Читать книгу Paul Temple and the Geneva Mystery - Francis Durbridge, Francis Durbridge - Страница 7

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.’