Paul Temple and the Geneva Mystery

by Francis Durbridge

  FRANCIS DURBRIDGE

  Paul Temple and the Geneva Mystery

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by

  Hodder & Stoughton 1971

  Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1971

  All rights reserved

  Francis Durbridge has asserted his right under the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

  Cover image © Shutterstock.com

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008125721

  Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008125738

  Version: 2015-07-24

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  About the Author

  Also in This Series

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Paul Temple had returned to the real world after ten long weeks of concentration on death, disruption and deduction. He found to his relief that the world was not at war, he wasn’t being sued for libel and his wife was still radiantly attractive. All good reasons for a celebration.

  ‘Darling, how nice,’ Steve murmured as they went into L’Hachoire, ‘I haven’t been here before.’

  ‘They do the best pigs’ trotters in London,’ said Paul. ‘They were recommended to me by my publisher.’

  ‘Ah, Scott Reed. Was he pleased with the new novel?’

  It was one of those exclusive little restaurants that achieve rustic simplicity at conspicuous expense, with genuine décor and furnishings from Provence and genuine Provençal chefs and waiters. There was a lot of unvarnished wood, an oven range squandered space that could have been occupied by three tables and a dog replaced three possible diners. The place was crowded with rather trendy Londoners and a few slightly surprised French tourists. The head waiter showed them to a table in the corner marked ‘Reserved’.

  ‘No no, we haven’t booked –’ Paul began.

  ‘A cancellation, Mr Temple. Please be seated. Madam.’

  The pigs’ trotters were called pieds de porc Sainte Menehould on the menu, and Paul felt obliged to order them. The wine waiter brought the sherries they asked for at once and later produced a 1953 vintage Burgundy which they hadn’t asked for. Paul hoped that Steve wouldn’t notice the celebrity treatment they were receiving. It would have made her suspicious.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question, darling,’ she said. ‘Did Scott rub his hands together with joy at the book?’

  ‘He hasn’t read it yet, but I suppose he’ll call it a classic story of its kind. He always does.’

  ‘You sound jaded.’ Steve laughed mischievously. ‘When you finish a novel you always become like a woman who has just made love, rather tired and slightly depressed. The only remedy is to begin again or take a holiday. Darling, that’s a good idea – why don’t we take a holiday?’

  Paul raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. ‘Do you feel depressed after –?’

  ‘It’s a dangerous mood. You’re inclined to become involved in other people’s crimes or contemplate writing a heavyweight psychological study of murder. Let’s go away while you still have your mind on me.’

  ‘Yes, why not?’ He paused thoughtfully and then said, ‘How would you like to go to Switzerland?’

  ‘Gstaad?’

  ‘Gstaad, or Geneva, wherever you like.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ Steve quickly refilled their glasses. ‘Yes! I’ve thought about it. But if we go to Switzerland –’

  Paul finished the sentence for her. ‘You’ll need an awful lot of new clothes, darling.’

  ‘Well,’ Steve laughed, ‘it’s true, isn’t it? You wouldn’t want me to look twelve months out of date.’

  ‘A fate worse than death,’ Paul agreed. But he knew as he spoke that he was being tiresomely male in joking about her clothes. ‘I want you always to look as elegant as you do tonight,’ he added gallantly.

  They discussed Switzerland for the next half hour. Steve wanted to book a hotel and arrange a flight immediately and Paul was reluctant to go before Friday. He was being interviewed on Friday by a lady from one of the posh Sunday papers, and Paul didn’t want to postpone it. She was bound to talk about symbolism in his work and the place of good and evil in the English detective novel. She would produce the kind of article that pleased Scott Reed.

  ‘Scott still feels that if a novel is popular he shouldn’t have published it,’ Paul laughed. ‘But a piece of pretentious criticism will knock ten thousand off my sales and he’ll be able to tell his accounts department that it’s literature.’

  He would have developed the idea, but Steve’s attention had strayed to a bland man at the table by the service door. He was wearing a well cut grey suit and made-to-measure shoes. The carnation in his buttonhole added a single touch of flamboyance.

  ‘Paul, that man over there keeps staring at us.’

  ‘I thought,’ he said flippantly, ‘that elegant women were accustomed to approving stares.’

  ‘Do you know who he is?’

  Paul nodded. ‘I’ve seen his photograph in the business supplements. He’s a financier called Maurice Lonsdale. He owns a lot of property in the West End, including several restaurants. As a matter of fact, I think he owns this place.’

  ‘How disappointing. I thought the man who owned this would wear a beret and have a perpetual Gauloise hanging from his lip.’

  The financier took a cigar from his waistcoat pocket, summoned the head waiter for a brief consultation and then left through the service door. It had been a minor intrusion, and Steve was quickly back on the subject of ski trousers.

  ‘Mr Temple?’ It was the head waiter. ‘Excuse me, but Mr Lonsdale wonders whether you could spare him a few moments, when you have finished your meal. Perhaps I could take you to his office…’

  Paul glanced across at his wife and shrugged. ‘I always enjoy meeting millionaires, don’t you? They help to reconcile me to being merely well off.’

  ‘What does he want?’ Steve asked severely. ‘Paul, I’m not having anyone come between you and my holiday in Gstaad. Just be careful!’

  Maurice Lonsdale was not the traditional unhappy, ascetic millionaire; his office at the top of the building was luxurious and smelled of ci
gar smoke. He poured them large brandies and waved to the antique sofa and armchairs.

  ‘Please sit down, Mrs Temple. Mr Temple. I’m grateful to you for coming. I hope you’ll forgive me for staring at you just now, but when I saw you sitting at that table I could hardly believe my eyes.’

  ‘It’s a first class restaurant, Mr Lonsdale,’ said Steve. ‘No need to be surprised –’

  ‘It seemed such a remarkable coincidence,’ said Lonsdale. ‘I was talking to Scott Reed only yesterday about you, and I was meaning to give you a call.’

  Paul sank back in the deep armchair and warmed the brandy glass in his cupped hands. He avoided the sharp glance from Steve. ‘What were you going to call me about, Mr Lonsdale?’

  The man hesitated apologetically and sat behind the old oak desk. ‘It may sound fanciful, Mr Temple. I expect I’ll be wasting your time.’ In spite of the good taste in dress, the grooming and good manners, Maurice Lonsdale had an edge of ruthlessness that was difficult to pinpoint. Perhaps it showed in the voice, with its trace of a Manchester accent, or in the watchful eyes. He was feigning the apologetic manner.

  ‘I wanted to discuss my sister Margaret. You may remember her as Margaret Beverley, she was an actress until six years ago when she married Carl Milbourne.’

  ‘Yes, I remember her,’ said Paul. ‘Although I didn’t know she married Carl Milbourne. He was killed in a car accident a fortnight ago.’

  ‘Yes, he was killed,’ said Lonsdale. ‘But of course, you probably knew Carl. I suppose as a novelist you know most of the publishers in London.’

  Paul was about to agree that he’d met Carl Milbourne once or twice at literary parties when Steve intervened. ‘Where did his accident happen?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘In Geneva.’

  Paul looked suitably astonished at the coincidence, but she merely glared at him.

  ‘It was a dreadful business,’ Lonsdale continued. ‘Margaret, poor darling, has been in a terrible state since it happened. I can tell you, Mrs Temple, the last two weeks have been pure hell for her.’

  ‘It must have been a dreadful shock,’ Steve said reluctantly. ‘Was she with her husband when it happened?’

  ‘No, he was in Switzerland alone, on business. One afternoon he went for a walk and was knocked down crossing the road. I had to take Margaret out to Geneva to identify the body.’ He emptied his brandy glass and shuddered. ‘Believe me, that was quite an ordeal. The body was difficult to identify. Carl was appallingly smashed up, his head had been crushed –’

  ‘It must have been an ordeal for both of you,’ Paul cut in.

  He nodded. ‘Poor Margaret was always highly strung, but I’m afraid this has quite unbalanced her. That’s why I wanted to discuss the case with you, Temple. You see, she’s got this extraordinary idea into her head that – well, that Carl isn’t dead.’

  ‘Isn’t dead?’ Paul repeated in surprise. ‘But surely you were satisfied? You saw the body?’

  ‘Yes, I saw it.’ Lonsdale poured them all more brandy. ‘The body was mutilated, but it was Carl all right. I’m positive it was Carl.’ He returned the bottle to the tray and remained there, fidgeting with the array of drinks. ‘Apart from anything else, I recognised the suit he was wearing. Carl had absolutely no dress sense. Nobody else would wear a mustard coloured suit like that.’

  Then why,’ asked Steve, ‘should your sister think it wasn’t her husband who was killed?’

  Lonsdale sighed and went back to his desk. ‘Well, for one thing she consulted a medium. A very well known medium, I believe, among people who know their mediums well. Margaret asked her to get in touch with Carl and the medium failed. Failed completely. I’m afraid Margaret thinks this proves that Carl is still alive. It’s ridiculous, of course, but you know what women are when they get ideas into their heads.’

  It was logical, Paul thought, although not very sensible.

  ‘To make matters worse for Margaret, she seems to have quarrelled with Carl just before he left for Geneva. They normally got on well together, but on this one occasion when they did happen to quarrel…’

  It was an unpleasant irony, Paul agreed.

  ‘I’m afraid my sister’s completely dominated by this obsession of hers,’ Maurice Lonsdale was saying. ‘So much so that she’s made up her mind to consult you, Mr Temple.’

  Which was the second time that Lonsdale had made an equation between mental imbalance and talking to Paul Temple. Paul decided he had reservations about the successful businessman’s sensitivity. ‘Why should she want to consult me?’ he asked.

  ‘Can’t you guess?’ Lonsdale was supercilious. ‘She wants you to find her husband for her.’

  Paul rose to his feet. He thanked the man for the warning and for the excellent brandy. It was time to continue the evening.

  ‘I hope you’ll be nice to Margaret,’ Lonsdale said. ‘Listen to her, listen to all she has to say.’ He opened the door and held out his hand. ‘But please, for her sake, don’t take her seriously. The poor darling isn’t herself these days.’

  Steve shook his hand and smiled icily. ‘It’s not really surprising, is it, Mr Lonsdale? You know what we women are like – we sometimes take things very much to heart.’ She swept from the room leaving Lonsdale staring.

  Paul followed her down to the street in silence. It was a full moon and the Thames was looking serene, the reflections of light almost motionless in the water. He took Steve’s arm and went along the Embankment in search of the car. They passed Cleopatra’s needle before he ventured to speak.

  ‘I love Westminster in January –’

  ‘I’m not talking to you!’

  ‘Oh.’

  They walked past the spot where Paul had thought the Rolls should be. It wasn’t there. He remembered that he had parked by a pillar box. Perhaps it had been another pillar box.

  ‘The whole evening was set up,’ said Steve. ‘You knew about that publisher and his mysterious accident. Scott Reed arranged the meeting with Lonsdale and I was taken for a prize idiot!’

  Paul stopped and held on to her hand. ‘Hang on, darling, that isn’t quite true. Scott isn’t as clever as that, and incidentally we seem to have lost the car.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing: I’ve lost interest in going to Geneva. I want a holiday in the Highlands of Scotland.’

  ‘All right,’ said Paul as he glanced up and down the road, ‘we’ll go to the Highlands of Scotland.’

  ‘And I hated that man –’

  ‘So I noticed.’

  Steve launched into a savagely accurate imitation of Lonsdale’s manner. ‘You know what women are when they get ideas into their heads,’ she said angrily. ‘Of course I know what women are! Paul, are you listening?’

  ‘Yes, darling. But I’m afraid the car has vanished.’

  ‘Serves you right.’ She chuckled unsympathetically. ‘I hope the newspapers make an idiot of you in the morning. Paul Temple’s Rolls Stolen, that’s what the headlines will read, Private Eye Sends for Scotland Yard.’ The thought seemed to cheer her up and she took his arm again. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she said softly. ‘It’s very worrying. What are we going to do?’

  They walked across the road to Scotland Yard.

  The M1 was beautifully clear before them like a yellow band stretched forward into infinity. There were a few long-distance lorries on their way to Edinburgh flashing private signals at each other, an occasional car, but Den Roberts cruised smoothly past them all. It had always been his ambition to steal a Rolls.

  ‘Goes like a bird,’ he murmured for the fifth time.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lucas. ‘Listen, keep it down to seventy. We don’t want the law to stop us.’

  He was cautious. Den had wanted to drive through the gates of Buckingham Palace and watch the sentries salute. They could have driven round the parade ground and out again, nobody would have stopped a Rolls. But Lucas wanted to reach Birmingham by midnight.

  ‘I still think we should have hoisted
an ordinary car,’ Lucas grumbled. ‘I mean, a mini can be re-sprayed and sold for a few hundred quid. But a bloody Rolls! You suffer from delusions of grandeur!’

  Den grinned happily. He didn’t try to explain. Lucas was a petty thief and he would die knocking off the occasional mini between stretches inside. But Den was an artist, he had soul. Through two years of Borstal he had sustained himself with the knowledge that he would drive his own Rolls one day and have every copper on point duty salute him.

  ‘You don’t need to worry about the number of miles on the clock with a Rolls,’ said Den. ‘You don’t need to worry about what year it was built. This is British craftsmanship!’

  ‘Shut up. We’re being followed.’

  Den peered into the driving mirror at the glaring headlamps behind them. It was impossible to see the car and it dazzled his eyes just to look. ‘Shall we leave it behind?’ he asked. ‘We could easy –’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s trying to overtake us.’

  ‘Yes, maybe,’ Den muttered. ‘Although it’s been on our tail for a few miles now.’

  It was worrying. The other alternative was to stop. And if it were a police car…The car behind them slowed down as well. Den sighed and prepared himself for battle.

  ‘They’re coming round on us,’ Lucas hissed. ‘Quick, do something, Den, for God’s sake. Let them stop and then try a racing start to leave whoever it is behind.’

  Den glanced over his shoulder as the car drew level with them. It was a large black saloon – a Rover, probably, although it was too dark to be certain. He couldn’t quite distinguish the people inside it, though there seemed to be two, and the second was crouched by the open passenger window. Pointing a revolver at Den’s head.

  ‘My God!’ cried Lucas. ‘Look out, he’s got a gun!’

  Den stamped on the brakes and wrenched the steering wheel over to his left. At that moment a yellow spark flickered from the revolver and the windscreen of the Rolls disintegrated. Den struggled with the car as it slithered across the soft shoulder of the motorway and hit an RAC box. A second bullet thudded into the car, blowing away the side of Den Roberts’ face. Then the Rover accelerated towards Birmingham.