Francis Durbridge - Paul Temple and the Geneva Mystery

Paul rearranged the flowers he had brought for her. They were gladioli and he wondered absently where flowers came from at this time of year. ‘She told me to take care,’ he said quietly. ‘Not to become involved.’ Perhaps they were imported from the Bahamas. If they have gladioli in the Bahamas.

‘Involved in what?’ Steve asked. ‘In the Milbourne affair?’

‘I didn’t intend to tell you about this, Steve,’ he said. ‘Not today. You need to rest –’

‘I’ll rest when I know what’s going on. I have to be kept in the picture, and you just remember that, Temple!’

Paul laughed and said, ‘Of course I will, darling.’ He kissed her and ruffled her hair so that it partially covered the bandage. ‘I’ll rest better myself when I know what’s going on.’ He went to the door and blew her a kiss. ‘Sleep well, darling.’

He found Kate in his workroom, sitting at his desk and talking briskly on the telephone. Daunting, Paul thought to himself, she must have routed crime like a battleship in her day. He had a brief mental picture of her tossing gangsters across the police station, reducing full grown bruisers to tears.

‘No lead there, Mr Temple,’ she said as she hung up. ‘Mrs Milbourne didn’t tell anyone about her visit, except her brother. She hasn’t seen many people socially since her husband –’

‘I’m not surprised. Kate, will you stay and keep an eye on my wife for a couple of hours? I think I’d better visit Mrs Milbourne’s brother. And after that I might find out a little more about Dolly Brazier’s current job.’

Maurice Lonsdale greeted him like an old friend and insisted that they should dine together. ‘So much more civilised than talking in the office,’ he said. ‘I’m told the trout is superb this week.’

Paul agreed to sample the trout.

‘I’m glad you saw my sister, Temple.’ He had a good memory and ordered the dry sherry Paul had had the last time. ‘But I hope you didn’t take her story too seriously. You see, Margaret has always been highly strung, even when she was in the theatre.’

‘Apart from being highly strung,’ said Paul, ‘she’s also highly intelligent. I don’t think we can completely dismiss everything she says.’

‘Good gracious me, of course not,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m not suggesting we should, Temple. Not for one minute. But I did go out to Switzerland with her. I saw Carl after the accident and I identified him.’ He paused while the waiter placed the soup before them. ‘However, you’re a busy man. I’m sure you had a particular reason for coming to see me this evening.’

Paul nodded. ‘I want to know who else you’ve discussed this business with. Who, apart from your sister, knows that I’ve been consulted?’

‘A curious question,’ he murmured thoughtfully.

‘An important one.’

Lonsdale thought for a moment. ‘I may have mentioned you casually to some friends or acquaintances when we were talking about my sister. I would have seen no reason for not doing so.’ He tipped the bowl in the wrong direction to reach the last spoonful of soup. ‘Why is it so important?’

‘Because,’ Paul said grimly, ‘while my wife and I were talking to you last night my car was stolen. The man who stole it was shot – in mistake for me. And at lunchtime today there was a deliberate attempt to kill my wife.’

Lonsdale stared in amazement. As he blinked it looked as if he were lowering shutters over the cold grey eyes to keep out the truth. ‘And you think that both these –’

‘I think that someone is deliberately trying to stop me taking an interest in the Milbourne case.’

Lonsdale shook his head and muttered, ‘No, it’s not possible. No, never.’ He pushed the empty plate aside and looked again at Paul. ‘There’s only one person, but she’s the soul of discretion. I discussed my sister and the car accident at length with a very good friend of mine, and I remember I did mention you. She had read several of your books –’

‘Could you tell me her name?’

‘Freda Sands.’

Paul had heard of Freda Sands. She ran a secretarial bureau in Baker Street, and whenever highly successful businesswomen were needed by television or press interviewers they contrived to interview her. She was dynamic, attractive, and she didn’t believe in the equality of the sexes because she knew she was superior to any man. She made good copy and she photographed well. Paul wondered where she found the time to read his books.

‘You must meet her,’ said Lonsdale, ‘I’m sure both you and Mrs Temple would enjoy her company. I’ll arrange a little dinner party one evening.’

‘That would be pleasant,’ Paul murmured.

He was wondering whether this was the flaw in Lonsdale’s character – the social ambitions of a millionaire to know and be seen with the fashionable people of the moment. As Paul was thinking this through the waiter approached the table with a message.

‘Excuse me, Mr Lonsdale,’ he said, ‘but I have a message for Mr Temple. An Inspector Vosper telephoned. He wants to see you immediately, sir, at the Middlesex Hospital.’

‘Did he say why?’ asked Paul, rising in alarm.

‘No, sir. But it sounded urgent.’

Lonsdale rose to his feet as well. ‘Gaston, send my chauffeur round to the entrance. I’m sorry, Temple, I hope it’s nothing to do with your wife’s accident. My chauffeur will run you to the hospital in ten minutes.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’

Charlie Vosper was sitting in the corridor of the casualty wing, smoking an impatient cigarette under a No Smoking notice when Paul arrived. He stubbed out the cigarette on the gleaming floor. ‘So you got my message,’ he said. ‘I telephoned your home and Detective Sergeant Balfour –’

‘You mean Kate,’ he interrupted. ‘What’s happened? Who has been hurt?’

‘About an hour ago one of our people found a woman called Dolly Brazier in a cul-de-sac off the Kilburn High Road. She’d been very severely done over, I’m afraid.’

‘How severely?’ Paul snapped.

‘Very,’ he sighed. ‘I don’t suppose she’s going to die, but that isn’t everything, is it? She was obviously an attractive girl before –’ He smiled sadly. ‘The poor kid’s only spoken twice, and on both occasions she asked for you.’

Paul went into the tiny ward. He scarcely heard the doctor say something about having given her an injection. He moved the screen aside and sat by the bed. The brutality of her attackers made him feel sick.

‘Can you hear me, Dolly?’ he asked softly. ‘It’s Paul.’

Her hand moved slightly and Paul took it in his. A plastic bag was connected to her arm transfusing blood, and her face was swathed in white dressings. The room was silent except for Dolly’s laboured breathing beneath the broken ribs.

‘Who was it?’ he asked. ‘Who did this to you, Dolly?’

‘I don’t know,’ she whispered.

‘You must tell me,’ Paul said firmly. ‘I’ll make sure nothing else happens to you –’

But she wasn’t listening. ‘I’m going to get better, aren’t I, Paul? I’m too young to die –’

‘Don’t be silly, of course you’re going to get better.’ He squeezed her hand and waited for her to recover herself. She seemed to have that phrase, ‘too young to die’, firmly lodged in her mind. It was the second time she had used it.

‘I asked the doctor about my face,’ she said, speaking with difficulty. ‘About the stitches. But he wouldn’t tell me anything. Is it a mess, Paul?’

‘You’ll soon be beautiful again,’ he said with false cheerfulness. ‘It’s a bit of a mess now, but you’re in good hands. Just be a good girl and tell me why you were attacked.’