East of Algiers

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘This was all happening in Paris just about the time we were there?’

  ‘Yes, and just a little before. Now Judy Wincott was the mistress of the second most powerful member of the syndicate – Webb. He suspected that Leather had given Diana Simmonds the spectacles. He did not dare to come into the open himself, but he offered Judy Wincott five thousand pounds to get the spectacles from Diana Simmonds and to send them to him in Tunis.’

  ‘Then it was he who thought up the idea of using us as carriers?’

  ‘He may have. On the other hand Judy Wincott was a pretty smart girl, and she may have hit on that plan herself…’

  Steve had only been sitting in her chair for a few moments. Now she stood up and came to perch on the edge of the bed beside me.

  ‘Then what happened on the night she came to the flat to give us the spectacles?’

  I turned towards Forbes. ‘That’s your end of things, Sir Graham. Can you tell us what happened then?’

  ‘Well, it’s largely a matter of conjecture, Steve. We think that Simmonds followed Wincott to your flat, and while she was waiting downstairs was surprised and murdered in the belief that she had the spectacles.’

  ‘Then what about Judy Wincott herself? How did she get to Nice and why was she murdered?’

  ‘That’s still an unsolved crime,’ Forbes said. ‘Mirabel is working on it, and I think he’ll crack it in the end. You were very much under suspicion yourself at one time, Temple. Did you know that?’

  ‘I was well aware of it, and it was a most uncomfortable feeling. I suppose it was you who told Mirabel that although I had a way of attracting trouble I was not usually the prime cause of it?’

  Forbes chuckled and struggled to his feet.

  ‘I believe I did say something like that. Well, it’s almost daylight, and I expect you two could do with some sleep.’

  ‘I think we could.’

  Steve and I both stood up as Forbes moved towards the door, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand.

  ‘Sir Graham…’ I began clumsily. ‘It seems a rather flat way of saying it, but – thank you for what you’ve done.’

  ‘Don’t thank me,’ Forbes replied cheerfully. ‘Thank the anonymous caller. Good night, Temple. Good night, Steve.’

  As the door closed Steve stood on her toes like a ballet dancer and stretched her hands in the air.

  ‘I don’t feel a bit like going to bed,’ she announced. ‘I’d like to go dancing or something.’

  ‘It’s the champagne. It’s gone to your head. But I’m afraid we really ought to go to bed. We have a luncheon date to-morrow.’

  ‘Oh? You didn’t tell me that. Who with?’

  ‘Tony Wyse and Simone Lalange.’

  ‘Splendid! That’ll be fun. They’re the only two people we’ve met on this trip who haven’t kept on nagging us about those blessed spectacles.’

  ‘Yes, and as Sir Graham so rightly remarked, we ought to be very grateful to Mr. Wyse.’

  ‘Oh, did Sir Graham say that? Why are we grateful to him?’

  ‘Because he was the anonymous caller.’

  The luncheon party the next day was a great success. Wyse was in excellent form, and repeatedly congratulated Steve on her escape from danger. Schooled by me she made no reference to the anonymous telephone call. We three drank cocktails in the American Bar until Simone Lalange turned up. Like most attractive women she was confident that her unpunctuality would be forgiven, and it was. Wyse insisted on standing another round of drinks. He was undoubtedly very struck by the French girl, and she played up to him unashamedly.

  ‘We’d better go in to lunch,’ I said after a time. ‘Or everything will be eaten.’

  I had reserved a corner table, and ordered a couple of different wines to be brought to the right temperature. We ordered our meal with great care. The occasion had very much the atmosphere of a celebration.

  By the time we had eaten our first three courses the dining-room was almost empty. While the waiter was bringing the dessert Wyse reminded me that I had promised to show him the famous spectacles.

  ‘Ah, yes. I almost forgot.’

  Once again I removed my handkerchief and brought forth the pair of spectacles from my breast pocket. Simone Lalange was on my left, her enormous handbag occupying a large slice of table. I handed them to her first.

  ‘You would hardly believe it, mademoiselle, but I have been offered as much as ten thousand pounds for these spectacles.’

  ‘Ten thousand pounds!’ she exclaimed. ‘I think you are joking to me.’

  ‘It’s quite true.’

  ‘I suppose they are magic spectacles, and when you look through them you see everyone is beautiful and handsome. May I see what Tony is looking like?’

  She put them to her eyes, peering in mock seriousness at Wyse, who had sat on the opposite side of the table to her. She screwed up her eyes, shivering and hunching her shoulders.

  ‘Ooh, it is like diving into the water! I do not think I can offer you ten thousand pounds, Mr. Temple.’

  Wyse laughed appreciatively, and Simone handed the glasses to Steve.

  ‘Would you like to try with them, Mrs. Temple? Perhaps you can make your husband even more a handsome man.’

  She flickered her eye-lashes naughtily in my direction and I could sense Wyse bridling with jealousy.

  ‘I use rose-tinted glasses when I want to look at Paul,’ Steve said laughing. ‘Would you like to have a try, Mr Wyse?’

  She held out the glasses for Wyse. He was smiling at Simone as he took them from her, and not really watching what he was doing. The glasses clattered to the floor.

  Wyse said: ‘How clumsy of me!’ He stooped and felt about under the table for a moment.

  ‘No harm done,’ he announced as he retrieved them. ‘They’re unbroken.’

  He opened them up and examined them carefully.

  ‘Well,’ he said after a moment. ‘I confess I’m a little disappointed. Personally I’d advise you to accept a fiver for these, Temple, if anyone makes you another offer.’

  I took the glasses back and put them away in my breast pocket again. The waiter came with the dessert trolley, and we all broke off to choose what we would have.

  Wyse had begun to drink more heartily, and by the time the coffee was before us he was in really high spirits.

  ‘Do you take sugar, Mr. Wyse?’ Steve asked him.

  ‘Yes, please. And I do wish you’d stop calling me Mr.’

  ‘What shall I call you then?’

  ‘Why not try calling him David Foster?’ I suggested.

  Wyse’s hands dropped to the edge of the table, and he became perfectly still.

  ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’

  ‘Would you prefer to be addressed as Webb, then?’

  Still no movement from Wyse, just a curious hardening of his features. He suddenly looked quite different from the good-time boy we knew.

  ‘I take it this is some kind of joke?’

  ‘Not really. No more than your idea of getting us to bring the spectacles from Paris to Tunis for you. Or did Judy Wincott suggest that to you? It was a wise precaution. The Tunisian customs people seemed to be waiting for you, I noticed. They gave you a very thorough check over, didn’t they? Perhaps they already had a description of Edmund Webb.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Wyse had controlled his face and the couldn’t-care-less expression was back. But he had forgotten his hands. They were clenching and unclenching on the white table-cloth. Simone Lalange’s eyes had opened wide with amazement, and she was staring from one to the other of us with complete incomprehension.

  ‘I think you do. I wouldn’t really hold any of this against you, but for one thing. Steve and I are grateful to you for telephoning Renouk last night – though I know your motive was to prevent the spectacles falling into the hands of Rostand and Schultz. It’s arguable that Constantin deserved to die, and I’m only sorry you did not hit that
brute Sandros harder.’

  Wyse ignored me and turned politely to Steve.

  ‘Does your husband often indulge in these little flights of fancy?’

  ‘What I can’t forgive you for,’ I went on, ‘is killing your own friend, Judy Wincott. Why did you do that, Webb? Did she discover the true value of the spectacles and try to get a higher price for them than you were offering?’

  Wyse’s chair legs rasped harshly on the parquet floor as he pushed it back.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed our lunch up till now,’ he remarked with dignity, ‘but I think this joke is becoming one-sided. If you will excuse me—’

  ‘Hold on a second. You said you were disappointed with the spectacles, but I noticed that you took the chance of switching them for another pair under the table. You’re going to be even more disappointed when you get home. That’s a fake pair you’ve got. The real ones are now in the hands of Commissaire Renouk…’

  Wyse’s face gave a violent twitch.

  ‘God damn you, Temple !’ he shouted, and jerked upwards with his hands.

  The table with all its glasses and cups went crashing on its side. Simone Lalange gave a scream and jumped to one side. Wyse was standing facing Steve and me across the table. He had pulled an automatic from his pocket.

  ‘If anyone ever asked for this,’ he grated, ‘you did.’

  I saw his hand begin to tighten on the trigger. The next instant the roar of a revolver crashed against our ear-drum. The automatic leapt from Wyse’s hand and landed on the floor about ten feet away.

  ‘No. Don’t move,’ Simone Lalange said.

  With utter unbelief Wyse swung his eyes round to her. She was standing on firmly planted feet close to the wall and a safe distance away from him. A man-sized .38 revolver was rock-steady in her right hand, a wisp of smoke curling upwards from the barrel. It was a most incongruous sight – this beautifully turned out young woman with varnished finger-nails, false eye-lashes and immaculate hair, holding a lethal weapon with such undoubted assurance.

  ‘What the—? Who—?’

  Wyse could only stammer. He shook his head like a man who thinks he is dreaming.

  ‘Meet Mademoiselle Carrière of Interpol,’ I said. ‘She’s been on your track since Nice. But don’t be too downhearted. She had me fooled for a long time too.’

  Wyse took the useless glasses from his pocket and threw them among the debris of our lunch table.

  ‘I should have known after that incident at the El Passaro Club. I suppose it was you who removed the spectacles from Temple’s pocket and planted them in his wife’s handbag?’

  Simone smiled sweetly: ‘I believe I remember something of the kind.’

  ‘This is where I give up,’ Wyse said with disgust. ‘I think I’ve seen everything now.’

  Three days later Steve and I were on the plane to Milan, from where we would pick up another flight direct to London. In the seat facing us was a gentleman of advanced age who had retained the unmistakable stamp of a military man. He studied us carefully during the journey, and listened with attention when we discussed what we would do when we arrived back in London.

  We were losing height for the landing at Milan, when he leaned across the table and addressed himself to Steve.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my speaking to you like this, but I couldn’t help overhearing what you and your husband were saying. You are going on to London, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, we are.’

  The old gentleman reached into his travelling grip and brought out a square, flat parcel.

  ‘I wonder if I might ask you to do me a very small favour? I have to spend several days in Milan, and I am most anxious that this should reach my little granddaughter for her birthday. It’s to-morrow, and I really don’t trust the post.’

  Steve glanced at me, but I kept my head well down in my own book.

  ‘I don’t think I can do that,’ Steve said firmly. ‘My husband and I are both very particular about observing customs regulations.’

  ‘But it’s only a book!’ exclaimed the military gentleman. ‘I’ll unwrap it and show you.’

  He untied the knot and removed the paper. Then he held it up for Steve to see.

  ‘It’s only a copy of Alice in Wonderland. You can’t say that’s contraband.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Steve said definitely. ‘I can’t do it. We once knew some people who got into quite serious trouble through taking a package like that through the customs.’

  The old gentleman’s sniff showed clearly what he thought of us.

  ‘Well!’ he muttered as he wrapped the book up again. ‘Young people these days don’t seem prepared to raise a finger to help others.’

  About the Author

  Francis Henry Durbridge was born in Hull, Yorkshire, in 1912 and was educated at Bradford Grammar School. He was encouraged at an early age to write by his English teacher and went on to read English at Birmingham University. At the age of twenty-one he sold a play to the BBC and continued to write following his graduation whilst working as a stockbroker’s clerk.

  In 1938, he created the character Paul Temple, a crime novelist and detective. Many others followed and they were hugely successful until the last of the series was completed in 1968. In 1969, the Paul Temple series was adapted for television; and four of the adventures prior to this had been adapted for cinema, albeit with less success than radio and TV. Francis Durbridge also wrote for the stage and continued doing so up until 1991, when Sweet Revenge was completed. Additionally, he wrote over twenty other well-received novels, most of which were on the general subject of crime. The last, Fatal Encounter, was published after his death in 1998.

  Also in this series

  Send for Paul Temple

  Paul Temple and the Front Page Men

  News of Paul Temple

  Paul Temple Intervenes

  Send for Paul Temple Again!

  Paul Temple and the Kelby Affair

  Paul Temple and the Harkdale Robbery

  Paul Temple and the Geneva Mystery

  Paul Temple and the Curzon Case

  Paul Temple and the Margo Mystery

  Paul Temple and the Madison Case

  Light-Fingers: A Paul Temple Story (e-only)

  A Present from Paul Temple (e-only)

  About the Publisher

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