, Steve, you under-rate yourself. Now, we’ll have to get a move on if we’re to be at Sonning in time. We’ll hang that picture when we get home this evening.’

They were lucky with traffic and it was still only half-past twelve when the two-seater Frazer Nash passed the 30 limit sign on the far side of Maidenhead and Temple brought the speedometer needle up to 80, an easy cruising speed for the car.

‘I’m going to be ready for this lunch,’ Steve said, looking up at the blue sky. ‘I wonder if we can eat outside.’

The fine weather had continued and the trees lining the side of the road were a fresh, rich green. The hum of the tyres and the gentle swish of wind over the streamlined body were not enough to prevent conversation.

‘I wonder if you’ll get anything of interest out of Mrs Draper.’

‘I don’t expect to,’ Temple answered, his eye on the driving mirror. ‘I’m convinced that Harry Shelford had nothing to do with the Tyler business. I’m only doing this to make Sir Graham happy.’

‘Don’t you think that the coincidence of this mysterious Harry who telephoned and Harry Shelford’s name on the paper found in Betty Tyler’s handbag is too strong to be – well, just coincidence?’

‘Coincidences happen in everyday life which no one would accept in fiction. What does this ass think he’s trying to do?’

A white sports car Triumph had been catching up on the Frazer Nash for some miles and was now sitting on their tail about a hundred yards behind. Temple had waved the driver on but he had taken no notice. He was alone in the car and had lowered the windscreen flat onto the bonnet. His cap was pulled down over his face and he wore a fearsome pair of goggles. Temple was used to being challenged to a race by foolhardy owners of sports cars but he invariably declined, though he knew that the Frazer Nash was capable of showing a clean pair of heels to most of them.

He slowed to about sixty and at last the Triumph accelerated and went past them with a vulgar blare from its exhaust. The driver did not even glance at them. He then played that most infuriating of tricks: began to motor at a speed just slower than Temple’s usual gait. The noise of his exhaust drowned conversation. Temple made up his mind to give the Frazer Nash the gun and leave the Triumph behind.

The road ahead was a fast straight stretch divided into three lanes. About four hundred yards away a car was stopped on the left-hand side. A little beyond it, coming towards them, was a massive Marston Valley brick lorry. Temple decided to bide his time, but at that moment the driver of the Triumph put out a gloved hand and gave the slowing down signal. Just as he came up to the parked car he waved the Frazer Nash on. Temple assumed that he intended to brake sharply and pull in behind the stationary car. The brick lorry was just coming level with it, but the centre lane was clear.

The Frazer Nash surged quickly from forty to sixty miles an hour as Temple pulled out to pass. It occurred to him that the Triumph was going to have to brake very sharply to avoid hitting the stationary car. Just at the last moment the goggled driver put his hand out and edged the Triumph on to the centre lane. Temple found himself being forced out towards the oncoming bonnet of the brick lorry, now only thirty yards distant, his only way through blocked.

There was no time to sound a horn or curse. The lesser of two evils was to shunt the Triumph but even that would mean an impact of fifty miles an hour and Steve’s forehead was terribly close to the dashboard.

The man at the wheel of the brick lorry, with the vigilance typical of British transport drivers, applied his vacuum brakes and stopped the vehicle in its own length. Temple swerved sharply to the right, aiming the Frazer Nash across the front of the brick lorry. Nothing but a machine developed in trials and racing would have accepted the brutal change of direction; tyres shrieked but the car remained on four wheels. She missed the lorry by two feet, rushed on to the grass verge and passed between two trees. Still miraculously in control, Temple put her through an open gate into a grass field beyond. The car skidded on the soft surface and ended up facing the gate through which it had come. Temple had kept his engine running. He selected bottom gear and drove back on to the grass verge.

‘Sorry, Steve. It was the only way out.’

Steve produced a compact and began to powder her nose with slightly trembling hands. Temple switched off his engine and took a deep breath before he stepped out of the car. The lorry driver had driven another hundred yards up the road and was climbing down from his cab. The white Triumph, now moving very fast, was just disappearing round a distant bend.

Temple went to meet the lorry driver as he walked towards them.

‘Your missus all right, mate?’

‘Yes, thanks. I’d like to thank you for keeping your brakes in good order and using them so promptly. It saved our lives.’

The driver scratched the back of his head and stared down the road.

‘Didn’t even stop, the—. Pity we couldn’t get his number.’

Temple offered his cigarette-case to the driver without answering. He had made a mental note of the Triumph’s registration number when it first passed him. He intended to write it down in his diary before he rejoined Steve.

‘Police ought to do something about them sort of drivers,’ the lorry man went on. ‘If he’d been trying to do it deliberate he couldn’t have put you in a worse spot.’

Out of respect for Steve’s nerves, Temple drove slowly the rest of the way to Sonning. Neither of them spoke a word until they had turned off the main road and were idling down the minor road that led to the village. Then Steve turned to examine Temple’s profile.

‘Paul. That was a deliberate attempt to kill us.’

Temple was ready for the remark. He took his eye off the road for long enough to give Steve a reassuring smile.

‘I don’t think so, Steve. Probably some idiot who doesn’t know his car. Too many of these fast machines get into the hands of people who can’t control them.’

‘I thought he controlled his rather skilfully,’ Steve remarked drily. ‘His timing was absolutely perfect.’

The Dutch Treat stood on the river bank just beyond the Sonning bridge. On a well-kept lawn between the verandah and the water were placed a number of gaily painted tables and chairs, shaded by striped Continental style sun-shades tipped at rakish angles. Temple parked the car, then Steve and he went into the building by the hotel entrance. Steve said she wanted to fix her hair, and while she went off to the Ladies’ Room Temple waited in the foyer.

He caught the eye of the reception clerk and went over to speak to him.

‘Mrs Draper owns this place now, doesn’t she?’

‘That is so, sir.’

The clerk, hardly glancing at him, answered in the impersonal manner of his kind.

‘Can you tell me where I would find her?’

‘Perhaps I can help you, sir?’

‘I’m afraid not. This is a personal matter.’

‘Mrs Draper is not in the hotel, sir. She will not be returning till after lunch.’

‘Well, we are lunching here, so it doesn’t matter very much. When she returns will you tell her that Mr Temple would like to have a word with her?’

‘Very good, sir.’

Temple was amused to note that as he turned away the clerk returned not to his register of guests but to study a copy of the Sporting Life. The reference book which he pulled down from a shelf was not a Bradshaw but Ruff’s Guide to the Turf.

There was still no sign of Steve. Temple noticed a public call box at the end of the foyer. It was unoccupied. He went over to it slowly, closed the door on himself and asked for Vosper’s number at Scotland Yard. The Inspector had gone home to lunch, but his assistant was there. Temple gave him the number of the offending Triumph and suggested he should check up on it. He was about to open the door and step out, when he hesitated. A man, emerging from the passage which led to the dining room, had entered the foyer at the same moment as Steve reappeared. He was only a few yards from Temple’s call box. When he looked towards Steve he stopped dead, and a flicker of surprise crossed his face. He turned on his heel and went quickly back the way he had come. As he passed, Temple made a note of his features. He was aged about forty-seven or -eight, athletically built, though rather on the short side, clean shaven and well dressed in a tweedy kind of way. Steve had not noticed him and he had certainly not spotted Temple in the gloom of the call box.

Temple claimed Steve and together they went through to the dining room. For the summer season the dining room had been extended on to the verandah and boxes of flowers on stands lined the glass walls. The whole effect was very French. It remained to be seen, Temple thought, whether the cooking came up to the same standard.

A maître d’hôtel, poised before a desk bearing the list of table reservations, waylaid them as they entered.

‘Name, sir?’

‘Temple. I telephoned last night.’

‘Ah, Mr Paul Temple, isn’t it? I have a nice table for you, sir.’

After an appreciative glance at Steve in her neat suit and flame-coloured shirt and shoes, the maître d’hôtel, walking with unction and brandishing his pencil as if it were a conductor’s baton, led them to a table flanked by tumbling geraniums. At a twitch of his fingers, a pair of waiters materialised from the carpet and set in front of Steve and Temple a couple of menus as big as railway posters.

When they had given their order Steve folded her hands and looked around her with appreciation.

‘It’s rather nice to be alive, isn’t it? We so very nearly weren’t. You can’t fool me, you know. I saw you coming out of that call box.’

Temple sipped his Tio Pepe and concentrated on Steve. A quick glance round the room had shown him that the startled man he had seen in the foyer was not here. Several faces had turned towards him with recognition, but there was no one he knew.

‘Perhaps it did look rather like a deliberate attempt—’

‘Looked like! If you hadn’t spotted that gap in the wall we’d have been finished. Was it anyone you’d seen before?’

Temple shook his head.

‘Even if it had been I wouldn’t have recognised him with all that stuff on his face.’

‘But why pick on us?’

‘The only reason I can think of is that someone is under the impression that I am investigating the Tyler case. Though why that should justify my execution I fail to see.’

At that moment the service squad arrived with the eats and drinks for the Temples’ first course. During the next hour they were far too preoccupied with the pleasures of living to worry about their escape from death. Mrs Draper’s imported chef was a genius and Temple rejoiced to have found for once an establishment which did not grudge the few shillings needed to supply the kitchen with adequate wine for the sauces.

After the meal, at the maître d’hotel’s suggestion, they took their coffee in a pleasant sun lounge built out over the water. They were still there, fingering liqueur glasses, when Mrs Draper came up and introduced herself.

Lucille Draper was a striking woman. She looked a good deal less than her forty-odd years; only a certain severity of expression, reflected in the cut of her black suit, showed that she had seen some of the darker side of life. She had accepted her widowhood as a challenge and had put all the money left by her husband into The Dutch Treat. She seemed to have an exceptional gift for business and in a very few years she had turned the hotel into one of the most popular out-of-town rendezvous.

She had heard a great deal about Temple from her brother and her pleasure at meeting him and Steve appeared quite genuine. She accepted Temple’s invitation to join them for a few minutes, but refused a liqueur or coffee. She seemed to sense that there was more than affability in his request to speak to her. Temple was perfectly frank with her. After complimenting her on the cuisine and service he came to the point.

‘What I really wanted to ask you, Mrs Draper, was whether you could give me any news of Harry?’

Temple purposely kept his eyes on his liqueur glass as he asked the question. He knew he could rely on Steve to watch her reaction.

Mrs Draper answered without the slightest hesitation: ‘It’s funny you should ask me that. I had a letter from Harry only two days ago. He’s doing wonderfully well out there.’

She leaned towards Temple and gave him the full benefit of very blue eyes.

‘I shall always be so grateful to you for helping Harry in the way you did. Giving him that money was the most generous—’

‘I didn’t give it to him,’ Temple said uncomfortably. ‘It was only a loan – which he repaid in full.’

Lucille Draper, with a gesture which appeared sincere and impulsive, laid a hand on his arm. Her nails were deep scarlet and several diamonds glistened on her fingers.

‘But it was the gesture that counted! He felt that someone really had faith in him.’

Temple tried unsuccessfully to imagine the hard-bitten Harry Shelford voicing any such sentiment. He tried to steer the conversation back on to course.

‘He wrote you from Cape Town?’

‘Yes. Of course he travels a lot – searching out really good second-hand cars, you know. He takes care not to sell anything shoddy.’

‘Forgive my interrupting, Mrs Draper. Has Harry ever talked of coming back to England?’

Mrs Draper’s pretty mouth remained open for a few moments to express her amazement. Then she gave a tinkle of laughter.

‘That’s the last thing he would do. Why should he come back to England when he’s making a fortune out there? And an honest one, too. Harry’s going straight now, Mr Temple, I can assure you of that. He wouldn’t let you down; not after what you did for him.’

Just for a moment Temple believed he detected real sincerity in her voice. He did not try to question her any further. After a few moments of small talk during which she turned rather ostentatiously to Steve, as if inviting her to join a private conversation, she claimed pressure of business and rose.

When she had disappeared into the hotel proper, Temple turned to Steve with a smile. She was looking daggers.

‘Well?’

‘Bogus, from the peroxide down.’

‘I’m not worried about whether she bleaches her hair or not. Am I mistaken, or was she covering something up?’

Steve grinned at a private thought.

‘I was watching her when you first asked her about Harry. She was ready for the question and waiting for it.’

‘I thought she was a shade too glib. Of course it’s difficult not having met her before. Some women are always like that with men, but she seemed somehow strained, brittle—’

‘I know what you mean. She’s worried about something. Do you know why she refused coffee?’

‘No.’

‘Because her hands weren’t steady. And she didn’t dare to look my way till the interrogation was over. She knew another woman would see through her.’

The Temples were loth to leave the pleasant lazy atmosphere of Sonning on a warm May day. It was four thirty before they arrived back in Eaton Square.

Charlie had left a note propped on the hall table: ‘See me soon as you come in’.

Steve picked it up and threw Temple a despairing look. Charlie answered the drawing-room bell promptly.

‘There was a telephone call for you about an hour ago. From Guildford. It was a girl – she seemed young, anyway – called Jane Dallas. She wanted to speak to you personally. Sounded pretty desperate, she did.’

‘What did she want to speak to me about?’

‘She wouldn’t say. She closed up when I told her you weren’t available.’

‘Jane Dallas. She didn’t mind giving her name, then?’

‘Well,’ Charlie’s face was disfigured by a self-satisfied smirk. ‘She thought I was you, see? When I answered the phone I said “Eaton double two, double four – who’s calling please?” She says, very quick like, “Oh, Mr Temple, my name is Jane Dallas. I have some very urgent—” Then I thought I’d better stop her before she spilled the beans.’

Charlie gave such a vivid imitation of Temple’s voice and that of the unknown Jane Dallas that he and Steve had to smile.

‘All right, Charlie. Thanks.’

Temple frowned thoughtfully at Steve as the door closed on Charlie.

‘Guildford? We don’t know anyone called Jane Dallas.’

‘Perhaps it’s someone else who wants you to take cigars to her brother in Paris,’ Steve suggested lightly.

‘Then she’s going to be unlucky. Now, I’d better telephone Sir Graham. He’ll be disappointed that we’ve nothing more definite for him.’

Temple sat down beside the telephone table. He was about to lift the receiver when the bell began to ring. He picked it up and repeated his number.

The operator said, ‘Go ahead, Guildford.’

It was a girl’s voice, faint and distorted by interference on the line, but unmistakably frightened.

‘This is Temple speaking.’

‘Oh, Mr Temple. I read in the papers that you are investigating the Tyler mystery. I have some very important information. I’ve got to see you immediately.’

Jane Dallas sounded a very excitable young lady. There was a touch of hysteria in her voice.

Temple said: ‘The papers are misinformed. It’s not true that I’m investigating the Tyler mystery. Your proper course is to take this information to the police.’

‘I can’t do that, Mr Temple. I’ve got to see you. It’s impossible to explain on the telephone. Oh, can’t you understand?’

The voice was becoming more and more overwrought.

‘I’m afraid I can’t come down to Guildford, Miss Dallas—’

‘You must,’ the girl insisted. Then as if she felt the old tag would clinch matters: ‘It’s a matter of life and death. I’m at 17 Charlotte Street. I’ll expect you at nine o’clock tonight.’

Before Temple had time to object there came a click and the line was dead.

‘That,’ he told Steve, ‘was Jane Dallas.’

‘So I guessed. I could hear most of it from here. She didn’t sound to me as if she was putting on an act.’

‘You mean you think I should have agreed to see her? What are the police for if not to deal with cases like this?’

‘She may have vital information and yet be frightened, for no valid and sensible reason, of going to the police. I felt rather sorry for her.’

This time it was Temple himself who began to whistle: ‘I love Paris—’. Steve remained serious.

‘You say you’re not investigating the Tyler mystery but this morning someone tried to kill us on the Bath Road.’

Temple sat motionless for a moment, then slapped his knee and stood up.

‘All right. This evening we’ll call on Miss Jane Dallas of 17 Charlotte Street. I’ll tell Charlie we want an early dinner.’