‘Is that the distribution list for advance copies?’ Paul asked casually. ‘I’ve always wondered how you choose the names to go on there. For instance, why should Peter Fletcher receive a copy?’
Norman Wallace read solemnly through the list. ‘He didn’t. Although the name sounds familiar. Isn’t he mentioned in the afternoon paper?’ A copy of the Evening News was in his filing tray. ‘Houseboat Murder near Maidenhead. Artist Found Stabbed’. Norman Wallace became more cautious. ‘Is that why you’re here, Paul? Are you investigating a murder?’
‘Well, yes, but not that particular murder. Incidentally, why isn’t Vince Langham’s name on your list?’
Norman Wallace read through the list again. ‘You’re quite right, it’s been left off. Langham phoned yesterday and we sent a copy round to his flat.’ He added the name in an illegible scrawl. ‘Although he read the book many months ago. In typescript, I suppose.’
Norman Wallace sat back and stared unhappily at the ceiling. ‘I was trying to persuade Carl to get some of Langham’s film scripts for publication. He’s a brilliant writer and I’m sure they would create the right kind of stir.’
‘I’ll mention it to Vince,’ said Paul. ‘I’m just off to see him.’
Somebody poked a bald head round the door and called, ‘Coming for a drink, Norman? Half past five. I said I’d meet –’ He broke off and advanced into the room with a friendly hand outstretched. ‘Hello, is this a spy from the enemy camp? Come on, Temple, join us for a quick half pint.’
A quick half pint with Ben Sainsbury could amount to a punishing evening: a battered ego and a hangover. But it was the best way to find out how Milbourne & Co. were surviving. Ben Sainsbury was the other half of the editorial team, in charge of non-fiction. He was totally different from Wallace, which was probably why they worked together so well. Ben was extrovert, aggressive and opinionated, chubby and indiscreet. Not a gentleman.
‘Love to,’ said Paul with cautious enthusiasm.
Ben had gone into publishing from journalism after writing a single, sensitive novel, which nobody ever mentioned in his presence. Ben didn’t like it to be thought that beneath the bluff exterior there was a sensitive soul asking to be left alone. He hunched inside his overcoat and talked all the way to the pub about the iniquities of the government.
It was a pretentious pub with lots of brass bedpans and wooden gargoyles, intimate partitioning and a landlord like a retired colonel. ‘I hate this place,’ said Ben, looking distantly at the pub on the other side of the road, ‘but it is the nearest.’ He borrowed a fiver from Norman Wallace and then generously bought drinks for the three of them.
‘Careful,’ he whispered to Wallace. ‘There’s Jameson over there.’ He turned conspiratorially to Paul. ‘He’s our accountant. An informer.’
Wallace looked faintly embarrassed and sipped his light ale. ‘He was telling me this afternoon that he’s thinking of leaving. There’s a job going with –’
‘Lies, he was trying to lull you into a false sense of security, so that you would leave. Do you know, the other evening he spent two hours with me, analysing what was wrong with the firm. Of course, I nodded from time to time out of sheer politeness, and he went back to Carl and repeated every word I said. Carl was terribly hurt.’
‘The other evening?’ Paul asked in surprise.
‘Yes, just after I’d come back from my summer holidays. Jameson had been busy. We nearly sold out to a bloody American airline. He’s a bloody accountant! What do we want with accountants in publishing?’
‘To keep an eye on your expense account,’ Wallace said with a laugh. He looked at his watch. ‘Oh well, six o’clock, I must be off.’ He shook hands with Paul and said how pleasant to see him again. ‘See you tomorrow, Ben.’
Ben was ordering more doubles at the bar, but he waved. ‘Norman lives in Wembley, in a semi. He has a wife. Have you ever been to Wembley?’
‘Well yes, actually,’ Paul confessed.
‘We do our best to keep Norman on the straight and narrow, but he has to be watched. He has secret yearnings to spend his Sunday mornings in the garden polishing the plastic gnomes.’
‘You can buy special wet-look gnomes,’ said Paul, ‘they don’t need polishing. Just a wash down with the garden hose.’
‘What a missed opportunity – I bought Norman a book for Christmas. He would have much preferred a wet-look gnome.’
Paul invested in three rounds of drinks before eight o’clock; they were repeatedly interrupted by Ben’s competitors and colleagues, name-droppers and grandiose talk about deals, but it was useful, especially when Paul asked directly what Carl Milbourne had been like.
‘To work for? Well, he couldn’t read, but I suppose that’s an advantage in publishing. He started the firm with his army annuity after the war, and he did quite well, don’t you think? All this, built on four hundred pounds. His early days were a struggle. He only really made the first division when he happened on a series of escape stories and second world war adventure yarns. That was when Norman and I joined him and turned Milbourne & Co. into a publishing firm.’
‘So he wasn’t really a businessman,’ said Paul.
‘This isn’t really a business,’ said Ben. ‘He was a dilettante. Very clever, but he preferred the social life. That was how the firm ran into trouble.’
‘During the summer,’ Paul murmured.
‘That’s right. He started to dabble in business. He sacked our old inefficient accountant who always balanced the books so that we made a profit and he brought in Jameson. Well, I mean, as long as you make a profit what does it matter? We were all doing very nicely, with big dividends and salaries and the books were selling. But Jameson had to prove himself.’
Ben ordered another large gin and another small whisky in some distress. ‘Cheers. Henry bloody Jameson changed the method of accounting and showed that we had been losing money for years. When he produced his figures for the last financial year we were almost bankrupt!’
‘What did you do?’ asked Paul.
‘Well, I thought there was only one thing to do, and that was to sack Jameson. But Carl had no head for business – he took one look at the balance sheets and he panicked. One week he tried to streamline the firm by sacking the publicity head and getting in a whizz-bang girl straight from art school, next week he wanted to sell out to an American airline. He didn’t know what to do.’
Paul laughed. ‘And what,’ he asked, ‘did Carl do eventually?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose he pulled himself together and forgot about it. Norman and I promised to cut down on our expense accounts and he went off to Switzerland a happy man.’ He sighed and stared significantly at his empty glass. ‘If it hadn’t been for Jameson he’d have still been alive today.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Carl would never have chased off to secure a film star’s memoirs, he’d have left it to me and I wouldn’t have bothered. We have film stars’ memoirs coming into the office from our American branch every day, and most of them are rubbish. I’d want to see what Julia Carrington had written before I’d go out to Switzerland. I’d want to know whether the Sunday papers would buy the serial rights. Carl went flying off to his death on a bloody whim.’
‘It must have been a blow to you.’
‘I suppose it doesn’t make any difference. Norman and I are still running the firm as we always did. But it was rather unnecessary, that’s all.’
‘What are you going to do now?’ Paul asked.
‘Sack the whizz-bang girl from art school, if Margaret Milbourne will let us,’ he said savagely. ‘Or do you mean tonight? I’m staying here. I said I’d meet a literary agent here around nine o’clock…’
Paul left him talking to a proof-reader on the other side of the bar. There was a fog gathering outside so Paul buttoned up his overcoat and hailed a taxi.
Vince Langham lived the life of a travelling showman; his Knightsbridge home was expensive, but it looked as if he we
re in the process of either moving in or moving out, and it had looked like that for the past sixteen years. Vince claimed that whenever he had a few months between films he tried to make it a home, but then he had to fly off on location, raise money or go on holiday. Vince was surrounded by packing cases, half-laid carpets and paintings waiting to be hung. He was sitting in the middle of the floor eating fish fingers, drinking whisky and listening to a Linguaphone course.
‘Hi,’ he called as Paul was shown in by Mrs Langham. ‘Have you eaten this evening, or can Sarah throw some more fish fingers in the pan?’
‘I told Steve I’d be back for dinner,’ said Paul. ‘She insisted that you would be too busy cutting and editing your new film.’
‘It’s the old film now. Somebody else does the cutting and editing. The studio janitor, as Orson would say. They think if they didn’t take all the cans away from me now the result might be art. So I’m working on my next project. If you chuck that tape recorder on the floor you should find an armchair underneath it.’
Paul sat amid the clutter and poured himself some whisky. ‘What’s the new project?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. I was thinking on the way back from Victoria Station about Julia Carrington. You set the whole thing going again in my mind. I thought maybe I’d go to Switzerland and have another crack at her.’
‘Ich stand an einer Strassenecke. Sie nannten es Einbruch,’ declaimed the record player.
‘Americans have a bad name for not bothering to learn the lingo,’ said Vince. ‘I thought I’d make an effort. I’m not going till Friday.’
Paul laughed. ‘I wondered why you had asked Norman Wallace for another copy of Too Young to Die. I suppose you lost your original copy?’
Vince joined in the laughter. ‘I’ve lost the new copy as well. I’m hoping Sarah will clear this place through for me while I’m away.’ They both looked through at Sarah in the kitchen and realised it was improbable. She had been an actress, and she bent over the sink like Marlene Dietrich waiting for the director to call ‘Cut’. She was a star. ‘I hired a charwoman a few months ago,’ said Vince. ‘She was nearly sixty and her voice was so cockney I couldn’t understand a word she said. But do you know she only came to me because she wanted to break into films?’
It was the same with being a novelist; Paul sometimes wondered whether he would ever fall into casual conversation with anybody who had not written a novel. The Linguaphone record ground on and then repeated itself, the whisky grew lower in the bottle and the evening passed. At ten o’clock, as Paul was about to leave, Vince Langham looked suddenly suspicious.
‘By the way, Paul, why did you come to see me this evening?’
Paul laughed. ‘I came to find out where your copies of Too Young to Die had got to. But you told me that some time ago. You said you lost them.’
Vince relaxed. ‘I lose everything, and it always looks bad on my record. What does it prove this time?’
‘It doesn’t prove anything. But it means that your copy of the book might have been on Peter Fletcher’s houseboat this morning.’
‘What, in Bray-on-Thames?’
‘That’s right. You were one of the two people who knew that I was going out to Bray this morning.’
Vince nodded solemnly. ‘To see Danny Clayton. I remember.’
‘Well, don’t sit there agreeing with me. Tell me that you’ve never heard of Peter Fletcher, that you were in bed at half past ten this morning. Come on, Vince, say something.’
Vince Langham looked pained and rose to his feet. ‘Temple, you tried to trick me there. You know perfectly well that I once worked with Peter Fletcher. I don’t think that was nice, it wasn’t British, after drinking so much of my whisky. Especially since on television tonight it said that he’d been bumped off.’
‘You worked with him a long time ago,’ Paul said lamely. ‘I thought you might have forgotten.’
‘He was a brilliant designer. Shallow as hell, of course, but he achieved exactly the effects I wanted, and that’s what I call genius.’ He laughed and punched Paul on the arm. ‘I always remember genius. I remember you, don’t I, from all that time ago when we worked together?’
It was such a nice remark that Paul decided to leave for home. Why spoil a nice compliment?
‘Is Tully about?’
The manager stared at something past Paul’s right shoulder. ‘No. And I’ve never heard of anybody called Tully. Who wants him?’
‘Tell him Paul Temple needs some advice.’
The manager’s gaze flickered across Paul’s face and settled on to his left shoulder. ‘Wait here, Mr Temple.’
He disappeared into Tully’s fun palace leaving Paul by the gymnastic display of photographs in the foyer. This had been a flourishing gambling club until Tully lost his licence under the 1968 Gaming Act, and now it was a night club. The advertisements proclaimed the hottest floor show in Soho.
‘This way, Mr Temple.’
The manager led him through a baize door and upstairs through the dressing rooms and offices to Tully’s personal suite. They passed numerous bored-looking girls resting between performances and a number of tough-looking bouncers. The atmosphere was decidedly menacing, which was appropriate to Tully’s taste for the dramatic.
‘Temple! Good to see you again. What is your wife thinking of to let you out at this time of night?’
Tully was loud and extrovert with a cockney accent. He was in his fifties but he didn’t yet look as if he needed all those bouncers to protect him. He went across to the cocktail cabinet and poured two large brandies.
‘I see from the papers you had an accident with your car,’ he said with a roar of laughter. ‘I hope you don’t think any of my boys would –’
‘No no, Tully, I know all your boys are law-abiding citizens. I’m here about one of the girls you employ.’
Tully stood thoughtfully in front of a blazing coal fire and warmed his bottom. ‘Ah yes, Dolly Brazier. Poor kid.’
‘You know what happened to her?’ Paul asked in surprise.
‘My manager told me she was beaten up.’
‘But you employ a hundred people, Tully. How did you guess I was here to ask about Dolly?’
He finished his brandy and put the empty glass on the mantelshelf before replying. ‘I know she’s a friend of yours, that’s how. We had a long chat about you a few weeks ago, when the producer threw her out of the Amazon chorus and I was supposed to sack her.’ Tully smiled. ‘For old times’ sake, I didn’t sack her. She has quite a crush on you, Paul.’
‘Do you know who attacked her?’
‘Not yet, but two of my boys are looking into the matter.’ It sounded dire. ‘I don’t approve of people who use violence on women. Or at least, not on my women.’
His moral earnestness almost made Paul grin. ‘She was told to warn me off a case, which she did. I suppose the violence was to make sure she doesn’t reveal who put her up to it.’
‘She obviously talks too much about her friendship with you, Temple.’
There was a buzz at the door. ‘I expect this will be my boys,’ said Tully. They were middle-aged boys with impassive faces and bulky clothes. They radiated suspicion as they shook hands with Paul.
‘Any luck?’ asked Tully.
‘Well, she lives in Kilburn, you see, chief. He was waiting for her to come out. That was how it happened.’
‘He? Who did it?’
‘She was done over by Mickey Stone and his side-kick,’ said one of them. ‘It was a cash job.’
‘Did you find out who hired him?’ asked Tully.
‘No chance, chief, you can’t intimidate Mickey Stone. But I tell you, he’ll be out of action for a few months.’
The two impassive faces broke into happy smiles.
‘I don’t like you going to see Tully by yourself,’ said Steve. ‘I know about those girls he has working at the dub.’
‘I thought it would save time if I went by myself, darling; surely you wouldn’t have wan
ted to come?’
‘No, but you could have taken Kate as a chaperone.’
‘She looks like an ex-policewoman. The girls would have taken one look at her and started to sing Gilbert and Sullivan fully clothed.’
‘What’s wrong with a few clothes?’ She smiled severely. ‘I wear clothes myself and make quite a striking impression.’ She turned out the light beside the bed. ‘Or do you think that I’m dull?’
‘Certainly not, darling. None of the girls who work for Tully have a tenth of your intellect.’ Paul climbed into bed.
‘I hate you.’
Chapter Six
The air terminal was thronged with impatient people complaining vigorously of the London fog, but they made no difference. All planes were grounded. Paul Temple searched through the crowds for nearly ten minutes in search of Danny Clayton, and eventually he found Clayton in a telephone kiosk putting through a call to Geneva.
‘Just telling Julia we shan’t be going,’ he explained. ‘She insists that it’s my fault there’s a fog, but I told her that England will not be moved. When the continent is cut off it’s cut off.’
‘The trains are still running, and so is the ferry from Dover,’ said Paul. ‘I’ve used a little influence with an old friend of mine and I’ve managed to get three sleepers on the two thirty train from Victoria. We’ll be in Geneva tomorrow morning about ten o’clock.’
Danny Clayton clapped his hands with boyish delight. ‘I hadn’t thought of that! We can go by train, it’ll be much more fun. I always hate flying anyway.’
They carried their suitcases the hundred yards or so along to Victoria Station, past people with handkerchiefs clutched nervously to their faces, finding their way among the yellow lights which loomed at them from shops and cars. It was rather pleasant, Paul reflected, like the London of his boyhood before pea-soupers were abolished. He liked the slightly sooty smell. The noise of footsteps and distant voices was strangely clear in the fog.
‘I’ve just remembered,’ said Danny Clayton, ‘I hate travelling by boat as well. I’m always seasick.’
‘It only takes an hour and a half to cross the channel,’ Steve said reassuringly.
Paul Temple and the Geneva Mystery Page 6
