Paul Temple and the Curzon Case (A Paul Temple Mystery)

by Francis Durbridge

  Paul looked surprised. ‘Railway?’ he said innocently. ‘Oh, you mean the railway. Yes, I see.’ He turned enthusiastically to look at the sea. ‘A perfect spot, don’t you think, darling? Let’s stop here. I’m ravenously hungry!’

  Steve laughed and spread out the rug. ‘Yes, let’s stop here.’ As if she had any choice!

  The hotel chef had packed a selection of pate, salad, shrimps, thin slices of smoked salmon and a quantity of tiny crisp rolls. There was carefully wrapped damp lettuce, a pile of thick turkey sandwiches, fruit and a bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape 1959.

  ‘Not a bad effort,’ Paul said patronisingly. ‘Do you approve?’

  ‘Delicious,’ Steve said with her mouth full. ‘I shall sleep all the afternoon. In fact I’ll stay here and sunbathe, if you’ll remember to turn me over every half-hour.’

  Paul poured a small quantity of wine into a disposable plastic cup. ‘Will you taste it?’ he asked. And when Steve had pronounced it perfect he filled the two cups. ‘It’s nice to get away from the all mod-con society, isn’t it?’ he murmured. ‘I enjoy living rough, lighting fires with two sticks and eating the food that God has provided.’ He bit into a turkey sandwich. ‘I thought we might while away the afternoon with stories of piracy and smugglers. There are lots of caves along this stretch of the coast. Did you used to explore them as a child?’

  ‘No,’ said Steve, ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Oh.’ Paul dangled his legs disappointedly over the cliff edge. ‘What, none of them?’

  ‘No, none.’

  ‘Where was your sense of adventure?’ He accidentally dropped a slice of turkey over the precipice. As he peered over to watch a seagull swoop on the meat something appeared to catch his attention. ‘I say, darling, have you looked down here? It’s all burned, as if there has been a fire. Looks rather bad.’

  Steve peered over. The cliff was at least two hundred feet high, and a third of the way down the earth and the smattering of vegetation was scorched and battered. ‘This must be where that aeroplane crashed,’ she said.

  ‘Good Lord, yes. I’d forgotten about that. We’ll go exploring after lunch. I think we could manage this cliff face. There’s a kind of goat track a hundred yards along—’

  ‘I’m staying up here to sunbathe.’

  Paul rolled over on to his back and put his head in Steve’s lap. ‘I’ve been thinking about young Draper’s disappearance. It seems to me that there are two possibilities.’ He reached up, took Steve’s sunglasses off her nose and put them on himself. ‘Either he was put out of the train while they were still in the tunnel—’

  ‘Or he was hidden somewhere on the train,’ said Steve. ‘The only snag about that deduction is that the police have searched the train and been all through the tunnel.’

  ‘I thought we might have another look at the tunnel, especially at the bend where the train has to slow right down.’

  Steve sighed. ‘We’ll finish our picnic first.’

  By the time they had eaten their way through the feast and drunk the wine Steve was even more reluctant to give up an afternoon’s sunbathing. But Paul tidied up the debris and took the hamper back to the car. He returned with a large torch.

  ‘Come on,’ he insisted, ‘down we go.’

  ‘What are we looking for?’

  ‘A boy,’ he said. ‘Boys these days are probably much more adventurous than you were in your youth. The boys of St Gilbert’s probably have a barbecue down on the beach every Founder’s Day, and they’ll know every inch of these caves.’

  Steve climbed wearily to her feet. ‘Do you think the caves link up with the railway tunnel?’

  ‘That’s what we mean to find out.’

  Paul took her arm and led her to the goat track. They slithered down a perilous incline and then walked along a grassy stretch to the next sudden descent. The path wound easily and then dropped with a lurch, zig-zagging gradually lower, until slightly more than halfway down the cliff face they reached the first of the caves.

  ‘This is as good a place as any to start,’ said Paul.

  Steve peered into the cave. ‘I thought you were supposed to be visiting Miss Maxwell sometime today?’

  ‘No particular time. I intended to pop out to her boat later this afternoon. When we’ve found John Draper.’

  His voice echoed in the distance, which seemed to indicate that the cave extended well into the cliff. Paul shone the torch ahead of him. The walls were dry and almost smooth. After a few yards they had to crouch as they proceeded, but movement was easy. Generations of smugglers had ensured that the passage remained usable.

  Paul felt that they ought to pass a few skeletons and relics of seventeenth century musket battles, but in fact the cave was clean and tidy. A Coca-Cola bottle where the ground sloped suddenly downwards, and a couple of cigarette ends where a courting couple had made love sometime in the past fifty years. There were marks in the dust where a crab or a badger had passed. Paul wondered what traces a badger would leave. Crabs leave parallel lines, like a railway track.

  The passage forked about thirty feet in, and Paul listened for some indication of the better choice to take. He could hear only the hollow rolling of the sea. He clapped his hands, and a few seconds later the echo returned from the right fork. Paul took the left.

  Paul was shining the torch on the walls and wondering idly why there were no hunting scenes as they have in French caves when Steve grabbed his arm. ‘Careful!’ she said nervously. ‘There’s a pot-hole in front of you.’

  It led through to another cave ten feet below. Paul lowered Steve down the pot-hole and let her fall the last few feet, then he swung down after her. ‘This is beginning to look promising,’ he said. The torch revealed some small stalactites and stalagmites further in, and the cave quickly widened out into a cavern with several passages leading off. ‘We ought to take this up as a hobby.’

  Steve shivered. ‘Couldn’t we take up something warmer? I wanted to sunbathe this afternoon.’

  The walls were damp and they could hear a minor waterfall in the distance. A low rumbling noise grew into the roar of an approaching train. Steve clung apprehensively to Paul’s arm, half expecting the train to hurtle through the cavern itself, but then they heard it slow down and gradually vanish again through another tunnel.

  ‘I think that was somewhere below us,’ said Paul.

  ‘Whereabouts below us?’ Steve sounded as though she was regretting the whole picnic outing. ‘Shouldn’t we have left a trail of cotton back to the entrance? We’ll probably be lost down here for days.’

  Paul laughed. ‘I have an infallible sense of direction.’

  ‘So where’s the sea?’

  Paul gestured vaguely behind them. ‘Somewhere over there.’

  They had reached a fall of loose rock which extended sharply down about twenty feet. ‘If we slither down there,’ said Steve, ‘we’ll never get back.’ She watched Paul descend to the floor of the next cave. ‘Did you leave word with the hotel?’ she asked, ‘just in case we aren’t back for dinner?’

  ‘It’s all right, darling, I told them we’d be out. We’re dining with Lord Westerby.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

  Steve joined him more rapidly than she had intended, travelling the last few yards on her bottom. It wouldn’t have mattered so much if Paul hadn’t laughed. And if the ground wasn’t so wet. They were obviously at sea level, and Steve wondered whether they would be drowned when the tide came in.

  ‘Draper!!’ Paul called. His voice came back at three different intervals. A rat scurried away, frightening Steve, splashing into an unseen stream. ‘Are you here, Draper?’

  ‘Why should he be here?’ Steve demanded nervously.

  Somewhere in the distance they heard a moaning noise.

  ‘He’s here all right,’ said Paul. ‘It was the only place he could possibly be.’

  They waited until John Draper moaned again and then set off along the low passage. Beyond the next bend th
ey saw him, lying exhausted and semi-conscious in a pool of water. He was crying, which Steve found for some reason more disturbing than if he had been hurt. He was crying like a frightened schoolboy who has spent two days lost in a labyrinth underground.

  ‘Who did this to him?’ Steve asked.

  ‘Nobody. He did it to himself. He jumped the train when it slowed down at the bend,’ said Paul. ‘I thought that was obvious.’

  They lifted the delirious boy to his feet and then began the long, laborious process of taking him back to the outside world.

  ‘We’ll send him home,’ said Paul two hours later. ‘He hasn’t committed a crime.’

  ‘But he’s caused some confusion. Why did he jump the train?’

  ‘He put two and two together,’ said Paul. He looked down at the sleeping figure in the back of the car. ‘Unfortunately, he made it add up to four. I think he was being too simple.’ Paul smiled knowingly. ‘Would you like to take him home? A decent meal and a good night’s sleep and he should be back to normal. He’s a resilient lad, and he’s learnt his lesson.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Steve.

  ‘Crime,’ Paul pronounced, as if it were a newly minted epigram, ‘does not pay.’

  Chapter Six

  Paul Temple stood on the jetty and breathed deeply of the sea air. It was still a sweltering hot afternoon above ground, ideal for messing about in boats. For a few minutes he watched the leisured scene, people pottering about with fishing nets, touching up the paintwork on a scratched hull and loading trawlers with provisions. The calmly purposeful atmosphere was spoiled only by the gulls soaring and swooping overhead in a flurry of squabbles.

  He wondered which of the boats lying at anchor in the bay was the Windswept. They were too far out to read. Half a dozen luxury yachts, perhaps four hundred yards from the shore. No sign of life on any of them.

  ‘Afternoon, Mr Temple!’ somebody called.

  Tom Doyle’s florid face was peering out of a hatch three boats along. He waved and then clambered ashore.

  ‘What are you doing, Mr Temple?’ he asked. ‘Absorbing the local colour?’

  ‘I was wondering how to get out there to a boat called Windswept. I have an appointment…’ He waited until Tom Doyle had finished wiping his palms on an oily rag and then shook hands. ‘I didn’t realise everybody would be so busy this afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll row you out,’ said Tom Doyle. ‘Just hang on while I finish cleaning myself up.’ He chuckled proudly. ‘Been giving the old girl some fresh grease in her joints. She’s growing old.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Paul. ‘I’ll wait.’

  Tom Doyle replaced the flooring and put away the can of grease. ‘Climb across into the dinghy,’ he said. ‘Careful.’ He laughed as Paul lowered himself gingerly into the boat. ‘That’s it. We’ll have you out to Lord Westerby’s old tub within fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Is it Lord Westerby’s?’ asked Paul.

  ‘It was Lord Westerby’s, though I believe Miss Maxwell runs it now. They say the old boy gave it her as a Christmas present.’ He untied the mooring ropes and jumped aboard with casual familiarity, using the oars to push the rowing boat clear of his motor cruiser. ‘Not that she actually runs it as such. She uses the yacht as a retreat more than anything else. Funny girl, Miss Maxwell. She writes poetry.’

  The rowing boat was bucking slightly as it rode across the waves, but Tom Doyle pulled effortlessly into the bay, and as soon as they were fifty yards out from the shore the water settled into a swelling movement which Paul found quite restful. He even found the sea breeze a pleasantly cooling experience.

  It seemed as if the Windswept was the newly painted blue and cream boat lying slightly north of the others. Tom Doyle glanced occasionally over his shoulder, explaining that the currents were strong in the bay, and moved towards it in an arc.

  ‘What size crew would they need on a boat like that?’ Paul asked him, ‘assuming they were taking it out?’

  ‘Well, when his Lordship had it there were two men and a boy. But I don’t know whether they’re still employed.’

  ‘Local people?’ Paul asked conversationally.

  ‘No, sir. The boy was a foreigner. I don’t know what he was, I’m sure. And the men came from Jersey.’ Tom Doyle’s face was creased with disapproval. ‘They were a rum crowd. Kept very much to themselves. It used to be quite a bone of contention amongst the local people.’ He paused in his rowing, spat on his hands, and resumed. ‘We felt that his Lordship should have employed a local crew. Although I suppose he’s in a position to please himself.’

  Paul agreed. ‘So Lord Westerby hasn’t done much sailing this year?’

  ‘Not as I’ve noticed. When his secretary wanted a bit of sea air I took him out in my old crate.’ Tom Doyle laughed at the memory. ‘That young Peter Malo, he’s a character if you like! Have you met him?’

  ‘Yes,’ Paul admitted. ‘Did he help you at all? With the fishing, I mean?’

  ‘Help me? He damn nearly fell overboard every time he moved. Why the devil he came out with me I’ll never know. The only time I had any peace was when he was peering through his binoculars, which he did for a couple of hours.’

  ‘When was this?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Oh, about three weeks ago.’

  They had come alongside Windswept and Tom Doyle drifted expertly to the rope ladder hanging over the side. ‘This is it, Mr Temple. Do you want me to wait, or can I pick you up later?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. I’d be glad if you could call back in about an hour.’

  Paul climbed the rope ladder without much difficulty and when he reached the deck he swung himself on board feeling quite the seasoned mariner. He waved down at Tom Doyle and then set about finding the new owner.

  ‘Miss Maxwell!’ he called.

  She was not on the sun-deck, which was where she ought to have been on an afternoon like this. She was probably in her cabin, Paul thought, typing out an Ode to a Seagull or a sonnet welcoming summer. ‘Miss Maxwell!’ Somehow he couldn’t imagine it being a sensitive evocation of romantic love. She wasn’t that sort of girl. But she wasn’t below decks either.

  Paul strolled on to the bridge and stood there like Captain Bligh scanning the sea for men overboard. ‘Clap that man in irons, Mr Christian,’ he said in an appalling imitation of Charles Laughton. ‘Full steam ahead to Jamaica. Turn right at the lighthouse and keep going.’ He wondered what Diana Maxwell did on board all day. Did she cultivate an obsession with white whales? He decided to read her poetry again. See whether she used the line, ‘Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.’ He slid down to the deck, tucked an imaginary telescope under his arm and looked up at the sun. ‘Five minutes to four,’ he murmured.

  ‘Hello, there!’ somebody called. It was the voice of Diana Maxwell being carried on the breeze.

  Paul peered over the side. ‘Ahoy there,’ he called cheerfully. ‘You want to be careful of the sharks. Barry Fitzgerald lost a leg that way.’

  She laughed and reached up for the rope ladder. ‘I saw you come out, but I was having afternoon tea with Gerry Cazabon.’ She gestured towards the next yacht a few hundred yards away. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’ With enviable athleticism she shinned up the ladder.

  ‘Allow me,’ said Paul, lending an unnecessary arm.

  She was without a doubt a breath-taking girl. She paused on the rail of the boat, tossed her blonde hair loosely over her shoulders, and then seemed to freeze. It seemed to Paul that several seconds passed before he heard the gunshot. Then Diana Maxwell gasped and slumped forward on to the deck.

  The first person to reach Windswept was Tom Doyle, five minutes after the shot and considerably out of breath. By that time Paul had established that the bullet had entered the girl’s body under her left shoulder. She was still unconscious and Paul had left her exactly as she had fallen. He had torn up a sheet which he had used to stem the bleeding and keep the sun from her face.

  Pau
l was staring uncertainly at the small radio transmitter when Tom Doyle called up, wondering whether to spend time trying to contact the coastguards or experiment with the engines until he could manoeuvre the boat single-handed into shore.

  ‘Thank God you’ve come back,’ said Paul. ‘We have to get Miss Maxwell to a doctor.’

  ‘I thought I heard a shot,’ he said.

  Tom Doyle was a good man in an emergency. He glanced at Diana Maxwell to confirm that it had been a shot, and wasted no time on the how or who of the situation. ‘We’ll try the engine,’ he said. ‘The sails will take too long, especially with this light breeze across the bay.’ He disappeared briefly below, and while he was gone the engine spluttered into life. The yacht shuddered, and then continued a rhythmic trembling motion.

  ‘Are we ready to cast off?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Aye.’ Tom Doyle showed him how to put the engine in gear. ‘Full steam ahead when I’ve raised the anchor,’ he said, ‘and be careful not to over steer. That’s the choke, and you’ll need to cut it out once we’re away. Okay?’

  Paul nodded. ‘Can you work the radio, Tom?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll have a doctor waiting at the harbour.’

  ‘You’d better notify the police as well.’ He leaned out of the bridge. ‘And if you can manage to get a message to Lord Westerby so much the better.’

  The boat surged forward with a great swirling wash from the screws, cutting easily through the water, not at all like a rusty tub that hadn’t been moved since Christmas.

  Paul stood on deck and watched the ambulance drive away. She should live, Dr Stuart had hazarded, but an emergency operation was needed. The ambulance wound its way up the hill and vanished, leaving the participants in the drama feeling suddenly aimless.

  ‘Damned grateful to you for acting so promptly, Temple,’ said Lord Westerby. ‘Lucky you were on the spot.’

  ‘Thank Tom Doyle,’ said Paul. He looked down at the part-time fisherman and odd job expert sitting on a bollard and rolling a cigarette. ‘We were lucky Tom came back so fast.’ He fell into step beside Lord Westerby and walked the length of the yacht before speaking again. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said at last, ‘when somebody is determined to kill a girl then it’s only a matter of time before he succeeds. I gather this is the fourth attempt to kill Miss Maxwell.’