‘I like your bone structure. Fine and very stubborn. Your skin stretches over the cheeks with a nice effect.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What sort of hips are under all this gear?’
‘Rather wide, I’m afraid—’
‘That’s how women are built. That’s good. I like a fine, clean structure, without a lot of flesh slopping about on women to spoil the form. Caroline, eh?’
‘Yes,’ said Steve.
‘My name’s Ed. You must come back to my place after this circus is over. I’m throwing a small, private party, just you and me and Carl and a few friends.’
‘Carl?’
‘He’s the man who owns the shop. Haven’t you met him?’ Ed Suleiman led her across to the man at the foot of the stairs. ‘Hey, Carl,’ he shouted, ‘look who I’ve found! Bone structure like a pre-Raphaelite!’
Carl Walters had charm, Steve found. He managed to suggest that he and Steve were sharing the joke about her build to indulge the wayward artist. And he knew his art scene. He knew several of Steve’s past tutors and could talk about them with amused familiarity. Steve had to make a real effort to remember that a man who was a connoisseur of painting could also be a villain.
‘I haven’t seen you before at my gallery,’ he said when Ed Suleiman had gone off to tell one of the larger female guests that she had a body like a Renoir model. ‘There must be something wrong with my publicity.’
‘I spend a great deal of my time outside London. I’m a designer and I prefer to work in the country. I’ve a cottage near Broadway.’
‘Beautiful spot,’ murmured Walters.
They sat on the stairs and talked about design while the man who had welcomed Steve so effusively sold eight paintings at several hundred guineas each. Ed Suleiman and two rather drunken critics were shouting loudly in dispute over the relative qualities of Walt Disney and the cartoons featuring Tom and Jerry. It sounded as though the verdict went to Tom and Jerry. When that was settled Ed Suleiman went off in pursuit of a girl who was absolutely God-damned classical in her proportions.
‘He asked me to go to his party,’ Steve said laughing. ‘But I think it might be a little crowded by the time he’s finished.’
‘You must come,’ Walters insisted. ‘They’re always such noisy, boozy affairs; I need somebody civilised to talk to.’
‘All right, but you’ll have to take me. I came by taxi.’
‘But of course.’
The preview ended when Ed Suleiman decided to go. He led a crowd of people out of the gallery with shouts of, ‘Come on, everybody, the party’s at my place! You’re all invited!’ And everybody seemed intent on going to it, except for the two rather drunken critics who were helped out to a taxi. Steve remained behind while Carl Walters supervised the locking up.
‘So you come from Broadway?’ he said as they watched the effusive young man putting the cheques in the safe.
‘No, that’s only where I live. I come from a place in Yorkshire that nobody’s ever heard of. It’s a tiny fishing village called Dulworth Bay.’
‘Dulworth Bay?’ he repeated in astonishment. ‘Sure I know Dulworth Bay! I’ve got a whole heap of friends up there. Do you know Doc Stuart?’
‘Yes, of course. Who doesn’t in Dulworth Bay?’
Carl Walters laughed delightedly. ‘Well, what do you know? And how about the big noise? Is he a friend of yours?’
‘Lord Westerby? He’s an old crony of daddy’s. Don’t you think he’s a sweet old thing?’
‘Not exactly. Lord Westerby and I aren’t on visiting terms. He’s a snob.’
‘But frightfully rich.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ Carl Walters said contemptuously. ‘He doesn’t have a nickel to call his own.’
‘Do you know the Baxters?’
‘The Baxters? No, I don’t think so. But then I never met you either, did I?’ The young man was turning out the lights and preparing to set the alarms. ‘I saw old Doc Stuart a fortnight ago when I was in Dulworth and he said that all the young people are leaving the district to come to London. I suppose you’re a case in point. Will you wait for me? I must do a tour of the premises before we leave.’
Steve smiled her assent. ‘Perhaps I could make a telephone call while I wait? Just to tell my flatmate I shan’t be back until later.’
Walters left her in the office while he disappeared along the corridor. Steve dialled her home. ‘Hello, Paul?’ she whispered excitedly. ‘This is Caroline Fawcett-Blake. I’m at the Octagon gallery with Carl Walters. I can’t say much—’
‘The Octagon?’ From his voice Paul was obviously alarmed. ‘Steve, what is all this nonsense? You don’t know anybody called Caroline Fawcett-Blake! Do you realise the danger you’re in? Stay where you are—’
‘Sorry, darling, but I’m just off. Walters is taking me to a party. There’s a mad artist who wants to show us his private collection of Tom and Jerry films.’
There was a horrified pause at the other end of the line. ‘I won’t hear of it. Steve, come home at once.’
‘Sorry, darling, but I’m doing terribly well. And Carl is absolutely charming. He knows Dulworth Bay and we have lots of people in common. Don’t worry.’
Steve replaced the receiver just as Carl Walters returned. He grinned, took Steve’s arm and led her through a side door into the street. His gleaming Jensen was parked in a kind of delivery bay.
‘What a super car!’ Steve cooed.
‘Not bad,’ he said proudly. To demonstrate the Jensen’s paces he accelerated to fifty miles an hour into Piccadilly and sped round Hyde Park Corner as if it were open country. The traffic trying to go into Hyde Park hooted angrily.
‘How are the brakes?’ Steve asked mildly.
‘I never use them,’ he said with a laugh, ‘except when I see a police car. All the other cars on the road are fitted with brakes, aren’t they?’
‘I suppose so. You remind me of Diana Maxwell. She drives exactly like this. Except that her car is in the scrap yard.’
‘Diana Maxwell? Ah yes, Lord Westerby’s niece, or more likely his girlfriend. She’s a first-class pain in the neck. If I were an English aristocrat I’d find a better mistress than the icy Miss Maxwell.’
They were hurtling along Knightsbridge. ‘Where does Ed Suleiman live?’ Steve asked.
‘In Hampstead.’
Steve turned to him in surprise. ‘But we should be going in precisely the opposite direction. Hampstead is north—’
‘We aren’t going to Hampstead,’ said Carl Walters.
‘So where are we going?’
‘I’ll give you three guesses, Mrs Temple.’
Steve suppressed a sudden feeling of panic. ‘Oh,’ she said softly, ‘so you know.’
Carl Walters nodded. ‘That telephone call of yours was a silly mistake.’
‘Where are you taking me?’
The streets of London were suddenly blurred, although this might have been something to do with the speed at which they were travelling. Steve thought she noticed Kensington station, and later there was a bookshop she should have recognised. Darkness had settled and the street lighting mingled with the gaudy shop window illuminations to create a dazzling effect. The flicker of car lights turning left and right, the gleam of red brake lights and the changing spectrum of traffic lights all combined in a kaleidoscope of confusion.
‘Stop this car!’ she demanded. ‘Do you hear? I insist that you stop this car!’
Walters laughed easily. ‘Don’t get excited, Mrs Temple. You’ll find out where I’m taking you, when we arrive.’
Steve contemplated grabbing the steering wheel and sending the car at a lamp-post. Or jumping out at the next set of traffic lights, except that Walters had already gone through two sets of red lights. Something had to be done quickly. Once they were on to the A4 she would be lost.
‘It was a clever idea of yours,’ Carl Walters said cheerfully. ‘A whole lot brighter than the police force’s heavy footed
activities. I’ve had CID to see me twice, the vice squad once and the drugs squad once. I’m expecting the traffic cops to pinch me for parking tomorrow.’ He laughed. ‘They haven’t the faintest idea what they’re after. All they know is that I must have done it.’
‘Done what?’
‘That, Mrs Temple, is the question.’
Steve tried to compose her mind by concentrating on the abstract problems of the case. Drugs squad, Walters had said. She wondered whether drugs were the key to the mystery. The art scene, with its roots in student life and tentacles reaching into all levels of society, was an ideal front for a man like Walters. Steve felt suddenly angry with herself for bungling the evening. A visit to Ed Suleiman’s party would soon have confirmed her theory.
‘If I’m not home by ten o’clock my husband will know where to find me,’ she snapped.
Gradually the car slowed down. Steve reached surreptitiously for the door handle. They were cruising round one of those indistinguishable London squares, and this would be the finest opportunity she could expect for throwing herself on to the pavement. At the next corner…
Then she recognised where she was. ‘But you’ve brought me home,’ she said in amazement. Carl Walters had turned smoothly into the mews and was stopping at her front door. ‘This is where I live.’
‘Isn’t this what you wanted?’
‘Well, yes, but—’ Steve climbed from the car feeling very relieved and a little deflated. ‘I thought—’
‘I know what you thought, honey. Perhaps some other time, eh?’ He laughed uproariously as he reversed the car out of the mews and drove away.
Chapter Eight
‘Dr Stern has amassed such a quantity of evidence in his book that there is no room left for the obvious conclusions. In a lengthy section on petty theft, for instance, the worthy doctor arrives at the scarcely surprising but tentative theory that one contributing factor might be poverty. In the subsequent seventeen pages Dr Stern considers the use of electric shock therapy, punitive detention, motivational redirection, but never does he consider giving the petty thief a little money to cure the poverty.’
The rattle of the typewriter ceased and Paul Temple read over what he had written. There, that was telling them. He smiled and poured himself another whisky. He was enjoying himself; he wasn’t brooding on any of Steve’s idiotic adventures!
‘This is, of course, a misleading study because it does not place crime in any context of honesty. What is an honest man, and why? Is there a significant correlation between honesty and conformity and passivity? Does an honest man from an anti-social background need to be psychopathic and is it, furthermore, desirable to cure him? Or should he simply be removed to a group whose norms he can easily conform to? None of these important and essential questions is considered in this superficial and one-sided book…’
The doorbell rang to interrupt the flight of fancy. Paul swore under his breath. It couldn’t be Steve, because she had a key. It was always the way, when she was out and Kate Balfour had gone home, a stream of encyclopaedia salesmen came to disturb him.
‘One wonders for whom such a book as this is intended—’
The damned bell rang again. Perhaps it was a policeman with news that Steve had – Rubbish! Paul continued typing.
‘Certainly not the practising criminologist—’
He heard Steve’s voice on the stairs and sprang to his feet. Thank God! She was prattling breathlessly to someone about how long he or she had been waiting and the fact that Paul had been home when she rang fifteen minutes ago. As though nothing had happened! Paul sat down again to work. He was damned if he’d show excitement or relief. He didn’t care whether Carl Walters’ collection of etchings was unique in this country. Steve had behaved in a foolhardy way. And besides, Paul was busy. He did like to deliver his copy on time, and for this review the editor had already rung up twice. The weekly magazine was due on the streets on Friday.
‘Darling! Sir Graham said you must be out.’ She hurried across the room to his desk and kissed him. ‘Guess who’s here!’
‘Sir Graham?’
It was. Paul decided to give up gracefully and left his typewriter. He poured them both drinks and asked Steve why she was back so early.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘actually, things didn’t go too well. He overheard my telephone call to you.’
At least Steve’s account of the evening was funny. Paul roared with rather malicious laughter, and even Sir Graham grinned.
‘I must tell Charlie Vosper about this, Steve,’ the assistant commissioner said unkindly. ‘It will console him for my gaffe in discussing the case with you both at the party. Vosper hasn’t forgiven me for that, but now he might.’ He patted Steve on the shoulder and strolled across to Paul’s desk. ‘Charlie Vosper enjoys a good joke.’ He peered inquisitively at the paper in the machine.
‘That’ll teach you,’ Paul said complacently, ‘to go to parties with strange men.’
‘But darling, I think we’re on to something now. I think we can assume this whole case is about drugs, don’t you? They must be smuggling the drugs into Dulworth – smuggling is part of their traditional way of life up there – and bringing them down to London for distribution. I think Carl Walters is the distribution boss, operating from the Octagon or one of his other premises. He’s too rich to have made his money legitimately.’ She waved her glass at Sir Graham Forbes. ‘Drugs, you see? That’s why Baxter was so anxious to get out.’
Paul shrugged. ‘That may be so. It doesn’t much matter what the commodity is.’
‘Doesn’t matter? So why have I been risking a fate worse than death this evening?’
‘I don’t know.’ Paul sat on the sofa beside her. ‘Why have you been risking a fate worse than death?
‘I hate you!’
Sir Graham Forbes looked up from the typewriter in surprise. ‘I say, Paul, this is a bit severe. Won’t Dr Stern sue you for libel? You can’t dismiss his book as light bedside reading for the crossword puzzle addict.’
‘He hasn’t even read the book,’ said Steve.
Paul pointed to the book open on the desk. ‘There you are, I’m a fast reader. And I have a great respect for crossword puzzle addicts. Some of the more discriminating ones are readers of my own books, so I’m told by Scott Reed, and I never doubt the word of my publisher.’
Steve looked suspiciously at the whisky bottle. ‘Paul, how much of that have you drunk already this evening? Too much whisky always makes you flippant. I’d have hidden the bottle if I’d known Sir Graham was coming.’
‘Steve!’ the assistant commissioner remonstrated. ‘I may be a retired major general but I can hold my liquor!’
‘Whenever you two settle down for an evening’s gossip you finish the bottle and then discuss vintage Cagney films. Paul had a bruise for a week where he demonstrated that fall down the church steps with three bullets in his stomach—’
‘The Roaring Twenties,’ Paul explained. ‘But that gives me an idea. Do you think I could accuse Dr Stern of an attitude towards crime based on seeing too many gangster films? His chapter on peer groups is straight out of Angels with Dirty Faces, where the Dead End Kids refuse to join the youth club—’
‘And Cagney pretends to be yellow when he goes to the chair!’ said Sir Graham enthusiastically.
‘Oh shut up!’ said Steve. ‘I wish I’d spent the evening with Carl Walters. He would have told me all we want to know about the Curzon business.’
‘I doubt it,’ Paul said disparagingly. ‘He doesn’t know himself all that we want to know.’ But he leaned over the armchair and kissed her on the top of the head. ‘Never mind, darling, you didn’t do so badly. You’re still alive.’
‘I did very well! Until Carl Walters discovered who I was he told me the truth. We know he’s in the habit of visiting Dulworth Bay, that he’s a friend of Dr Stuart. Did I tell you what he said about Diana Maxwell?’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘He said she was Lord W
esterby’s mistress.’
‘But we still don’t know Curzon’s racket,’ said Sir Graham.
Steve smiled ironically. ‘That isn’t important, Sir Graham. What matters is where, who and how. Something obviously went wrong when Baxter decided to get out, and I think I can guess what went wrong. Baxter decided to blackmail the rest of the gang. He had evidence in that notebook which would put them all in gaol for years.’ She leaned forward in her chair. ‘I suppose your code-breakers haven’t found what the evidence is yet?’
‘Good lord, I knew I had some reason for coming here. Yes–’
‘You came,’ Paul intruded, ‘to lend me a copy of the report on that air crash.’
‘Yes, but I’ve had word from Major Browning about the notebook. He spent all day going through those figures trying to find some meaning. There seemed to be absolutely no correlation between the numbers or sequences of numbers and any literal sense. Then just as he was going home this evening it occurred to him that the figures might be precisely what they appear to be, and that’s what they are. Simply figures.’
‘Figures referring to what?’ asked Paul. ‘Money, times, share index movements?’
Sir Graham shrugged his square-set shoulders. ‘They appear to refer to measurements, a distance from some given object. But as we don’t know what the given object is we are rather stymied.’
‘A location,’ Steve said thoughtfully, ‘like the whereabouts of smugglers’ treasure.’
Sir Graham Forbes took a file containing reports on the Dulworth Bay air disaster from his briefcase and left them on the desk with a warning not to tell Charlie Vosper where it came from. ‘That man makes my life hell when he’s upset,’ said Sir Graham. ‘He becomes withdrawn and formal and only speaks when he’s spoken to. He’s worse than my wife…’ The thought clearly disturbed him, and he accepted another whisky to soothe his nerves. The myth of James Cagney had appealed to him, he said, because Cagney always had an answer to police inspectors, when he wasn’t crushing grapefruits in women’s faces.
Paul Temple and the Curzon Case (A Paul Temple Mystery) Page 9
