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

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘Where did the bullet come from?’

  ‘Impossible to say. From the shore, perhaps, or one of the boats moored out there. I assumed it was the shore, but I wouldn’t be certain.’

  Lord Westerby was a big man and he concealed his emotions beneath a blustering and overbearing manner. He grunted impatiently at Paul’s imprecision. ‘What’s this all about, Temple?’ he demanded. ‘Has the world gone mad? Why has this insane violence descended on Dulworth Bay?’

  ‘I was hoping that you might tell me.’

  Westerby snorted at the affront.

  ‘Apparently you and a man called Walters paid a visit to Philip Baxter,’ Paul persisted, ‘the evening before the two boys went missing. I thought your visit might have been a key factor—’

  ‘I do not know anybody called Walters.’ Westerby paused in his perambulation of the deck to glare directly into Paul’s face. ‘I’ve already told Inspector Morgan that I’ve never met the man, and I am not in the habit of paying social calls on people like Baxter.’

  Paul Temple murmured, ‘I see,’ and resumed the walk until he reached the gangplank. ‘Oh well, I’m afraid I won’t be taking up your invitation to dinner this evening, Lord Westerby. Business in London. But I’ll be back. See you in a day or so.’ He shook hands.

  ‘Sorry not to have been more helpful,’ said Lord Westerby.

  Paul walked ruefully along the quayside. There were some men one didn’t bother to argue with, and Lord Westerby was one of them. Exposing him for a liar would be the more sensible course. Paul sighed. The whole damned household was quite pig-headed. If Diana Maxwell had said what she had to say down in London…Paul stopped by the bollard.

  ‘Tom! What are you waiting for?’

  ‘Me, Mr Temple?’ Tom Doyle threw his cigarette into the sea. ‘I was just off. Plenty to do on a day like this, I can tell you.’

  ‘Were you waiting to find out what Lord Westerby had said to me?’ Paul asked suspiciously. ‘Because he vehemently denies your whole story.’

  ‘Aye,’ Tom said fatalistically.

  ‘Your story was true, wasn’t it? His lordship did visit Baxter with this American?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ He nodded. ‘I think so. Although I suppose I might have been mistaken.’

  ‘How could you be mistaken? You’ve known Lord Westerby for years! It either was him or it wasn’t.’ Paul crouched in exasperation beside the man. ‘When you made your statement you seemed pretty sure it was Westerby. You even said that Lord Westerby spoke to you.’

  Doyle smiled apologetically. ‘I know, Mr Temple, but now I come to think of it I do believe it was the other man who spoke to me.’

  ‘Walters? But you said that Walters was a stranger. You’d never seen him before. So why should a complete stranger speak to you?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t he?’ Doyle asked. ‘I nodded politely and so he said good evening. That’s common enough in these parts.’

  ‘So when you arrived at the cottage that evening you saw Mr Baxter talking to this chap Walters and another man who might have been Lord Westerby?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘In fact,’ Paul continued sarcastically, ‘I suppose the more you think about it the more you realise that it probably wasn’t Lord Westerby after all!’

  Doyle glanced over his shoulder at the Windswept. Then he gave a petulant shrug. ‘Yes, that’s about it.’

  ‘Tom, I don’t think you’ve really considered the seriousness of your situation. Suppose the police decide that you didn’t see Lord Westerby? They might also decide you were mistaken about the rest of your story. They might even decide that you never went near the Baxter cottage that evening, that your account of the kidnapping was an elaborate lie!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tom Doyle became anxious. ‘Of course I went to the cottage. I saw Mr Baxter. That was when he told me about the boys! You must believe me, Mr Temple. I did see Mr Baxter.’

  Paul smiled. ‘I believe you, Tom. I believe everything you told the police, including that you saw Lord Westerby.’ He stood up. ‘My goodness, look at the time. I must be off.’

  ‘I never saw— Hey, Mr Temple!’

  ‘I’ll see you when I get back from London!’

  Paul left the man protesting on the quayside.

  Chapter Seven

  Halfway down the M1 they pulled in for supper at one of the motopian restaurants which straddle the motorway facing glassily in both directions. It was crowded as always, and Steve queued up for fifteen minutes to buy two cups of coffee and some sandwiches in cellophane wrappings.

  ‘I thought we were having a meal,’ said Paul.

  ‘They only serve breakfast. Eggs, bacon, baked beans. I didn’t think you’d fancy—’

  ‘No, I don’t. We should have turned off at Doncaster and found that little pub—’

  ‘There isn’t time. It’ll be midnight before we reach London.’

  Paul picked disconsolately at the ham sandwich, confirmed that he could tell margarine from butter no matter how thinly it was spread, and stirred his coffee. He watched the other diners in their open-necked shirts and holiday trousers, men unleashed from the office and factory for a fortnight and women freed from the shackles of home taking their children with them. Blackpool, here they come! Yet the air of pleasurable excitement was not contagious.

  ‘I’m not very hungry,’ Paul decided.

  They had set off from Whitby just before six. Paul had called in at the police station to say goodbye and collect the package for delivery to Inspector Vosper. So far they were covering the three hundred miles in very good time.

  ‘So let’s go,’ said Steve. ‘I’ve never liked these places.’

  A boozy coach party was straggling into the restaurant, singing ‘You’ll never walk alone’ and shouting ‘Up the north!’ with great enthusiasm. Paul took Steve’s arm and guided her through the confusion. They collided with an excitable little man who was operating a fruit machine by the entrance. A hail of tokens was gushing into the tray and he jumped back in ecstasy.

  ‘Oh dear! Sorry, squire,’ the man said quickly. ‘Was that your foot?’ He held Paul upright while they regained their balance. ‘I don’t usually win on these things. Are you okay?’ He patted Paul on the back.

  ‘Yes, that’s all right.’

  They went across the car park and found their car. Only another hundred and twenty miles to go. Paul followed a petrol tanker out into the filter lane to join the main stream of traffic. Suddenly he stamped on the brakes.

  ‘What is it?’ Steve demanded.

  ‘I’ve had my pocket picked.’ Paul opened his jacket and showed an empty inside breast pocket. ‘My wallet’s gone, and also the diary.’

  ‘The man at the one-armed bandit,’ said Steve.

  Paul was trying to reverse into the car park again while two frantic drivers behind him hooted and gesticulated.

  ‘There he is!’ Steve called.

  A red E-type Jaguar flashed past on the inside lane, and from the yellow lights it looked likely that it was being driven by the excitable little gambler. Paul decided to put his money on the Jaguar and sped off in pursuit.

  ‘I’ve been a fool,’ Paul said bitterly. ‘I noticed that damned car following us on the A64 and I thought nothing of it. I wasn’t expecting trouble until we reached London.’

  The E-type was doing nearly a hundred miles an hour and it was all Paul could do to keep the car’s tail lights in sight. He hoped that a police patrol might stop the thing, or that as they neared London the traffic flow would slow it down.

  ‘Will you recognise him again?’ he asked Steve.

  ‘I think so. Tight curly hair, dark, sharp features, five feet five inches, early forties, well dressed.’

  Paul nodded. ‘And he uses cosmetics for men. Old Spice.’

  ‘That seems to take care of him,’ said Steve. ‘So why don’t we slow down? You could telephone Inspector Vosper and have the man picked up at Mill Hill.’

  ‘Cer
tainly not. Charlie Vosper would laugh at me.’

  Paul pressed his foot down and watched the speedometer needle creep past the hundred mark. It was really rather dangerous, he realised, as a long-distance lorry pulled out in front of him and nearly forced him through the centre barrier. Paul overtook on the inside and then told Steve she could open her eyes again.

  They were passing the Leicester service station when Paul drew abreast of the red E-type. The excitable man glanced over his shoulder and kept going. They were driving side by side towards a coach in the centre lane. Paul kept the E-type boxed in, so that the man would either have to slow down or hit the coach.

  ‘Don’t be a fool!’ hissed Steve.

  The E-type swung out in an effort to force Paul off the road, but then the man’s nerve failed. He braked too quickly and swung back in across the motorway. His Jaguar seemed to go out of control and with a hideous screeching it spun on to the soft shoulder. Thirty faces watched in horror from the coach.

  Paul came to a halt a hundred yards farther on and then ran back to the E-type. He found the excitable man staggering from his car in a state of near hysteria. ‘Are you mad?’ he shouted at Paul. ‘Were you deliberately trying to kill me?’

  ‘I was trying to stop you,’ said Paul. ‘I want that notebook back.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re—’

  The man backed away from Paul in dismay. He tripped over the rear bumper and lay spreadeagled on the boot while Paul reached into his inside breast pocket. Paul found his wallet and the envelope containing the notebook exactly where he expected it to be.

  ‘You squalid little man,’ said Paul. ‘What are you doing with these?’

  The man looked likely to burst into tears. ‘Well, we all have to make a living,’ he bleated.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘They call me Lou the Dip.’

  ‘You’re lying!’ Paul lifted him on to the back of the Jaguar. ‘I’ve never met a common pickpocket who drives an E-type. Why did you steal this notebook?’

  ‘I was after your wallet—’

  Paul punched the man hard in the stomach, and as the man writhed sideways, thrust his head violently against the roof of the car.

  ‘Now, I want to know who you’re working for!’

  ‘I’m a freelance—’

  He broke off as Paul lifted him bodily into the air and threw him on to the edge of the motorway. The man struggled to his feet in terror only to find his arms gripped from behind. One sharp push from the rear would shoot him headlong on to the motorway.

  ‘All right, all right,’ he cried, ‘I’ll tell you. I was hired to knock off a leather-bound notebook. I don’t know nothing else except—’

  ‘Who hired you?’

  ‘A man called Carl Walters. He said he’d pay me two hundred quid if I dipped it between Whitby and London, so I did. I mean, wouldn’t you? It was easy money.’ He sheepishly brushed the dirt off his clothes and adjusted the creases in his trousers. ‘Or at least it should’ve been. I didn’t know I’d be mixing it with a bloody professional. When a Mr Big gives you a job like that you don’t ask too many questions, do you?’

  Charlie Vosper listened to the story and then roared with laughter. ‘Lou!’ he said delightedly. ‘Fancy you being taken by old Lou!’ He laughed for several seconds, and then wiped the tears from his eyes. ‘What’s Lou doing these days? Is he making a living?’

  ‘He’s driving around in an E-type Jaguar,’ Paul said sourly. ‘And I wasn’t taken by Lou Kenzell because the notebook is there in front of you.’

  Vosper picked it up. ‘We’ll soon have it decoded, don’t worry.’ He grinned at Steve. ‘I suppose you two have been too busy enjoying your holiday to devote much time to this Baxter business. But it’s all right, I gather Inspector Morgan got the boys back. He seems to have everything under control.’

  ‘What happens when he lets things get out of hand?’ Steve demanded angrily.

  ‘In Dulworth Bay?’ He waved dismissively. ‘Nothing ever happens in that part of the world. Bill Morgan’s life is one long holiday. But while you lot have been swimming and sunning yourselves by the sea we’ve been pursuing our investigations at this end. We’ve been busy.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ enquired Paul. ‘So who is the mysterious Curzon?’

  ‘Ah, yes, Curzon.’ He sniffed thoughtfully. ‘I wonder. Do you fancy Carl Walters, or is your money on Lord Westerby?’

  ‘I’m pretty damned sure that Curzon is—’ But Paul stopped himself in time. No point in showing off simply because Charlie Vosper was enjoying himself. ‘No, I can’t commit myself until I know more about Carl Walters. I’d like to meet him first.’

  Vosper nodded his encouragement. ‘Yes, good idea. You have a chat with him, Temple. He might reveal something in the odd unguarded moment, confess by some slip of the tongue to killing his girl-friend and Philip Baxter. He won’t admit it to us thick headed policemen, but you might manage to trip him up. I mean, being as how you’re a friend of the assistant bloody commissioner.’

  ‘True,’ Paul said serenely. ‘Where do I find this guileless American?’

  ‘At the Octagon gallery. He owns it.’

  ‘I was thinking,’ Steve intervened diplomatically, ‘that I might trip him up. I know the police are thorough and my husband writes excellent books, but the feminine approach sometimes has its advantages. After all, I’m not constrained by the Judges’ Rules, am I?’

  ‘Do you know what the Octagon gallery is?’ Vosper asked sourly. ‘Do you know its reputation?’

  Steve laughed. ‘Of course I know the Octagon, it’s a thriving new commercial gallery just off Bond Street.’

  ‘It’s a front,’ said Vosper, ‘a front, you take my word for it.’

  *

  It was many years since Steve had been an art student, but she enjoyed dressing the part again. She put on an old pair of blue denim jeans with frilly bottoms, one of Paul’s white shirts, open sandals and a rainbow coloured poncho. The total effect, she told herself, was very casual. She brushed her hair down over her shoulders and used a dead pan make-up with plenty of mascara round the eyes. It was nice to be young again. A few beads and bangles and she was ready to go.

  Luckily Paul was out when the transformation was made, having an early evening drink with a stockbroker friend. She had the face and figure to carry such youthfulness, Steve decided, but she didn’t want everybody to see her.

  ‘Hey, you!’ Kate Balfour shouted as Steve hurried down the stairs. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  Steve stopped guiltily. ‘I was just off to the Octagon.’

  ‘Steve!’ Kate Balfour hurried apologetically from the kitchen. ‘I’m sorry, Steve, I thought you were a housebreaker. I didn’t recognise you without a bra.’

  ‘I don’t think young people are wearing them these days.’

  ‘Young people may not be,’ she said enigmatically.

  Steve fled, leaving the housekeeper muttering darkly about the youth of today, sex and permissiveness.

  The Octagon had opened about a year ago with a flourish of pop people publicity. It was trendy and colourful, its previews were always good for a centre page spread of photographs and the kind of zany gossip stories that confirmed several million readers over breakfast in their opinion that all art was bunk. The Octagon had apparently prospered, attracting several important New York artists and finding several new English ones.

  Steve arrived by taxi at half past seven. Two telephone calls had established that tonight a private view was being held of work by Ed Suleiman and that an invitation would be waiting for her at the door. But in fact Steve simply walked straight in and joined the throng. A man in the foyer said how lovely to see her and somebody else thrust a glass in her hand.

  For a man who had made his money out of amusement arcades Steve had to admit that Carl Walters had created an impressive gallery. All the critics were there looking aloofly critical and several big collectors were looking nervously n
oncommittal. Ed Suleiman was the bearded man with the loud voice and he was telling the world what he thought of galleries.

  ‘They should be burnt to the ground,’ he was declaiming. ‘They imprison paintings. Galleries are for businessmen, like banks.’ He seemed to be against paintings as well, which encouraged the dealers to buy his work while they had the chance.

  Steve joined a group of people who were discussing environmental art. She knew one of the girls from her college days and they went through the ‘whatever happened to so-and-so’ routine. Steve found that they had both lost touch with nearly everybody. All their old friends had married and disappeared into darkest Dorset, Norfolk and Golders Green.

  ‘And what do you do now?’ the girl asked.

  ‘I design,’ Steve pronounced. ‘I gave up painting years ago.’

  Ed Suleiman heard the remark and recognised a soul sister. He put a massive arm round her shoulder and continued to inform the world what he thought of people who bought paintings. Steve was one move closer to Carl Walters.

  She took Carl Walters to be the tall and rather elegant man who was watching over the proceedings from the foot of the stairs. He was carefully groomed and expensively dressed. His air of sardonic detachment was typical, Steve thought, of a man who knows how to manipulate the gallery system. He didn’t look like a criminal.

  ‘What do you think of my work?’ Ed Suleiman asked in sudden challenge, as though he was wondering what his arm was doing round this strange girl.

  Steve thought quickly. ‘Terribly direct, bold and assertive,’ she said, trying not to sound too glib. ‘Your sense of form is a little reckless, but usually it works, doesn’t it?’

  Ed Suleiman nodded doubtfully. ‘Yeah, sometimes. But it’s all wallpaper.’

  ‘I expect Michelangelo thought that sometimes about his work.’

  ‘Well, he was right. Ceiling paper. What’s your name?’

  Steve glanced across the gallery to see where her old college friend had got to. ‘Caroline Fawcett-Blake,’ she said. ‘I was invited because—’