Francis Durbridge - Paul Temple and the Madison Case

‘It’s some city, isn’t it?’ He gave her an infectious grin. ‘You know, I’ve heard a lot of English people say they wouldn’t like to live in New York, but I just can’t imagine why they say that. It’s got everything.’

‘That’s probably why they wouldn’t like to live there.’

‘Yeah?’ His voice had become a little suspicious, wary. ‘That’s too subtle for me.’

‘Is this your first trip to England?’ Steve asked, deciding to keep the conversation on more conventional lines.

‘M’m-m’m, I guess it is.’ He nodded then added seriously, ‘At least I don’t think I’ve been there before.’

‘You don’t think …?’ Steve laughed, taking it as a joke. ‘Don’t you know?’

‘Well, you see, I only …’ He hesitated, then abruptly his manner changed. He held out his hand. ‘Maybe we ought to introduce ourselves. My name is Portland, Sam Portland.’

Steve took the proffered hand, which grasped hers strongly.

‘I’m Mrs Temple.’

‘Was that your husband I saw you with – the tall, tired-looking gentleman?’

‘Yes, that was my husband.’

Sam Portland was looking at her with renewed interest. ‘I’ve read quite a lot about your husband, Mrs Temple, but somehow I never imagined he looked like that.’

‘Confidentially he doesn’t.’ Steve smiled. ‘He’s suffering from an overdose of American hospitality.’

‘Oh, so that’s it,’ Portland said with a conspiratorial chuckle.

‘He’ll look quite different tomorrow.’ Steve assured him.

‘Maybe we’ll all look different tomorrow.’

‘Why, is it going to be rough?’

Hearing Steve’s tone of alarm Portland put his hands up, palm towards her. ‘No, no! Aren’t you a good sailor?’

‘Not very,’ Steve admitted.

‘Well that’s O.K. I’ll fix it,’ Portland promised with a twinkle. ‘I’ll have a word with the Captain. Don’t worry Mrs Temple, it’ll be as smooth as a glass of milk.’ Then he added, as an afterthought, ‘I hope.’

‘Look!’ Steve exclaimed. ‘There’s the Empire State coming into view now.’

As if to salute it, the Princess Diana gave two blasts of her horn. A few seconds later a multiple echo came back across the water from the impressive skyscrapers. Steve shivered and pulled the shawl tighter round her shoulders.

Thanks to the generosity of the American publishers the Temples had one of the special state rooms on the topmost deck of the liner. The suite consisted of a bedroom with bathroom en suite and a luxuriously appointed sitting room with VCR, TV, compact disc and radio plus a direct dial satellite telephone. A door gave access to their private veranda on the starboard side.

Temple was tying his bow tie in the bedroom mirror. Two cocktail glasses, delivered by room service, stood on the low table.

‘I ordered your usual dry Martini, darling. I hope that’s right.’

‘Perfect.’ Steve slid open the door of the long wardrobe where her dresses had been hung. ‘Now, what shall I wear?’

‘What about that Yuki you bought at Bloomingdale’s?’

‘No, I think I’ll keep that for the last night.’

Steve selected a dress, laid it on the bed and began to take off her tights.

‘Paul, have you ever heard of a man called Sam Portland?’

‘Sam Portland? Good lord yes! Why?’

‘He’s on board. I’ve just been having a chat with him.’

‘You’ve heard of Sam Portland. Portland’s Yeast … It’s all over America.’

‘Oh, is that him?’

‘Yes, that’s Mr Portland all right. What’s he like?’

‘I rather liked him, but …’

Temple gave his bow a final tweak and turned. ‘But what?’

‘He said rather a peculiar thing, darling. I asked him if he’d ever been to England before and he said, “No, I don’t think so”.’

‘He doesn’t think so? Surely he knows whether he’s been to England or not! He was pulling your leg.’

‘No, he wasn’t.’ Steve threw her discarded tights onto a chair. ‘He was serious.’

‘Must have been pulling your leg.’

‘Paul, he wasn’t,’ she insisted. ‘I simply asked him whether he’d ever been …’

‘Steve, for goodness sake stop arguing and get dressed, otherwise we’ll be late for dinner.’

Steve stood up and put a hand on the back of the chair.

‘Oh dear …’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘The cabin’s swaying … I hope it’s not going to be rough …’

‘You’re imagining things. We’re only just passing Ellis Island.’

Room service had brought the Temples breakfast in bed, served on two trays with short legs. The lavish spread was entirely wasted on Steve, who could only nibble a piece of toast and sip a cup of coffee. Temple had got up and dressed soon afterwards and taken the lift down to the Promenade Deck. He wanted to get some exercise and had made three circuits of the ship before he paused, leaning on the rail and looking out over the bows. The ship was sailing at her cruising speed of 29 knots.

It was a fine, sunny day and the sea was calm. America had long since slipped down over the horizon, somewhere beyond the straight white wake churned up by the twelve blades of the twin propellers.

‘Excuse me, sir … Mr Temple?’

Warily Temple turned to look at the man who had come up to lean on the rail beside him.

‘Yes?’

‘My name is Portland.’

Temple’s face relaxed into a warm smile. ‘Oh, good morning, Mr Portland.’

‘I had the pleasure of meeting your wife last night, Mr Temple …’

‘Yes, so she told me.’

‘I was wondering how the little lady was feeling this morning.’

‘She’s not too good, I’m afraid.’

‘On a diet?’ Sam Portland suggested tactfully.

‘Strictly on a diet,’ Temple replied with a straight face.

‘Well now, that’s too bad. If there’s anything I can do for Mrs Temple, please let me know.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’

A little posse of youngsters in jogging gear trotted past, laughing and joking amongst themselves. Temple pointed to the deck chairs which had been set out by the crew.

‘Won’t you sit down?’

‘Why thank you, sir!’ Sam Portland lowered himself carefully into a chair and held up his large half-smoked cigar. ‘Does my smoking bother you?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Would you like a cigar?’

‘Thank you, not at the moment.’

The American drew thoughtfully on his Havana cigar. ‘Mr Temple, I was very thrilled when I saw your name on the passenger list last night.’

‘Indeed?’

‘I’ve been an admirer of yours for some considerable time. As a matter of fact I once wrote you a letter.’

‘I can’t recall ever having received a letter from you, Mr Portland.’

‘No, you didn’t receive it, for the simple reason that I didn’t post it.’ Portland chuckled. ‘My wife persuaded me to change my mind.’

‘I see,’ Temple said, somewhat mystified.

‘Mr Temple, forgive me talking shop at this time of the morning but have you heard of a private investigator – a detective – by the name of Madison?’

‘Madison? No.’

‘I rather imagine he’s pretty well known in your country.’

‘Well, he can’t be very well known or I should have heard of him.’

‘Are you sure you haven’t? Madison.’ Portland spelt the name out letter by letter.

‘Quite sure.’

‘Well, now that’s very curious.’ Portland shrugged ‘Still, why should I worry if he gets the results.’

‘Is he working for you?’

‘Er-yes. Actually he’s employed by my London representative, a man called Hubert Greene.’

‘What is Madison doing exactly?’