Francis Durbridge - Paul Temple and the Tyler Mystery

Vosper licked a forefinger and turned over a page of his notebook. Steve, watching her husband’s face, had noted the two horizontal lines which always appeared between his brows when his interest was captured by a problem.

‘On Thursday of last week, Westeral travelled to Oxford for the purpose of seeing Betty Tyler. He took her out to lunch—’

‘Early closing day in Oxford,’ Temple observed. Vosper looked up sharply, caught off balance for just a moment. Then he smiled, like a batsman who spots a googly and plays it back to the bowler.

‘Not at Mister Mariano’s. The girl was back at work the same afternoon. But that night she was found by a police patrol in an abandoned car on the outskirts of Oxford – the Chipping Norton road to be precise. The car was a Jaguar which had been reported missing by its owner, an Oxford accountant named Gerald Walters. He had been at a late business conference and came out to find the car gone.’

‘She had been strangled and her body placed in the capacious luggage boot,’ supplied Temple. ‘That much I do know.’

‘Yes. Strangled with her own scarf.’

‘That’s established, is it?’

‘Quite definitely. It was a silk scarf of French manufacture printed with pictures of well-known monuments in Paris.’

‘“Strangling were surer, but this is quainter”,’ quoted Temple.

‘What’s that?’

‘Nothing. Go on with the story.’

‘Naturally we checked up on Westeral. He claimed he knew nothing about it. He returned to London on the 3.24 from Oxford and went straight to his club, where he stayed till late that evening.’ Vosper saw Temple’s eye stray and knew that he was thinking in terms of Bradshaw. ‘It’s all right, Mr Temple, there is a 3.24 from Oxford. And several people saw Westeral on that train. We checked at his club too and he definitely stayed there till close on midnight. He’s telling the truth all right.’

‘Did he tell you why he went to Oxford in the first place?’

‘Yes. I asked him that. He admitted that he went with the intention of persuading the girl to patch things up with him. He also admitted that he failed to do so.’

The telephone bell had been ringing in the hall for several minutes. Now Charlie put his head round the door and looked at Temple enquiringly.

‘I’m out, Charlie. Ask them to leave a number and I’ll call back later. Go on, Inspector, sorry about the interruption.’

Sir Graham, who was almost as accurate as Steve in assessing Temple’s reactions, thought to himself: ‘He’s hooked all right.’

‘I made exhaustive enquiries in Oxford,’ Vosper went on. ‘My best informant by a long way was a girl called Jill Graves, who also worked at Mariano’s salon in Oxford. The girl Tyler, she told me, seemed very depressed after her lunch date with Westeral. She also told me that during the afternoon she answered the telephone. The caller asked to speak to Betty Tyler and gave his name as Harry. She heard the girl arrange to meet this mysterious Harry that evening. Neither Jill Graves nor anyone else could throw any light on the identity of “Harry”. So far as is known she had never received a telephone call from him before.’

The introduction of the name ‘Harry’ was a cue for Vosper to pause and stare at Temple. Temple stared back. During the short silence they could all hear the clatter of knives and plates as Charlie laid the table for lunch in the adjoining dining-room. Steve began to hum gently. Only Temple realised the significance of the tune she had hit on: ‘I love Paris—’ He gave her an appreciative smile and helped himself to a cigarette from the box on the coffee table.

‘Why should you assume that this unknown Harry has anything to do with my old friend Shelford? It’s a common enough name.’

The question was directed at Sir Graham and it was he who answered.

‘When Betty Tyler’s digs in Oxford were searched a piece of paper was found in the handbag she had been carrying during the day – just a small piece of paper such as you might tear out of a pocket notebook. It had the name Harry Shelford on it and the numerals 930.’

‘I still don’t believe that Harry would have anything to do with murder. He’s a thorough-going rascal, we know that. But he’s not a dangerous criminal. He is the last type to commit murder.’

‘I agree,’ Sir Graham said peaceably. ‘But obviously that is a line of investigation which we cannot afford to neglect. That brings me to the real reason for our visit.’

He stood up and once again took over the centre of the hearth rug. Vosper snapped the band of his notebook and stowed it away in some secret part of his clothing.

‘Harry Shelford has a sister – a married sister called Mrs Draper – who runs an extremely popular hotel called The Dutch Treat at Sonning.’

‘I’ve heard of it. The food is reputed to be really good.’

‘Now, what I came to ask you was this: would you drive down to Sonning, talk to Mrs Draper, find out where her brother is exactly and what he’s up to?’

‘She’ll talk to you,’ Vosper put in with sad conviction. ‘If I approached her it would have to be on an official basis. She might take offence and refuse to help me at all. At the best she would be unlikely to say anything which might be detrimental to her brother.’

‘She knows you helped Harry when he was released. It will seem natural for you to inquire how he’s getting on.’ Sir Graham turned from Temple to Steve. She was watching the exchange with a mischievous smile on her dark, attractive face. ‘Surely you and your husband could drive down to Sonning for lunch one day, Steve. It would help us out.’

Temple relaxed. For Steve’s sake he had been prepared to refuse. Now that the question had been put to her direct he would take his cue from her answer. She looked quizzically up at Sir Graham.

‘We’re not doing anything special tomorrow, Paul. It would be rather fun to sample the cooking at The Dutch Treat and see if it’s as good as everyone makes out.’

‘What do you know about this Mariano, Steve?’

Temple called through into the bedroom from his dressing-room. He and Steve had been to the theatre and then dined with some friends in Soho. They had refused an invitation to go on to a night club. Temple did not want to blunt his wits or palate on the eve of the outing to Sonning.

‘I’ve never been to him myself. I prefer to stick to my Doris. But I believe he’s really brilliant. Several of my friends have started going to him lately. He must be making a packet out of it. He’s opened several branches in provincial towns.’

‘What sort of person is he himself?’

‘Definitely rather glamorous, darling.’

‘Amorous?’

‘Gerlamorous,’ Steve sang. ‘It’s not very polite to shout at ladies from other rooms.’

Temple undid his tie and walked to the threshold between the two rooms. His own dressing-room was square, utilitarian and exclusively mahogany. It was rather like the captain’s cabin in a small naval vessel. After its dark severity the bedroom made his senses reel. He had given Steve a free hand with it. The carpet was a deep wine colour and all the furniture was white. Over the bed was suspended a kind of panoply, bordered with stiff nylon frills. Temple always felt a little like Don Juan when he invaded this essentially feminine domain.

Steve was sitting before her triple mirrors, sheathed in silk, combing her hair.

‘In what way glamorous?’ Temple asked suspiciously.

Steve stopped combing and gazed at her reflection.

‘Well, he’s handsome – and foreign, of course. Rather an actor, by all I can gather. I mean, he knows how to put himself across.’