There was a bunk right up forrard, and the galley was aft; the rest was all studio. The landlord of the Three Star Hotel had been correct – Peter Fletcher was a charlatan. All his paintings, and there were stacks of them against the bulwarks, were pretty landscapes of Thames scenes. They were rich in colour and slick in execution, autumnal and insensitive. He had clearly sold them by the yard to furniture shops.
‘You see,’ said Inspector Jenkins, ‘he was an artist.’
‘I should think he also worked in advertising.’ On the drawing board was a sketch of a snow-capped hill with the text beside it – the cool crisp flavour of the English countryside in a menthol cigarette. ‘He would normally have done this sort of thing in his office. Poor old Fletcher. What a shame he decided to do this sketch on location.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘It cost him his life. Normally he painted here at weekends, but obviously he arrived this morning to do his cigarette sketch and gave someone a surprise.’
Jenkins stared blankly at the cool crisp flavour of the English countryside, then while he considered Paul’s theory he lit a cigarette. ‘You may be right,’ he said eventually.
‘Of course I’m right. How was Fletcher killed?’
‘He was stabbed.’ Jenkins sat on a bunk and rubbed his cold hands together before a paraffin stove. ‘Someone apparendy crept up behind him while he was…’ His voice tailed off as professional suspicion took over. ‘Now listen, Temple, you haven’t told me why you were visiting Fletcher. Why did you have an appointment with him?’
Paul raised an admonishing finger. ‘I didn’t say my appointment was with Fletcher.’
‘What I like about you, Temple, is that you never stoop to the obvious explanation. You never try to over-simplify, do you?’
‘No.’ Paul had been looking at the chalk-marked outline in the middle of the floor. It presumably showed where Fletcher’s body had been found. There was still a pool of blood just outside the line. Fletcher had been face downwards and the wound in his back had bled profusely, down to his hips and then sideways on to the floor. ‘Did you find the weapon?’ Paul asked.
‘No. I expect it’s at the bottom of the river by now.’
Paul stood where Fletcher might have been standing when he died. Behind him was the door swinging open into the sleeping quarters. ‘Who discovered the body?’ he asked.
‘A woman in the next houseboat. Name of Harrison. She thought she heard someone leaving the boat in a hurry so she looked out and saw the canopy flapping. Typical nosey woman, she didn’t try to see who was leaving the boat, she just investigated the canopy and found the corpse. And don’t ask me the next question. You want to know when this was.’ Inspector Jenkins glanced at his self winding automatic watch with daily calendar and jewelled action. ‘He seems to have died at about ten forty-five.’
A book on the serving hatch caught Paul’s eye, firstly because it was the only book in the houseboat, and secondly because it was called Too Young to Die, by someone called Richard Randolph.
‘What’s this book doing here?’ Paul demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ said the inspector. ‘The strangest people seem to read themselves to sleep. It isn’t important –’
‘Where did you find it?’
Jenkins struggled with his honour and then admitted, ‘Now you mention it, I believe it was on the floor by the body when we arrived. Why? Does it matter?’
‘Yes, this is a rather special book. For one thing it hasn’t yet been published. It’s an advance copy which they only send out to reviewers and people with a special interest in the subject. Whereabouts by the body did you find it?’
Inspector Jenkins pointed to the centre of the cabin, by the chalk mark which indicated the dead man’s right hand.
‘I thought as much,’ said Paul. ‘You know what happened here this morning, don’t you?’
The inspector blinked, stubbed out his cigarette, and breathed deeply. ‘No. Tell me what happened.’
‘Fletcher came home unexpectedly this morning. He saw that book lying on the table and wondered where the devil it had come from.’
‘You mean the book didn’t belong to him?’ Jenkins scratched the thin stubble of his moustache. ‘That the book was planted?’
‘That’s right. Fletcher saw the book, was immediately curious, and did precisely what the murderer expected he would do. He turned his back on the partition and stooped down to pick up the book from the table. In my opinion the book was in his hands when he died.’
‘Yes, that’s very possible.’Jenkins grinned. ‘You’re probably right. Now all we have to do is find the murderer and we’ll know it all, won’t we?’
Paul knew enough already to realise that the book had been planted there to attract his own attention. Too Young to Die had been mentioned in some strange circumstances, and the killer hidden in the houseboat had known Paul would pick it up. He hadn’t known that Fletcher would come in first.
‘Don’t touch it,’ Jenkins snapped as Paul reached out for the book. ‘We’ll have to check that for fingerprints.’
‘As long as you don’t start arresting your own men, Emlyn. They’ve probably all thumbed through it since the first idiot moved it’
Heavy footsteps were coming up the gangplank. While Inspector Jenkins went to the hatch Paul used his handkerchief to flick open the tide page of the book. Yes, it was all fitting neatly together. Too Young to Die by Richard Randolph was published in London by Milbourne & Co. It was all very neat indeed.
‘Excuse me, inspector,’ the newcomer called down to them. ‘We’ve had a message over the radio for you. The landlord of the Three Star Hotel in Bray has telephoned to say that Paul Temple is missing and probably in danger.’
Jenkins growled to himself that he had no such luck.
The fisherman was still sitting downstream from the hotel. Paul said, ‘Good afternoon,’ and woke him out of his trance. A lone swan was watching the catch of tantalising fish wriggling in the net. Paul went into the hotel to reassure the landlord of his survival.
‘I hear there was trouble at the houseboat,’ said the man. ‘Somebody killed.’
‘Fletcher,’ said Paul.
‘Oh.’ The landlord looked thoughtful as he poured Paul a whisky. ‘What happened to Mr Clayton?’
‘You might well ask. There was no sign of him at Peter’s Folly.’ Paul helped himself to a turkey sandwich. ‘What did Clayton look like?’
‘You haven’t met him?’ the landlord asked in surprise. ‘Well, he was a man of about forty. Thick set, around five feet eight or nine. Dark, even swarthy, with a very definite accent.’ The Battle of Britain veteran pursed his lips. ‘A rather dubious character, Mr Temple, if you ask me.’
‘Had you ever seen him before?’ Paul asked. ‘I mean, before this morning when he called with the letter?’
‘No. Clayton made the reservation here by phone. Then early this morning an American car pulled up in front of the hotel and Mr Clayton got out. He said he was very sorry he had to cancel his reservation, and would I be kind enough to hand this message to Mr Temple at eleven o’clock.’
‘There must be a mistake somewhere,’ said Paul.
The landlord raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘The Danny Clayton you describe doesn’t sound like the Danny Clayton I came here to meet.’
‘Is that a fact? It’s a mystery, Mr Temple.’
‘Very true,’ said Paul. But the mystery of which was the real Danny Clayton was quickly solved. When Paul arrived back in London he found the real one waiting in his study.
Chapter Five
It was the Danny Clayton whom Margaret Milbourne had described. The young slim one in a hurry. He had been using a great deal of urgent charm on Steve, it appeared. They were in the kitchen together eating the remains of lunch and finishing a bottle of wine. Steve loved Switzerland and had a weakness for people who could talk about the country as though they lived there. Danny had lived there f
or more than three years.
‘Darling, we thought you wouldn’t be back for lunch,’ Steve said lightly. ‘We waited till nearly two, and then Danny and I were so hungry –’
Paul glared at the visitor. ‘That’s all right, I had a turkey sandwich. What are you doing here, Mr Clayton?’
‘I came to see you. I’m Julia Carrington’s secretary, and she asked me to come to London and consult you –’
‘Did Miss Carrington give you my address, or did you get that from Mrs Milbourne?’
Danny Clayton laughed in a way that Paul found slightly offensive. ‘I looked you up in the telephone directory,’ he said, pushing away the cheese plate in a well-fed gesture.
‘You do know Mrs Milbourne?’ Paul persisted.
‘Yes, of course. I’ve met the woman. She’s mad. She telephoned me at my hotel just after I arrived from Geneva. I’m staying at the New Wilton and I was taking a shower after the journey when the telephone rang.’ He lit a small cigar and sat back expansively. Somehow he managed to convey that the size of the cigar was a move away from vulgar excess. ‘She wanted to meet me.’
‘And out of the kindness of your heart,’ Paul suggested, ‘you agreed?’
‘Yes, you could put it that way. The name Milbourne was familiar, and then I remembered that a publisher called Carl Milbourne had visited Julia a few weeks back. He got himself killed next day. So I agreed to see the damn woman. She was anxious, and I had a spare evening.’
Paul sat in the grandmother chair and settled down for a long story; at least this was something he could check. And so far it was wrong. Paul didn’t quite take to the brash young man. Engaging, but obviously not entirely scrupulous.
‘When Carl Milbourne visited Julia Carrington, did she see him?’
‘No,’ said Clayton. ‘I saw him instead. That’s the usual routine. Julia refuses to have anything to do with publishers or journalists, and it’s my job to give them the brush-off.’
Steve interrupted to ask whether it was true that Julia Carrington had written her memoirs.
‘No truth in it whatever, Mrs Temple. And that was what I told Carl Milbourne.’ Danny grinned. ‘I don’t think Milbourne believed me. He thought I was trying to get rid of him. The interview wasn’t exactly a pleasant one, I’m afraid. That was why I felt a trifle guilty the next day when I read about his accident.’
‘What happened when Mrs Milbourne turned up at your hotel?’ Paul asked. ‘I suppose she did turn up?’
‘Oh yes, she turned up all right. We had a weird conversation in the cocktail bar. She arrived looking like a neurotic Electra, chain smoking and radiating desperation. I can cope with women like that – I knew a lot of them in Hollywood.’ He laughed. ‘In fact, I suppose I work for a woman like that. Julia imagines that her life is a full-scale Greek tragedy.’
‘Tell me about the weird conversation,’ Paul murmured.
Danny Clayton had been confused. ‘She insisted that her husband was still alive,’ he said with a grin. ‘But her reasoning wasn’t up to much. She said she’d found proof in a hat that arrived through the post.’
‘But why did she want to see you, Mr Clayton?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose I was one of the last people to see her husband before he died. If he died. But I couldn’t help her to find the guy, and she wasn’t very coherent.’
‘Mrs Milbourne has been upset since she came back from Switzerland,’ Steve explained to him. ‘Her brother is worried about her.’
‘Boy, he has my sympathy,’ said Clayton. ‘He has a real problem on his hands.’
Paul poured himself some coffee before he spoke. He watched the American and tried to decide whether he was telling the truth. ‘Mr Clayton,’ he said eventually, ‘I’d better be frank with you. Mrs Milbourne gave me a very different version of her interview with you. She said it was you who told her that her husband was still alive. She said you showed her some photographs of Carl Milbourne, and that you offered the photographs and additional information for the price of five thousand pounds.’
Danny Clayton’s thin features narrowed in astonishment. ‘My God, that woman really is crazy!’
‘She said you asked her to take the money to a hotel near Maidenhead. The Three Star Hotel at Bray-on-Thames.’ Paul leaned across the table. ‘Did you go down to Bray-on-Thames this morning, Mr Clayton?’
‘I was in my hotel until eleven o’clock,’ he said defensively. ‘You can check that with the desk clerk.’
Paul was still sceptical. ‘So I take it you’ve never heard of a man called Peter Fletcher, or the houseboat he lived on called Peter’s Folly?’
‘That’s right, I haven’t.’ He stubbed out the cigar and turned to face Paul with a youthful frankness. ‘This is only my second visit to England, so I don’t know many people and I never heard of Maidenhead or the other place you mentioned. I promise you, Mr Temple, the only reason I’m over here is to see you.’
‘Ah yes,’ Paul said ironically, ‘you were going to consult me.’
Clayton rose to his feet looking pained. ‘That’s right, I was.’
‘Well?’
He walked irritably across to the window and stared into the mews, then he visibly regained his composure. ‘Julia Carrington has been receiving unpleasant letters, Mr Temple, letters threatening blackmail. She needs your help.’
‘What is in these letters?’
‘I don’t know.’ He returned to the table. ‘I haven’t seen them, but I gather they’re unpleasant. They’ve certainly frightened poor Julia.’
‘Has she consulted the police?’
‘Gee no!’ he said earnestly. ‘That’s the last thing she would do. If Julia consulted the police that would mean the newspapers, journalists and the lot! Why do you think she retired to Switzerland? You only have to mention publicity for Julia to go berserk. She had enough of that in Hollywood.’
‘All right,’ said Paul. He stood up to indicate that the discussion was over. ‘When are you returning to Geneva?’
‘The day after tomorrow.’ Clayton was unsure of himself, as if he were aware that the youthful brashness didn’t charm Temple. ‘I took the liberty of making reservations for you and Mrs Temple on the same flight. Everything’s taken care of. All you have to do is say that you’ll help.’
‘American efficiency,’ Steve intruded quickly. ‘You inspire confidence, Mr Clayton.’
Paul accepted defeat with a sigh. ‘All right, we’ll come out with you, Mr Clayton. Even if we fly back on the next plane.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve been wanting to have a chat with Miss Carrington anyway. I’ve recently been hearing so much about her.’
‘From whom?’ Danny Clayton asked as he put on a mink-lined overcoat.
‘From a film director friend of mine called Vince Langham. I understand you recently threw him out on his ear as well.’
Clayton laughed. ‘I wouldn’t put it as bluntly as that. But he had a novel he was crazy about and he wanted Julia to star in the film version. We get these approaches all the time.’
‘Did either you or Miss Carrington read the novel?’
‘Julia retired, Mr Temple, she doesn’t want to go back into the crazy world of films. So there’s no reason for her or me to read any of these scripts.’ He threw out his hands in a gesture of apology. ‘I hope I wasn’t too rough on your friend.’
‘Vince has a pretty thick skin.’
‘Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Mr Temple.’ He shook hands and thanked Steve for the lunch. His charm was still working for Steve.
‘Did you believe his version of the encounter with Margaret Milbourne?’ Paul asked her.
Steve smiled. ‘I found him rather persuasive,’ she said ambiguously.
Yes, Paul reflected, the fellow was a hustler. He had been a success in Hollywood, arriving there at the age of nineteen and scrambling to the top in the front offices, surviving palace revolutions, the reforms imposed by New York bankers and the conversion of the studios to full-scale televi
sion production. Danny Clayton’s power of persuasion had enabled him to survive and prosper. It was uncharacteristic of him to have thrown away his career when Julia retired.
‘So we’re going to Switzerland after all,’ said Steve.
‘So it would seem. I’d better find myself some holiday reading.’
Paul knew the fiction editor of Milbourne & Co. so he popped into the man’s office on his way to see Vince Langham. The pall of tragedy on the house was hardly noticeable. Milbourne & Co. was an old-fashioned firm which didn’t believe in excitement or salesmanship, and every day was like the day of a funeral. The men all wore city suits and spoke in hushed tones; the girls were discreetly attractive.
‘Temple, this is a pleasant surprise!’ said Norman Wallace. ‘Come in and have a cup of tea. Have you decided to get yourself a good publisher at last?’
Paul chatted for a few minutes about the world of books, who had been sacked and which was the latest masterpiece that would rock the world. The gossip was not something that Paul enjoyed, but he had to get Wallace on to the subject of new writers.
‘Ah yes,’ Wallace said regretfully, ‘Carl and I were just forming a bunch of really promising new writers.’
‘You mean people like Richard Randolph.’
‘And one or two others,’ Norman Wallace said loyally. ‘But Randolph was Carl’s own private discovery. Carl had great hopes that Too Young to Die would be a real winner. Do you know that we’ve already sold the film rights for fifty thousand dollars?’
‘Yes,’ said Paul as he mentally halved the figure and converted it to sterling. ‘Do you happen to have a spare copy of the book?’
Norman Wallace produced a copy on condition that Paul said something they could quote in the publicity. ‘A rattling good yarn from start to finish: I couldn’t put it down.’ Something that would sell it to the middle-class housewives with time on their hands. Wallace took a list from his left-hand drawer and was adding Paul’s name to it.
Paul Temple and the Geneva Mystery Page 5
