Paul Temple and the Geneva Mystery

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘Mr Paul Temple, the author?’ asked the manager politely. ‘I’m delighted to meet you, Mr Temple. I never read books myself, but you do very well in our book department. Let me take you down to meet the manager –’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Paul. ‘But I really came because –’

  ‘A Mr Neufeld, most enthusiastic. He sometimes manages to persuade eminent authors to make a personal appearance, sign copies of their books. Will you be staying long in St Moritz?’

  ‘No,’ Paul said quickly. ‘Mr Kroner, I’m making some enquiries about a man who was killed in this town last month. I hope you might be able to help me.’

  Kroner gave an ironic smile. ‘I have a very bad memory.’

  There was a pause. ‘Some of the most famous novelists have sat in what Herr Neufeld calls his hot seat.’

  Paul laughed and agreed to sign copies of his books.

  ‘Mr Neufeld will be honoured, Mr Temple. So how can I help you?’

  ‘A month ago a man named Carl Milbourne bought a hat from this store and asked for his old hat to be posted back to an address in London.’

  Kroner nodded. ‘I would have no personal knowledge of the transaction. But there’s probably a record of it in the hat department.’

  ‘Do you think I could have a word with the assistant?’ Paul asked.

  Kroner browsed through a card index. ‘Unfortunately that won’t be possible, Mr Temple. At that time the assistant in the hat department was an Italian girl who has since returned to Naples. We take on a great number of extra staff just before Christmas, you will understand.’ He thought for a moment, and then smiled. ‘But wait a moment. Perhaps I do recall the transaction. The assistant came and asked me if it was possible to post your friend’s hat to England, I believe. The idea was new to her. She fetched me out to have a word with the customer.’

  Paul took the photograph of Carl Milbourne from his wallet. ‘Would this be the man, Mr Kroner?’

  Kroner stared at the photograph. ‘It is very difficult, we have so many tourists –’

  ‘Here are some more photographs,’ said Paul, spreading them on the desk. ‘Do you recognise –?’

  ‘I couldn’t be really certain. However, there was something else, Mr Temple. I don’t know whether it is useful, but as I remember, your friend was not alone. He was with a party of people.’ He smiled at the feat of memory. ‘Is that not so?’

  ‘Well, it’s possible, I suppose, although –’

  ‘A group of tourists, Mr Temple. They were all laughing and joking together, making quite a noise.’

  ‘With Mr Milbourne? Did you see anyone actually speak to him?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Kroner, ‘that I can’t remember. But I certainly formed the impression he was with them.’

  Paul went towards the door feeling rather pleased with himself. ‘You’ve been most helpful, Mr Kroner.’ The cheerful little man was striding along beside him. As they passed back through the sports department Paul said, ‘I must give you a ring about the autograph session…’ Mr Kroner joined him in the lift.

  On the ground floor he saw Steve and Mrs Milbourne laden with parcels making for the restaurant. Paul noted the new sunglasses, new hat with inappropriate ear flaps and fur boots. Maybe he should sign a lot of books, Paul reflected, before asking what the parcels contained.

  ‘Herr Neufeld’s department is through here…’

  Maurice Lonsdale was waiting for them at a table by the window. He was still, thought Steve, the essence of an English financier, right down to the buttonhole. They sat beside him.

  ‘Steve is off skiing this afternoon,’ said Margaret. ‘Of course the slopes of St Moritz are gentle enough, but it makes one nostalgic.’

  ‘Have you done much skiing?’ asked Lonsdale in surprise.

  ‘Before I married Carl,’ she said. ‘Darling, don’t you remember? I used to enjoy the run from Gornergrat to Zermatt. I suppose that was ten years ago now.’

  ‘I never could keep up with your activities, Margaret,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I thought your idea of a holiday was lying in the sun.’

  ‘Always the cynic,’ Margaret sighed. She picked up her bag and went off in search of the ladies’ room. ‘Don’t eat the whole of that sausage while I’m gone.’

  Steve smiled. ‘Any news of your friend Miss Sands?’ she asked politely.

  ‘Freda?’ He looked startled at her good memory. ‘Yes, I’m afraid the news isn’t good. I thought it was just a broken leg, but apparently the poor darling slipped a disc as well. She’s in a great deal of pain.’

  ‘I suppose you cheered her up?’

  ‘Oh well, a bunch of grapes, you know, and a few magazines.’ He leaned confidentially across the table. ‘Margaret’s feeling the strain, you know, she really is. If I’d been at home I’d have done my damnedest to have prevented her from coming out here.’

  ‘You don’t believe Carl is alive?’

  Lonsdale gave one of his superior smiles. ‘Well, if he is alive, then who was the dead man? Why was he wearing Carl’s clothes and carrying his papers?’

  ‘That, as the politicians say, is a good question.’

  ‘They only say that when they know the answers.’ His manner suddenly dropped the assumption of male superiority and he seemed genuinely worried. ‘Do you know the answers, Mrs Temple?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’ She smiled as well just in case her dislike of the man was showing. ‘But then, I’m no politician.’

  ‘Carl was in Geneva on a perfectly straightforward business trip, to see Julia Carrington. For the life of me I fail to see why he should have become involved in all this mystery.’ He glanced over his shoulder to see whether Margaret was coming. ‘Mrs Temple, tell me, what does your husband make of it? He must have some idea by now of what’s behind it all.’

  ‘I’m afraid that like most husbands Paul doesn’t always confide in me,’ said Steve.

  ‘I don’t believe that.’ He pointed his fork at her. ‘I’m sorry to disillusion you, Mrs Temple, but I’m afraid you are a politician.’ Luckily Margaret returned before he could start waving the schlueblig about.

  ‘Darling, do you know who I’ve just seen? Paul was in the books department helping them put up a poster.’

  ‘He’s very good with a pot of paste,’ said Steve. ‘What did the poster say?’

  ‘It was in German. Something about der Autor signing his Bucher next week. I must say he looked rather abashed.’ She sighed. ‘I used to enjoy personal appearances. I once spent a fortnight going round local cinemas, making a little speech and thanking God for the British film industry. It kept one in touch with the British public.’ She ate briefly and then turned to her brother. ‘By the way, darling, Paul said he wants to talk with you.’

  ‘Is he going to join us?’

  ‘Yes, but he wants to talk with you privately. I suppose he means away from me. You really have convinced everybody that I’m an hysterical woman. But you know now – I was right, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Tell me, Temple, was it really Carl on the telephone?’

  ‘Your sister certainly seemed to think so.’

  Paul looked in the bar mirror at Steve and Mrs Milbourne talking animatedly at their table. The sound of her husband’s voice had made her more sure of herself and in some ways more worried. She was a woman in trouble who didn’t quite know what the trouble was.

  ‘It’s unbelievable,’ said Lonsdale.

  ‘Yes. How do you find the brandy?’ It was the best. ‘Lonsdale, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Had your brother-in-law any worries? Financial worries?’

  ‘No more than most businessmen,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I gather publishing has its recesses and its booms. At one time Milbourne & Co. were having a tough time, but that passed.’

  ‘So you don’t think he’d be likely to – well, to fake the accident and then disappear? Such things have happened. Men who have been officially dead have been known to live for years on their insurance money.�
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  Lonsdale laughed easily. ‘Carl was the most under-insured man I know. There was a policy, but Margaret has refused to claim on it. She still believes…’ He put more soda into the brandy, which made Paul wince. ‘No, it hasn’t happened in this case. If Carl had been desperate he’d have come to me, or one of his friends.’

  ‘Did he ever come to you? Did he ever borrow money from you?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact he did.’ Lonsdale talked casually, as if it were a normal business matter. ‘I sank forty thousand pounds in his firm about six months ago. But it’s safe enough. I’m not worried. Will you have another drink?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m skiing this afternoon. I’ll need a clear head if I’m to survive.’

  Chapter Ten

  Paul and Steve travelled to the top of the first slopes by bus and then went on by funicular. Steve looked glamorous in her new sheepskin coat. She sat in the corner of the suspended carriage like an expensive model on her way to be photographed in the snow. Paul wondered how she managed to make ski pants, parka and boots look so elegant.

  ‘Perhaps I should have bought one of those woollen hats,’ Paul suggested, ‘with a bobble. Then people would know I belong with you.’

  ‘You spent a much more useful morning, darling,’ said Steve, with a critical glance at his peaked cap. ‘You established that Carl Milbourne had joined up with a party of tourists.’

  ‘I didn’t.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘I think it’s possible that the man who bought the hat was trying to avoid attention by tacking himself on to a group of tourists.’

  ‘And why should he want to avoid attention?’ Steve asked brightly. ‘Because he wasn’t Carl Milbourne? But Margaret was positive –’

  ‘Margaret Milbourne is a very good actress. She always was.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that she –?’ Steve began in disbelief. ‘No no, I like Margaret Milbourne. I enjoyed my morning with her, in spite of the way she projects her personality all the time. I felt sorry for her when Maurice Lonsdale told her she had to go back to London.’

  ‘Did they quarrel?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Not really. Lonsdale just told her to keep out of the way. She was rather upset, but of course her husband had already told her to do just that. If it was her husband.’

  The funicular came to a stop. Paul looked back down the cable stretching into the valley and wondered why they bothered to come all this way just to ski back in five and a half minutes. There was a blizzard blowing up and he began to wish he had taken his clothing as seriously as Steve had.

  ‘Ah well,’ he murmured languidly, ‘we’ll whizz down once and straight back to the hotel for a hot bath.’

  ‘You don’t get off as lightly as that,’ she said with a toss of her head. ‘When we’ve been down Piz Nair we’ll have a go from Trais Fluors.’

  ‘We shan’t have time,’ said Paul. ‘We’re dining with Julia Carrington tonight, which is quite a journey –’

  ‘All right, but we don’t go back till it’s dark.’

  Steve set off along the peak before he could argue, away from the party of Americans who had travelled up with them. A stray middle-aged man in rimless dark glasses tagged along behind them and the funicular began to shudder its way back down. They spent several minutes getting into their skis, testing their bindings and exchanging friendly smiles with the stray fat man.

  ‘Good afternoon, Paul Temple,’ he said loudly and slowly. ‘Famous man, ha ha! My name Ferdy. No famous man, ha ha ha!’

  Paul was surprised. ‘Good afternoon, Ferdy.’

  ‘This is the BBC foreign service broadcasting from London, and here is the news.’ The man roared with laughter. ‘Good English, yes?’

  ‘Very good,’ said Paul. ‘Radio One is Wonderful.’

  The man transpired to be an Italian from Verona. He had no grammar but an excellent memory and they established a relationship with the phrases he had learnt from listening to the radio. ‘An official spokesman said today,’ he declaimed solemnly, ‘a depression is moving in from Faroe and Shannon.’

  Their skis firm, goggles in place, ski-sticks clutched nervously, they began to sidestep along the packed snow of the ridge. The blizzard was increasing lower down the slopes, but Paul seemed to remember that experts consider a blizzard good for skiing. St Moritz looked an awfully long way off.

  ‘Coming?’ called Steve, and she was away.

  The Italian held out his gloved hand to Paul. ‘Thank you for practising my English.’ They shook hands. ‘Manchester United three nil.’ He pushed at his ski sticks and slithered off in pursuit of Steve. His roar of laughter was dispersed in the wind.

  Paul rapidly picked up speed and within a hundred yards he was feeling the old exhilaration; he had always enjoyed the gale rushing at him, the sensation of flying across the mountains. He tried out a few simple manoeuvres, leaning forward, using the snowplough to slow down, developing his body rhythm and then traversing the line of fall. It was easy, and he was gaining on Steve.

  Gratifying to find one was still good at it, he thought. Perhaps skiing was like riding a bicycle – once learned, never quite forgotten. A few tentative sideslips and he felt like a champion.

  There was no hope of catching up with Ferdy, but the Italians have alps of their own. Ferdy probably spent all his free time skiing, when he wasn’t listening to the English radio. Paul drew level with Steve a few moments later.

  ‘You’re doing quite well,’ he called patronisingly, although she probably didn’t hear him. Her eyes were fixed intently on the virgin snow twenty yards ahead.

  They were coming into the blizzard when Paul noticed two sudden spurts of snow erupt beside their skis. ‘Don’t look now, darling,’ he called fancifully, ‘but we’re being fired at.’

  Steve looked over her shoulder and they smiled at each other. The crack of a pistol shot reverberated across the valley. Their smiles faltered. Ferdy was passing the clump of trees down to their right and he crumpled to the ground.

  Steve had raised her ski-stick to point at a figure lurking in the trees, which didn’t seem the most sensible way to cope with the situation. She veered towards the danger, increased speed and crouched on her skis. The marksman took another shot and then disappeared from sight.

  ‘You look after Ferdy!’ Paul shouted.

  Paul circuited the trees and swooped down to the point where the man with the gun should have been. But he was two hundred yards below, moving rapidly across the slope to the knot of Americans who were skidding clumsily about in the distance. There was no hope of catching him.

  And the gear didn’t help identification. Goggles and fur hat, bulky sweater. It could have been anybody, anybody of normal build and height, even a woman. Paul cursed himself for being out of practice and cruised back to find Steve attending the wounded Ferdy.

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ said Steve. ‘The bullet grazed his leg and scared him half to death.’

  ‘Blood,’ said Ferdy pointing in horror at the stain on the snow. ‘Who would do such a thing, Paul Temple?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Paul. ‘Just one of the dangers of being on a ski slope with me.’

  ‘Did you see who it was?’ asked Steve.

  ‘No,’ Paul said when he had his breath back. ‘The trees are pretty thick over there, and our friend disappeared into the blizzard with twenty-four Americans.’

  Paul went across to the clump of trees where they had first seen the gunman. Something yellow was reflecting the light. Among the anonymous ski tracks there was a gold cigarette case. It was lying on the surface of the snow, obviously dropped in the last few minutes.

  There were no cigarettes inside, but an inscription in the lid read, To V with love from J. So it belonged to V. Paul wrapped it carefully in his handkerchief, although he doubted whether they would have time to check on fingerprints.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Steve. ‘Now who do we know –?’

  Paul shook his head. ‘I know what you’re thinking, darling.
But I can’t see Vince Langham shooting at anyone, unless it’s from behind a camera. Come on, let’s get Ferdy back on his runners.’

  ‘Do you think it was dropped accidentally?’ she asked. ‘Or was it planted?’

  ‘That’s a good question.’

  They lifted Ferdy to his feet and adjusted his hat. He was still very nervous. It seemed to Ferdy a fine distinction, when people were messing about with guns, between a graze on the leg and a bullet in the heart. ‘I am not accustomed to cowboys and Indians,’ he said severely.

  Chapter Eleven

  Paul had a shower before venturing out into the winter again. He would have preferred a normal bath because he had some thinking to do. But the stream of almost boiling water was toning up the muscles and convinced him that perhaps it was better to be fit than philosophical. He would let Steve do the thinking.

  ‘Do you want me to scrub your back?’ she asked.

  ‘You’ll get drenched.’

  She sat by the shower curtain and stared up at Paul as he contorted to scrub his own back. ‘I had an awful thought,’ she confessed, ‘when fat little Ferdy was shot: I was glad, because the gunman was obviously meaning to shoot you.’

  Paul nodded. ‘If there were any justice in this world I’d have been killed years ago.’

  ‘Poor little Ferdy.’

  ‘Well, I thought he made rather a fuss,’ said Paul.

  ‘Bully for him!’ Steve said vigorously. ‘I wish you were more like that. What on earth is this case all about, and why should you risk your life for it? It doesn’t make sense.’ She stood up and fetched the towel. ‘Why don’t you come out of that shower and come to bed? I think I’m still in love with you.’

  ‘We’re having dinner with Julia Carrington in half an hour.’

  ‘Is that important?’ She laughed provocatively. ‘I think I’ll come in the shower with you –’

  ‘Steve, you’re fully dressed!’ He quickly turned off the taps. ‘Steve, behave yourself. The hotel staff will think we aren’t married.’

  She pouted and went across to sit on the bed. She had kept hold of the towel. ‘Why do we have to have dinner with Julia?’