Paul laughed. ‘I believe you.’
‘The row with Baxter went on for several days and then, to my horror, the Baxter boys disappeared. I was convinced that my uncle was responsible and that he was the notorious Curzon. I went down to my flat in London and contacted you.’
‘Why didn’t you meet me?’
She shrugged. ‘Because when I left the telephone box I bumped into Peter Malo. He’d been following me, of course. I took him back to the flat and we talked for a while. It was rather a strange conversation, rather unexpected.’
‘He convinced you that Westerby had nothing to do with the Baxter boys and that he was not responsible for their disappearance?’
‘Yes,’ she said in surprise. ‘When I realised he was telling the truth I let Bobbie go in my place to fob you off, and I went back to Dulworth Bay with Peter.’
Paul asked why it had been necessary to send Bobbie Jameson along as stand-in.
‘Peter was afraid that if nobody turned up at the pub you’d become interested in the Baxter case and discover about Westerby and the Curzon organisation. He told Bobbie to supply you with false information and throw you off the scent.’
‘So why was she murdered?’
‘Because my uncle heard that I’d made an appointment to see you and he wanted to make sure that if I did meet you I shouldn’t talk. Unfortunately he knew nothing about Peter’s arrangement with Bobbie. It was an unnecessary murder.’
‘And I suppose he set fire to the Baxter cottage?’ said Paul.
‘I suppose so. You and Mrs Temple were at the cottage looking after the boys. I suppose my uncle thought you’d be bound to find the notebook if you stayed long enough.’
‘I didn’t even know there was a notebook to find.’
There was a chill in the evening air now and Paul noticed that the girl was shivering. ‘Let’s go back inside,’ he said. ‘You aren’t really better yet, are you?’ He led her back into the drawing-room. ‘I’m grateful to you,’ he murmured, ‘for taking me into your confidence. I wonder whether you could do me one more favour?’
‘Yes?’ she asked.
‘I wonder if you could lend me the use of your yacht tomorrow? I want to give a cocktail party, and it occurred to me that on board your yacht might be the appropriate place.’
‘Of course, Mr Temple.’
Lord Westerby was slumped in an armchair scarcely listening to the fashionable chatter about Picasso’s erotic drawings. Diana Maxwell went and sat on the arm of the chair and ruffled his hair. ‘You’re such a fool,’ she said to him, ‘not at all cut out to be a notorious criminal.’
Paul beckoned to his wife. ‘Let’s go, darling. I’m dead tired and I’ve developed a headache. Let’s go home.’
Chapter Ten
The holiday was nearly over, and Steve was looking forward to going home for some peace. She leaned over the rail of the yacht and watched the rowing boat pulling slowly across the bay. She had seen enough of her childhood haunts this past week to last her another twenty years. This cocktail party was her private farewell to the past.
It had been a busy day, meeting Inspector Vosper off the train from London, lunching at the police station with Inspector Morgan and then out for an afternoon on the cliffs. Paul had been pleased with the day, and Vosper had puffed lugubriously after them without complaining. Steve only regretted the fact that the crowning event, the party on board the Windswept, was likely to be such a mundane affair. Lord Westerby, Peter Malo, Diana Maxwell, Dr Stuart, Charlie Vosper – not the most amusing of people.
She could hear the strains of modern jazz floating up from the lounge, and a bark of laughter indicated that Lord Westerby was in party mood. A clink of glasses explained perhaps why. Steve sighed. The rowing-boat had come alongside with Tom Doyle at the oars carrying Dr Stuart.
‘Ahoy there, Mrs Temple!’ the doctor called happily.
Steve waved down. ‘We’d nearly given you up!’
‘Maternity case.’ They were by the ladder and Dr Stuart lurched to his feet. ‘The baby kept changing its mind.’
‘Careful!’ Tom Doyle snapped as his boat rocked. ‘And that’s twenty-five pence you owe me, don’t forget.’
‘Ah yes, of course.’ Dr Stuart searched his pockets for change while Tom Doyle clung to the ladder. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Temple, but can you give this laddie twenty-five pence? I seem to be out of change.’
‘I’ve never known you when you weren’t,’ Doyle muttered.
Steve chuckled as the doctor climbed up the ladder. She helped him aboard and held him steady on deck. ‘You’d better come up as well, Mr Doyle!’ she called. ‘I’ll get Mr Temple to pay you.’
The scene downstairs was less festive than she might have imagined. Charlie Vosper was sitting in a corner drinking a pint of beer (‘No spirits, thank you, Temple, I never drink when I’m on duty.’) Lord Westerby was standing in the centre of the lounge demanding to know what they were doing there.
‘I always wonder that,’ Diana Maxwell drawled, ‘whenever I find myself at a cocktail party.’
Paul was bustling about serving drinks, introducing Charlie Vosper to everybody as the star of the show and telling Westerby to relax on his own boat. ‘Why, hello, Tom. I didn’t expect to see you.’
‘Mr Doyle wants twenty-five pence,’ said Steve. ‘He brought the doctor out here.’
Paul took the fisherman by the shoulder and brought him into the group. ‘You might as well have a drink while you’re here. Will you have a cocktail, or do you prefer to drink beer with Inspector Vosper?’
Vosper had moved across to the door. ‘That beer is too precious on a warm evening to give to uninvited guests.’ He laughed heavily.
Peter Malo yawned. ‘We’ve been on this yacht for exactly three-quarters of an hour, Temple. You still haven’t told us why we’re here.’
Charlie Vosper coughed. ‘I’m afraid Mr Temple has a weakness for parties, especially this kind of party. When he was mixed up in the Gregory case he had the nerve to invite all the possible suspects to his flat. There are three bullet holes in his mantelpiece—’
‘What’s all this about suspects?’ snapped Westerby.
‘Tonight,’ Vosper continued, ‘he’s invited all the suspects in the Curzon case.’ He beamed a welcome to each of the guests in turn.
‘Do you mean that Curzon—?’ Peter Malo began nervously.
‘Yes, is here in this room.’
Tom Doyle looked about him in dismay. ‘Here, just a minute,’ he protested, ‘don’t count me in on this. I wasn’t even invited! I’ll just take my money—’
‘You’re very welcome to stay, Tom,’ murmured Paul.
‘Bugger that for a laugh, I’m going!’ Tom Doyle left his glass on the tray and went quickly for the door. But it was locked. He spun round angrily. ‘What’s the idea, Temple? Why is the door locked?’
Paul smiled. ‘Obviously it’s either to prevent someone from getting in, or to stop someone getting out.’
For a full ten seconds Tom Doyle looked dangerously likely to panic, but then he returned to pick up his pint of beer and sat on the floor without speaking.
‘Come on, Temple, for God’s sake,’ said Dr Stuart. He added a handsome measure of whisky to his drink. ‘The suspense is killing me. Am I Curzon or am I in the clear?’
‘It’ll be me,’ said Lord Westerby, ‘so don’t burst your ulcers. My faithful niece told him last night, didn’t you, my precious?’
Paul held up his hand for silence. ‘Miss Maxwell told me about the diamond smuggling, and the consignment which Duprez was carrying when the plane crashed. But that’s where the story really begins, when Philip Baxter found the diamonds and contacted Lord Westerby.’
‘And why did he contact me?’ Lord Westerby asked ironically.
‘Because he thought you were Curzon.’
‘There you are. Don’t worry, Dr Stuart, you’re in the clear.’ Lord Westerby snorted angrily. ‘He’ll produce the diamonds in a moment l
ike a blasted conjurer, and claim they were hidden in my pocket. Come on, Temple, show us the diamonds!’
Paul took a chamois leather bag from his pocket and tossed it to Lord Westerby.
‘Where did you find them?’ Westerby asked in dismay.
‘In the caves, close to where the plane came down. It was a simple matter to find them with the measurements in the notebook, but impossible otherwise, as poor John Draper learned.’ Paul settled himself comfortably in an armchair and abandoned for the moment all pretence at a cocktail party. ‘John Draper was probably the smartest person involved in this case, but then kids are always better informed than adults. When I asked him about Curzon the boy immediately linked the disappearance of his friends with a schoolboy legend about smugglers and the air crash. The legend was mainly fiction, but like most local gossip it was based on a grain of truth. Anyway John Draper was sufficiently concerned for his friends to do something about them. But he lost his way and nearly starved to death.’
Lord Westerby grunted. ‘Hmph,’ he said, ‘you’re quite right, Temple. What you’ve said about the diamond smuggling is true. I take full responsibility for myself and my secretary. Baxter was involved as well, and the bounder ran off with these. I admit I wanted them back pretty badly. But I’m not Curzon. I swear to you, Temple, I’m not Curzon!’
‘Philip Baxter thought you were,’ Paul said gently. ‘He was so sure of it that he lived in fear of you. He even sent for Tom Doyle and asked him to look after his boys. That was when Tom Doyle went to the cottage and saw you there with Carl Walters.’
‘That’s a lie!’ snapped Westerby.
Paul turned enquiringly to Tom Doyle. ‘Is it a lie?’
‘Of course not.’
Westerby’s eyes bulged with suppressed rage. ‘You mean to say that you saw me at the cottage talking to Baxter? What?’
‘Yes,’ Doyle muttered. ‘Well, I did see you, so why should I say I didn’t?’
Inspector Vosper picked up some papers from the table by the bar. ‘If I remember these reports in sequence, Doyle, you made a statement to the effect that you saw Lord Westerby and Carl Walters at the cottage, but later you retracted it. When Mr Temple questioned you—’
‘I changed my mind.’
Vosper replaced the papers and stared at Doyle in disbelief. ‘Now why should you do that?’
‘Because Lord Westerby made it worth my while. He gave me a hundred quid and told me that if I kept my trap shut he’d pay me a great deal more.’ He turned aggressively to Paul Temple. ‘Well, it was easy money, wasn’t it? I had a hundred quid the day after I made the statement and another hundred a couple of days ago. That was when I saw you in the road, wasn’t it?’
Lord Westerby had risen to his feet in horror. ‘It’s a lie!’ he said fiercely, ‘a damned lie! I never gave him a penny, and I never asked him to contradict his statement. For God’s sake, I didn’t even know that he’d made a statement! Surely you don’t believe the little swine?’
‘Of course I don’t,’ Paul said calmly.
Tom Doyle gaped.
‘Doyle, you remember the night Baxter sent for you – the night you went to the cottage? In my opinion you didn’t see anyone that night except Philip Baxter. Philip Baxter told you that he was frightened of someone and that he wanted you to look after the boys. Don’t interrupt! In my opinion you knew that Baxter was a member of the Curzon organization and you suspected that he was under the impression Lord Westerby was Curzon. Later when you made your statement to the police you played up this impression in order to throw suspicion on to Westerby. Then you had an even better idea: you pretended to change your mind.’
Doyle shrugged his shoulders. ‘Why did I do that, in your opinion?’
‘Because you knew perfectly well that it would make us even more suspicious of Westerby. You started to throw money about, act drunk, and in general convey the impression you’d been bribed by Westerby.’
Lord Westerby spluttered in astonishment. ‘I say, Temple, you’re not suggesting that Doyle is mixed up in this business? I mean, dammit—’
‘Yea, you must be crazy!’ said Doyle. ‘If I’d been involved do you think Baxter would have trusted me with his kids?’
‘Not if he’d known,’ said Paul. ‘It never so much as entered Baxter’s head that you were mixed up in the Curzon organisation. He certainly never dreamed for one moment that in trying to hide the boys from Lord Westerby he was actually handing them over to Curzon.’
The silence was broken by the splash of a soda siphon as Lord Westerby replenished his glass. ‘Bless my soul,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Tom Doyle, eh? Bless my soul!’ He knocked back his drink in one, then turned to Paul in defeat. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Temple, which I hadn’t realised: crime’s very democratic.’
Tom Doyle suddenly laughed. ‘You silly old buffer! I was clever, that was why you worked for me. You didn’t have the brains to support that damned great museum you live in, and you expected me to tug my forelock when we passed in the street! You make me laugh, your lordship!’ Tom Doyle had drawn a knife from his belt and he held it in front of him. It was the sort of thing best suited for killing sharks or prising barnacles off the bottom of a boat, slashing seaweed off nets. ‘The first one to come near me gets this in his stomach!’ said Doyle.
‘It won’t help you,’ Paul said sadly. ‘But don’t worry, nobody proposes to come near you.’
Doyle pointed the knife at Inspector Vosper. ‘Unlock that door,’ he commanded. ‘Come on, quick – quick – quick!’
Charlie Vosper was a phlegmatic man at the best of times. But he unlocked the door. ‘There,’ he said, ‘now you can make your escape in that rowing-boat.’ He went back and poured himself another pint of bitter.
‘Actually,’ said Doyle, ‘I thought of taking this old tub. I’ve already had a practice run with Mr Temple. But this time I think Peter Malo can be my co-pilot.’ He gestured to Malo. ‘Come on, buddy boy. It’s you and me again, the old firm.’
A smile flickered across Peter Malo’s face and he followed Doyle from the lounge. A moment later the door was locked from the outside. They were all prisoners.
‘Ah well,’ said Paul, ‘now that we’ve disposed of the unpleasant part of the evening let’s proceed with the party. Dr Stuart, another splash of whisky. Lord Westerby, bring your glass over here.’
Steve was taken aback. ‘But, darling, shouldn’t we do something? I mean, he’s escaping, isn’t he?’
The yacht shuddered as the engines rumbled into life, there was a clanking sound as the anchor was raised, and then they were moving out into the North Sea.
‘They’ll have to stop some time,’ said Paul, ‘and when they do they’ll be arrested. Inspector Vosper has his team waiting along the coast and they’ll know what to do. The air waves are probably humming all over Europe already. So enjoy the cruise. This is just what Miss Maxwell needs to complete her convalescence, isn’t it, Dr Stuart?’
‘Aye,’ said the doctor, ‘and it’s all on the National Health.’ He chuckled idiotically at his joke until three blasts on the horn of a passing steamer attracted his attention. The passengers were waving happily at them and loud pop music proclaimed their pleasure.
Epilogue
Dulworth Bay was a peaceful place at night when the tide was out. The sea lapped gently at the sides of the yacht and the full moon glimmered in the waves. The distant lighthouse was the only sign of life. It was half past three; the party was over, but nobody felt like going home.
The Windswept had been boarded by police shortly after one o’clock and Doyle had been arrested following a brief but desperate battle. Peter Malo had been arrested without resistance. A coastguard had stayed on board to bring them home to Dulworth.
It hadn’t been much of a party really, Steve decided. The Curzon case had been the only successful topic of conversation, and it had cropped up too often.
‘I thought you were going to prove that Curzon was me,’ said Dr Stuart.
‘I was quite disappointed when you picked on poor Tom Doyle.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Paul. ‘But once we accepted Doyle’s story about the boys it had to be pure coincidence that you were in the lane that afternoon.’
‘Aye, but it was a funny story. After all, when Doyle, or Curzon, had the boys why didn’t he simply threaten Baxter and demand the diamonds?’
‘Because Doyle didn’t know that Baxter had the diamonds. When Baxter found the diamonds he contacted Lord Westerby, and that was when people began to get hurt. Doyle knew very little about it.’
‘So who murdered Baxter?’
‘Peter Malo, I’m afraid. That was something which confused me for a long time. I thought it had to be Curzon who was running wild and hiring Lou Kenzell to retrieve the notebook. But in fact that was Peter Malo. He’s a ruthless young man.’
Conversation had flagged after the arrests. Paul and Steve had gone up on deck to watch the stars. Dr Stuart had become rather drunk and he would keep humming Loch Lomond. They found Inspector Vosper standing on the bridge with the coastguard. He was still on duty.
‘Let’s go and sit on the prow,’ Steve murmured.
When the yacht came into harbour Charlie Vosper went below to fetch Lord Westerby. The hereditary earl was glassy eyed and unsteady on his feet but he still retained a bluff dignity. ‘I say, Temple,’ he called. He left Charlie Vosper waiting on the gangplank. ‘Temple, I’ve been worried all blasted evening. I mean, dammit, you’ve been telling everybody about our smuggling ring and all the rest of it, but you haven’t told me the only thing I want to know.’
‘What’s that?’ Paul asked politely.
‘Well, dammit, what was all that about opening the window?’
Paul laughed. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, that was a little cryptic. But it was the decisive point at which I realised that Doyle was the undoubted villain. He had been over-acting.’
Paul Temple and the Curzon Case (A Paul Temple Mystery) Page 12
