Paul Temple and the Tyler Mystery. Francis Durbridge

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СКАЧАТЬ You can ask him to give you an advance on the film rights. What day shall we go? We’ll fly, of course. Can we stay at the Pompadour again? I love being near the Champs-Élysées.’

      As she talked Steve disengaged herself from Temple and with apparent casualness picked up the paper from the sofa, folded it and pushed it in amongst the other periodicals in the magazine rack. Temple watched her with amusement. He could see perfectly clearly what was going on in her mind.

      ‘You needn’t bother, Steve. I’ve seen it already.’

      ‘Seen what, darling—?’

      ‘The report of the Tyler murder.’

      ‘The Tyler murder? What’s that?’

      Steve knew he had seen through her, but for the sake of appearances she kept up the deception a little longer.

      He took the paper out of the rack, found the passage and read it aloud:

      ‘“Police are still baffled by the case which has already become known as the Tyler Mystery. Blonde, pretty Betty Tyler, aged 24, was found strangled in a stolen car on the outskirts of Oxford the night before last by a police patrol car. Betty worked at the Oxford salon of Mariano, fashionable Mayfair beauty culturist, whence she had recently been transferred from London—”’

      ‘That’s the Courier,’ interrupted Steve. ‘Have you seen the Echo?’

      ‘Not yet.’

      ‘Let me read it to you: “Scotland Yard has been called in by the Chief Constable of Oxford. Interviewed today at the Yard, Sir Graham Forbes denied a report that approaches had been made to Paul Temple, the well-known novelist and criminologist. Knowledgeable observers, however, reaffirm that this case sets precisely the kind of problem in which Temple has so often assisted the police in the past”.’

      Temple’s eyes were thoughtful for a moment. Then he knocked his drink back and carried the empty glass to the corner cupboard.

      ‘That’s just journalistic patter. I’ve no intention of becoming involved in the Tyler affair. We’ve enough on our hands as it is, Steve.’

      ‘That’s exactly what I think. When I read about this, I felt certain that Sir Graham would ask your help.’

      ‘So you hid the paper. Did you honestly think I wouldn’t notice?’

      ‘Not really.’ Steve grimaced at him impishly. ‘But I don’t want to miss out on that Paris trip.’

      ‘You won’t. The Tyler case is not going to upset our plans.’

      ‘I wish I could feel certain about that.’ Steve’s expression had become moody. She fiddled absent-mindedly with the flowers she had arranged in the bowl. ‘I have the funniest feeling that it’s going to upset our plans very much.’

      ‘You and your intuition! How often does it really mean anything?’

      Steve straightened up with a frown of mock sternness.

      ‘More often than you’re prepared to admit, Mr T.’

      The following Wednesday was the first day of summer; not the calendar summer, but the true summer, whose coming is like a thief in the night – no man can foretell it. Temple was glad that his business took him along New Bond Street. The thoroughfare was crisp and gay in the warm morning sunshine. The slow-moving cars sparkled and after a chilly spring every woman worth her salt had come forth in a new summer creation. Even Mayfair Man had reduced his habitual vigilance against the climate. Umbrellas had been left at home and though the bowler could not be discarded without affronting protocol, it was being carried in the hand rather than upon the head. Temple himself had greeted the coming of summer by purchasing half a dozen bow ties at Maddingly’s and had changed into one at the shop.

      He called at Justerini and Brooks and over a glass of Conquistador sherry discussed with his wine merchant the vintages which he was going to lay down at the Eaton Square flat. His way back to Berkeley Square, where he had parked the Frazer Nash, took him past Anderson’s Art Gallery. His thoughts were on burgundy and château-bottled clarets and he was almost past the window when he stopped. His eye had been arrested by a splash of Mediterranean colour. He went back slowly and stood studying the picture in the window with half-closed eyes. Though it was the only painting in the window it was displayed rather artificially on an easel and the drapings behind it were distracting. Temple could not easily visualise it on his own drawing-room wall.

      On an impulse he walked into the shop. The moment he crossed the threshold he entered a world of decorous coolness and silence. The light in here was subdued after the sunshine outside and his feet were cushioned by a thick carpet of a discreet buff shade. There were pictures everywhere, mostly modern. His eye was attacked by stark Gauginesque jibes at the female form and vivid fantasias on oriental or hispanic landscapes.

      ‘Good morning, sir.’

      The voice might have come from a radio set. It was musical and carefully modulated. Its tone managed to suggest that the speaker was prepared to proffer the courtesy title of Sir to his customers but they must not infer thereby that he was in any sense inferior to them socially. The voice had come from behind Temple. He turned round.

      The young man was quite as tall as Temple and met his scrutiny unblinkingly. He wore a very well-tailored suit of dark grey flannel with a horizontal stripe which Temple found a shade too bold. His shirt was of cream silk and the cuffs emerged just the correct distance from his coat sleeve. When he put a hand up to brush back a straying curl from his brow a set of gold cuff-links was displayed, stamped with some unchallengeable crest.

      ‘Can I show you something, sir?’

      ‘Yes. I’m interested in that picture you have in the window.’

      ‘Oh yes? The Kappel study of Port Manech.’

      ‘I thought it might be a Raoul Dufy.’

      ‘It’s very much the same style,’ the young man looked at Temple with a little more interest. ‘You like it?’

      ‘That’s rather hard to say. As a picture I like it very much, but I’m wondering how it will look on the wall of my drawing-room.’

      ‘That’s easily settled.’ The salesman had evidently decided from the cut of Temple’s jib that he was a customer and not merely a sightseer. ‘We can send it round and you can try it. If you don’t like the picture you have only to notify us and it will be taken away again. No obligation to you at all.’

      Seeing that the suggestion did not please Temple as much as most customers, he added: ‘Alternatively I can have it hung in our display-room right away.’

      ‘I think that’s a better idea.’

      The young man spoke the name Tripp on a register only a little above his speaking voice and an old character in a baize apron appeared from the back of the shop.

      ‘Tripp, will you bring the Kappel that’s in the window into the display-room. If you’ll come this way, sir.’

      He led Temple to a three-sided space at the back of the shop. One wall consisted of a number of hinged panels so that the approximate colour of any room could be provided as a background to the picture displayed.

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