A porter found them and took their suitcases away to the luggage compartment while another showed them to the train and found their compartment. The train was filled with people who had had the same idea, talking nostalgically of the days before they flew everywhere. Travelling by rail seemed so much more natural.
‘If God had meant us to fly,’ an elderly gentleman was saying, ‘He’d have given us wings.’
The train drew out of the station. Paul took out that morning’s Times and began doing the crossword. Steve closed her eyes and began dozing. Danny Clayton talked all the way to Dover. To each his own style of travel.
They passed quickly through customs and went aboard the channel ferry to find their cabins. Almost immediately the engine shuddered and they were off. Danny Clayton turned pale.
‘Why don’t you come up on deck, Danny?’ asked Paul. ‘The breeze and a spot of exercise may help.’
Danny sank on to the bunk. ‘I’m pretty comfortable like this,’ he said gingerly. ‘I guess I’ll stay down here.’
‘How about you, Steve?’
‘I’d like a stroll, darling, if Danny will be all right.’ She turned to him anxiously. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to go down to the bar for a drink? A brandy –?’
‘I’ll be all right,’ he said.
Paul took Steve’s arm and they went up on deck. They took the ritual walk round the perimeter rail and breathed the air until Paul felt that his lungs were in danger. As they reached the starboard bow they saw Maurice Lonsdale disappearing down the staircase.
‘What’s he doing here?’ asked Paul in surprise.
‘We could ask him,’ said Steve. ‘I expect he’s gone down to the bar.’
‘That’s an excellent excuse for a drink,’ Paul laughed.
But Lonsdale had vanished. The bar was filled with people buying duty free drinks. Paul wondered whether he had been mistaken about Lonsdale, perhaps it had been another millionaire trying to protect his cigar from the sea spray.
They ordered two brandies and sat watching the horizon dip and sway through the porthole. You’re closer to eternity at sea, thought Paul, closer to God. Although for philosophic reflections one really ought to be in the middle of the Indian ocean at night. Crossing the channel was a little mundane.
‘I wonder how Danny is taking this weather,’ said Steve.
‘I was thinking deep thoughts about Freud and his oceanic theory.’
‘The proper place for Freud, darling, is in bed. Oh look, here comes Danny now!’
‘What on earth has happened to him?’ Paul muttered.
He was looking very sick indeed. His sallow complexion had a sheen of damp that reflected the light and the long hair seemed matted and unhealthy. He saw them, waved, and pushed across the floor towards them.
‘Try to hang on,’ Paul said reassuringly. ‘We’ll be docking in about twenty-five minutes.’
Danny tried to smile and glanced nervously around the room at the same time. ‘I felt like a breath of fresh air, but when I got on deck the boat started to roll…’ He flopped into the seat facing the door.
‘You look as if you’ve had a scare of some kind,’ said Steve. ‘Why not let Paul fetch you a brandy?’
‘A scare?’ he repeated anxiously. ‘No no, I’m always like this when I travel.’
Paul Temple fetched him a brandy and then made excuses about seeing to the hand luggage while Steve played Florence Nightingale.
He went back to the cabin. He found a steward in the corridor and asked him whether Danny Clayton had received any visitors while he was lying down.
‘Not to my knowledge, sir,’ said the steward. ‘But I’ve been back and forth, I might not have seen everybody who came down here.’
‘I say, if it isn’t Paul Temple,’ said a man in a bowler hat from the next cabin. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll remember me. We were on television together once, some damned chat show about crime being a bad thing. Have you solved any good mysteries lately?’
Paul shook hands with the man and tried to remember his name. He had been in Military Intelligence, or perhaps he was retired. Paul said something non-committal about bad weather for spying.
‘Are you trying to find out what scared the pants off your little friend?’ the man asked.
‘Not really, just wondering whether –’
‘Nonsense, somebody scared the pants off him. I was behind him when we went up on deck. He was pretty fragile, but then he obviously saw something that went beyond mal de mer. If I didn’t weigh fifteen stone he’d have knocked me down those stairs, he was so anxious to escape! Going skiing?’
‘No. I’m visiting friends in Geneva.’
‘You’ll be much safer,’ the man said solemnly. ‘I’m popping into the Palais des Nations. Maybe we’ll have a drink together.’ He glanced out of the porthole. ‘Ah well, another sea trip safely negotiated. Your friend should be all right now.’ He waved his rolled umbrella in salute. ‘What I always say is that if you’re still alive you haven’t much to complain about.’
‘Very true,’ murmured Paul.
Going through customs at Calais was a ritual that was quickly over, and as they crossed the dock to the waiting train Paul caught another glimpse of Maurice Lonsdale. Danny Clayton recovered from his sea sickness or his scare as soon as they were seated in the railway carriage. He began chattering again while Steve dozed and Paul wondered what information was essential to the brinkman with nine letters.
‘I suppose you play chess as well,’ said Danny.
‘Yes,’ said Paul. ‘Do you?’
‘No. I just thought it all tied in with your being a private eye. I prefer easy games like Monopoly. Ask me one of your crossword clues.’
‘What information is essential to the brinkman? Nine letters.’
Steve opened one eye. ‘Knowledge.’
‘Gosh,’ said Danny. ‘I didn’t know you were brilliant as well, Steve.’
Paul scowled at her and wrote in the answer.
‘How long have you been over here, Danny?’ Steve asked.
‘In Europe? Four years.’
‘Do you prefer it to America?’
He laughed. ‘It’s different. I do feel homesick sometimes, but I don’t suppose Julia will ever go back. She’s found a tiny world where she can hide, and I’ll stay with her while she remains in hiding. She couldn’t bear the real life of America. That’s probably why she became an actress.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean by the real life of America,’ said Paul, ‘but I’d have thought you were a natural for the pace and the competition.’
‘I carry it inside me. I don’t need to go to New York to find it.’
Danny talked about his childhood in the Bronx for a while, and about his father selling automobiles in the depressed ’thirties. When the boom years began again after the war Danny’s family had moved out to California.
‘Are your parents still out there?’ Paul asked.
‘No, both my folks are dead. They lost their lives in a fire – a large apartment house in Los Angeles was razed to the ground. It was in all the papers. Two of the old movie stars were killed as well. About twenty seven people lost their lives altogether.’
‘What a terrible thing,’ Paul murmured.
‘Were you away at the time?’ Steve asked.
‘No, I was in the fire. I was caught too. Fortunately I was in the basement at the time, talking to a friend of mine. I was one of the lucky ones.’
As the afternoon wore on the train passed through winegrowing country, and Paul watched the undulating miles of vineyards with a feeling of loss for the holiday he had spent picking grapes during his student years. Long before he met Steve. He was on the point of mentioning it when he remembered a dark-haired French girl called – what had her name been? He decided not to mention the holiday.
‘Darling,’ said Steve, ‘isn’t this where you picked grapes the year before we met?’
He peered through the window. ‘Good lo
rd, I do believe it is! I’d completely forgotten –’
‘You had an affair with a redhead called Hélène.’
‘Hélène? Yes, I seem to remember there was a girl on the camp with auburn hair.’
‘You had her photograph on your dressing table the first time I came to dinner and I was terribly jealous. So I gave you a photograph of me instead.’ Steve leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘I didn’t think she was very attractive. Too much flesh, and a sulky expression.’
‘She helped me improve my French,’ said Paul. ‘We used to have long conversations about the pen of her aunt.’
‘Liar.’
Paul took his copy of Too Young to Die from the luggage rack and tried to read. The opening sentence didn’t inspire much confidence. There is no such place as Hollywood; Hollywood is an idea, a way of life and a way to die. It was one of those stories about an actress who arrives as an innocent and learns corruption. By Sunset Boulevard out of The Big Knife.
Why did Norman Wallace think this was the work of a promising young writer? There was no resonance to the writing; it was all dialogue and fragmentary scenes, the prose was cluttered with phrases like ‘In so far as blah blah blah was concerned’ and ‘with reference to’ and on page two somebody riposted. Paul didn’t like the description of the heroine’s leading men; they ranged from Gable types to aspiring James Deans, whatever range that was. By page twenty she was in bed with one of them.
Paul found that his attention was straying. The countryside had become dramatically rugged with snow-covered hills in the distance; a river reflected the sun like a sliver of silver. There were farms dotted about with neat little fences and neat farmhouses.
‘I spent a holiday on a farm once,’ said Steve. ‘I was nine and the farmer’s son taught me to milk a cow.’
‘Last time you told me about that holiday,’ said Paul, ‘it was an anecdote about watching a calf being born. It was all rather Emile Zola and quite unsuitable for a girl of nine.’
‘Darling, I do believe you’re sulking.’
‘Just bored.’ He tossed the book on to the seat beside him. ‘I find actresses rather unconvincing as people.’
‘Hey,’ Danny Clayton interrupted, ‘that’s an epigram. I must remember to say that to Julia one day when I’m mad at her.’ He picked up the book and began reading it.
After dinner on the train they felt suddenly tired and went in search of their sleeping berths. That was when Paul at last bumped into a startled Maurice Lonsdale.
‘I thought I saw you earlier,’ Paul said. ‘What an exercise in nostalgia, eh? Travelling across Europe like this.’
‘Yes, so much for the jet age!’ He beamed at Steve. ‘Hello, Mrs Temple. Delighted to meet you again.’
Steve smiled sweetly and went on with Danny Clayton to the sleeping cars while Paul talked to Lonsdale. ‘What brings you out here so suddenly, Lonsdale? You didn’t mention –’
‘An accident, I’m afraid. Friend of mine out here for a skiing holiday has broken her leg. Freda Sands, I think I mentioned her. She isn’t terribly clever at coping with hospitals and being confined to bed.’ He laughed bluffly. ‘Poor Freda. She’s only been to St Moritz once before and that time she broke her arm.’
‘I thought the train for St Moritz went via Zurich,’ said Paul, ‘changing at Chur. This is the train to Lausanne and Geneva.’
Lonsdale looked taken aback. ‘Yes yes, I believe you’re right. But I have some business in Geneva. Might as well kill two birds in one trip, as they say. My goodness, is that the time?’ He muttered apologetically about the change of air making one so tired and then continued along the corridor.
‘See you tomorrow, I expect,’ Paul called after him.
Steve was already in her bunk and settled for sleep by the time Paul had finished his preparations for bed. Paul spent several minutes searching for his copy of Too Young to Die but it was missing.
‘I expect Danny borrowed it,’ said Steve. ‘You’ll just have to go to sleep.’
The rhythmic motion of the train made it easy to sleep. Paul could hear Steve’s regular breathing on the other side of the carriage and he wondered irrationally at the sheer green nylon nightdress: it would be such unsuitable wear if they crashed.
‘Do you suppose it was Lonsdale who scared poor Danny?’ she whispered.
‘I thought you were asleep.’
‘Did you get the impression just now that they knew each other?’ she asked.
‘They weren’t letting on if they did,’ said Paul.
He was wearing suitable silk pyjamas that would look correct in any situation, which was useful a few hours later when Steve woke him up to say that something was going on in the next compartment.
‘It sounds as if Danny has been hurt,’ she said.
Paul listened. There was certainly a lot of movement and moaning.
‘I’m not sure what woke me,’ said Steve. ‘I think it was somebody shouting, and I heard a door slam.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘No, but I think so. I was asleep and it woke me.’
Paul swung himself out of the bunk and snatched his dressing gown. There was nobody in the corridor. The lights were dimmed and the train was hurtling through the darkness. Paul knocked on Danny Clayton’s door.
‘Danny!’ He knocked again. ‘Are you all right?’
Danny’s voice answered weakly. ‘What is it?’
‘Are you all right in there?’
‘Yeah, fine,’ he answered. But the door remained closed. ‘I fell out of my bunk, that’s all. Sorry if I disturbed you.’
In the morning Danny had a bruised cheek and from the way he winced as he sat down to breakfast it seemed as if his body was badly bruised. So somebody had given him a second warning, thought Paul. He couldn’t quite see Lonsdale as a strong-arm man, although Danny was a frail enough character. The streets of New York would have taught Danny to use his wits rather than his fists.
‘I was climbing into bed when the train gave one of those Goddammed lurches. My suitcase fell on top of me.’
‘Your face looks painful,’ murmured Paul.
‘That’s why I hate travelling by train,’ he said with a grin.
It was half past eight. Paul was drinking his second cup of coffee, Danny was drinking a tomato juice and Steve was eating her way through a hearty meal as the train drew into Lausanne.
‘This,’ said Paul, ‘is where we change.’
Chapter Seven
The Geneva train arrived at the Gare de Cornovin at half past ten. Paul and Steve went directly to their hotel in the Rue du Mont Blanc. They had arranged that Danny would collect them at half past six for dinner with Julia Carrington, so they had eight hours in which to explore one of Paul’s favourite cities and visit Walter Neider.
‘It’s a swizz,’ said Steve as she tossed her handbag on to the bed. ‘We can’t see Mont Blanc from the window.’
‘We could on a clear day,’ said Paul, ‘if the window were facing east.’ He looked on to the charming narrow streets rising up the hillside and decided that he preferred this direction. It was less intimidating than a range of mountains.
‘I think I’ll take a look at Geneva while you’re with Mr Neider,’ said Steve. ‘A spot of sightseeing will make this seem like a holiday.’
Neider was an important man and it had required influence to reach him. Sir Graham Forbes had arranged it. Neider’s office was a dark panelled hexagonal turret. He had a dramatic view of Lake Geneva from the windows which Paul found almost as awe-inspiring as the man himself.
‘I hope you had a pleasant journey, Mr Temple. I gather the weather is dreadful in the north.’
Walter Neider probably weighed at least eighteen stone, yet his manner was impassioned. He lacked the phlegm which Paul expected of the Swiss. In moments of stress his language switched chaotically through French into German, Italian and English.
‘Sir Graham told me you were interested in the Milbourne accident, Mr Temp
le.’
Paul sat by the window and nodded.
‘So what can I do to help?’
‘I’d like to hear your version of the accident,’ Paul said. ‘What exactly happened, Mr Neider?’
‘It’s quite simple. Carl Milbourne stepped off the pavement without looking, and he was knocked down by a car. It was not, I assure you, the fault of the driver; the man was completely exonerated.’
‘Was there any doubt about the dead man’s identity?’ Paul asked.
‘None whatsoever.’ Neider looked surprised at the question. ‘He was badly mangled, of course. The car dragged him some considerable distance. But he was wearing Carl Milbourne’s clothes, he had letters, documents on him. They established his identity beyond any doubt.’ He smiled, as if he suspected that Paul was trying to complicate a simple matter. ‘Besides, Mrs Milbourne and her brother, a Mr Lonsdale, flew out here and identified the body.’
‘Mrs Milbourne has since changed her mind.’
Neider spread his arms wide in incomprehension.
‘She’s now convinced that it wasn’t her husband who was killed.’
‘She was distressed,’ said Neider. ‘A bereaved woman can be forgiven for such delusions. I assume you do not take her seriously?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Paul. ‘Some very odd things have been happening since she consulted me. Somebody was very keen that I shouldn’t make any enquiries, and the same person has tried to prevent people from talking to me. I have a feeling –’
‘What about evidence? Is there any evidence that Carl Milbourne might still be alive?’
‘Maybe,’ said Paul. ‘Apparently he bought a hat from a shop in St Moritz. His old one was posted back to London; inside the lining of the hat was a note. It was in Carl Milbourne’s handwriting and was written two days after the accident.’
Neider walked quickly round his desk. ‘What did the note say, Mr Temple?’
‘Briefly it said, “Don’t worry – everything will be all right. Will contact you later.” It isn’t much to go on.’
‘I take it you are going to St Moritz to question the people in the hat shop?’
Paul Temple and the Geneva Mystery Page 7
