Francis Durbridge - Paul Temple and the Geneva Mystery

Eventually she whispered, ‘I told you, keep out of this affair. You mustn’t…’

The nurse tapped Paul on the shoulder and indicated that his time was up. Dolly had fallen asleep and the drug would keep her that way for several hours. There was no sense, he thought, in such savagery, no necessity at all.

‘She’ll be all right, Mr Temple,’ said the house doctor as they left the ward. ‘But her head wounds are rather delicate so we have to take care.’

‘Of course,’ said Paul. ‘Do everything you can for her, please. I’ll pay whatever is necessary, and if it’s a question of plastic surgery phone Sir Thomas Staines, he’s a friend of mine.’

‘Don’t worry, Mr Temple.’

Don’t worry. Paul went off down the corridor. His footsteps echoed and in the distance trolleys and pans made noises that reverberated through the tiled passages. Hospitals were full of impersonal sounds at night. No, he wouldn’t worry. The lift gates clattered and he left Dolly Brazier five floors behind. It read ‘Theatre’ on the signboard for Dolly’s floor.

She had told Paul not to worry, throughout rehearsals and even after the appalling reviews. Don’t worry, darling, it’s your first play, you can always write another one. She had been a resilient, happy kid. Loyal and affectionate. She didn’t deserve to end up in a heap behind the Kilburn High Road.

Paul stepped into the road and waved down a taxi.

Margaret Milbourne said good evening to the commissionaire as he held open the door. It was ten past six, an appropriate ten minutes late. She didn’t approve of punctuality, it cheapened one so, however anxious she was to meet this mysterious Danny what’s-his-name. As she walked through the foyer she glanced at the wall mirror and lifted her head a shade higher. It was important to look serene in the midst of tragedy.

Danny Clayton, that was his name. He had sounded young and American on the telephone, and he had some information about her husband. She pushed through the swing doors to the cocktail bar. A smattering of customers, a desultory air of opulence, and a forlorn man playing muzack at the piano. She thought it should be possible to recognise Danny Clayton by instinct – he would be the slim, hawk nosed youth who was watching the other customers with something like amused contempt.

‘Can I get you anything?’ asked the barman.

‘Not for the moment, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m meeting a Mr Clayton. I believe he’s staying here.’

He was the slim, hawk nosed youth. He ordered drinks and guided Margaret across to a corner seat. His absentminded good manners unnerved her slightly. He said it was good of her to spare the time, but he spoke with such casual insincerity that she couldn’t think how to reply.

‘Who are you exactly?’ she asked. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’m Danny Clayton, I’m thirty years old, I was born in New York, I work for Julia Carrington, and I wanted to see you about your husband.’

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