Francis Durbridge - Paul Temple - East of Algiers

Now that she was warming to the conversation the French girl’s English was improving. She seemed very interested indeed in all the circumstances of Judy Wincott’s murder and began to ply Steve with questions.

‘Do you believe it was an attempt to make the police believe you and your husband had committed the crime?’

Steve shot me a startled glance.

‘Good gracious, I don’t think so.’

‘But it is a fact that if the other monsieur had not been there you would have been in a situation – très embarassante.’

‘Well, perhaps we would—’ Steve began.

‘Though myself I think that she was murdered before she was brought to the room next to yours.’

‘Oh?’ Steve said. ‘Then why did the murderer make such a noise about placing her body in the cupboard?’

‘Well,’ the French girl said thoughtfully. ‘He may have wanted that you should do précisément that which you did – precipitate yourselves into the room where the body was finding itself.’

The aircraft had reached the end of the runway and the roar of the engines as the pilot tested them precluded further conversation. The stewardess had strapped herself into her own seat at the rear end. After a momentary hush the engines roared again and the machine began to rush over the ground at rapidly increasing speed. The French girl leant her head back against the seat cushion and I saw her throat move as she swallowed. It was the only sign she gave that she was nervous.

In a few moments our wheels were clear, the flight became smooth and the sea was below us, dropping away rapidly as the aircraft banked and turned southwards towards the North African coast. The sign enjoining passengers to desist from smoking went out, and from all around came the clinking of clasps as people released themselves from their safety belts.

As soon as her buckle was undone the French girl picked up her handbag, and her long, shapely fingers groped for a tiny gold cigarette-case. She took a cigarette, placed it carefully in a holder and put it in her mouth. Then she handed the case to Steve, who smiled and accepted one of the Egyptian cigarettes. The French girl felt in her bag again and produced a new container of book matches. The cover was plain blue, stamped in gilt with the initials S.L.

She struck a match and held it for Steve. I saw my wife staring in a very curious wav at the book matches. Then she collected herself and puffed at her light.

‘You like my matches?’ The French girl had also noticed Steve’s expression and was smiling. ‘These are my initials. Simone Lalange. It is quite charming, is it not?’

I thought Steve’s assent a little forced, and I was disappointed in her when she broke off the conversation. I began to wonder if she was feeling air-sick, for her expression had altered and she was watching me in an expectant kind of way.

I leaned across the table.

‘Feeling all right, Steve?’

‘Yes, thanks. More or less. I could use a brandy to steady my tummy though. We must have eaten that meal in record time.’

‘There’s a bar in the tail of this machine. Shall we go and have a drink?’

No one else had yet thought of visiting the bar, so we had the little compartment to ourselves.

‘Paul!’ Steve said excitedly as soon as the steward had moved behind his tiny counter. ‘You remember when we were standing outside that bedroom last night – just before we discovered the body?’

‘I do. Most emphatically.’

‘Well, I noticed something on the floor and picked it up. It was an empty box of book matches.’

‘Yes, I noticed you stooping and wondered what you’d dropped. I’d forgotten all about it.’

‘So had I. But I distinctly remember now. It had a blue cover with the initials S.L. on it.’

I shot an instinctive glance towards the seats we had just vacated.

‘You saw the book matches that French girl had,’ Steve pursued. ‘They were an exact replica.’

‘Did you tell the police about your find? It’s rather important.’

‘No. I’d forgotten all about it until now. The thing is still in the pocket of my dressing-gown. You know the way a shock drives everything that’s happened previously out of your mind?’

‘Perhaps it’s not so very important,’ I reassured her. ‘Mademoiselle Lalange may have been shown the room before it was allotted to Mr. Sam Leyland, or she may have thrown it away at any time when she was passing by.’

‘Maybe,’ Steve said doubtfully. ‘But did you hear what she had to say about the murder? She seemed to have more theories than anyone else.’

‘Well, if you really do regard her with suspicion, I suggest you behave in a more friendly way to her. She’s more likely to open up if you don’t give her the cold shoulder.’

‘Did I give her the cold shoulder?’

‘Yes. You closed up like a clam the moment she’d lit your cigarette for you. I can’t really bring myself to believe she’s mixed up in this, but I think you should cultivate her. In any case she’d make a very interesting friend for the family.’

Steve’s glance had the glint of a dagger in it.

‘I know you think my theories are all very amusing,’ she said. ‘But I’m convinced that some very monkey business is going on, and equally convinced that it has to do with those spectacles. It was because of them that Judy Wincott was murdered, and because of them that we were run down by that launch this morning. Someone is prepared to stop at nothing to prevent us delivering them to David Foster.’

‘Whereas you are not prepared to let anything stop you doing so?’

‘Right first time,’ Steve answered belligerently, and her mouth set in the firm line which indicates that she really means business.

The aircraft had gained its cruising height now and had levelled off. I set my drink down on the low bar table and watched Steve with amusement.

‘If the glasses are so vitally important I’m glad you took charge of them, Steve. By the way I suppose you still have them?’

‘Of course I have. They’re in my handbag.’

She opened her handbag to prove the point to me, and a second later was groping about feverishly among the collection of assorted and mysterious objects she keeps in there. Then she withdrew her hand and closed the bag deliberately.

‘They’re gone! Someone must have taken them from my bag since we got on the plane. They were there when we showed our tickets. That French girl! I knew she—’

Steve was already rising when I put a hand to stop her. I patted my handkerchief pocket where the glasses were safely reposing.

‘I thought it wise to relieve you of the responsibility. Have you forgotten that since we’ve been married you’ve lost three of the handbags I gave you?’

Steve looked at me with undisguised repugnance as she rose to her feet.

‘You are not fit to command the loyalty of a decent woman,’ she said in her most regal tone, and marched out of the bar.

I was not left alone in the bar for long. Either by chance or because he had seen Steve leave, Tony Wyse appeared within a few moments. He greeted me enthusiastically, and after ordering a brandy and soda sat down beside me. He had changed for the journey into a dark grey suit, suède bootees and a striped tie. After the events of the previous night and the rescue operations that morning he was prepared to regard me as a long-lost brother.

‘One thing puzzles me about that business last night, Temple. When you opened the cupboard door and disclosed the simply ghastly spectacle of that slaughtered girl, your wife gave vent to a comment which has made me ponder more than somewhat. She seemed to know at once who it was.’

Wyse raised his glass, but he was studying me closely as he put his question.