Paul Temple and the Tyler Mystery. Francis Durbridge

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ you’d call it duck-egg blue.’

      ‘Something like – that?’

      ‘Near enough.’

      The young man offered Temple a cigarette while Tripp laboured by with the picture and hung it on the wall, slightly skew-whiff. Temple refused, but he noted that the cigarette-case was gold and the lighter with which the salesman lit his own Benson and Hedges belonged to the same set.

      ‘I like it,’ Temple said as soon as he saw the picture on the wall. ‘I can see what’s wrong now. It’s the frame. It would clash with the furniture. Our stuff is mostly antique.’

      The other man’s eyebrows rose just a fraction, but he gave no other sign of his opinion of people who mingled modern art with antique furniture. He was too good a salesman. Temple interpreted his expression correctly but ignored it.

      ‘I’d prefer a slightly more ornate frame. And I think a little depth in the frame would give a more three-dimensional effect to the picture.’

      ‘Certainly we can change the frame, sir.’ The salesman nodded to the waiting Tripp and led Temple to another section of the shop. After some consideration he selected a grey frame flecked with gilt which gave the stippled effect he was after.

      ‘It will take a day or two to make the frame, you understand, sir. May we send it to you?’

      ‘If you would. What’s the price of the picture, by the way?’

      ‘Forty guineas, sir. We’ll send you the account in due course – and the name and address?’

      ‘Temple.’

      ‘Paul Temple?’ The young man glanced quickly up from the pad on which he was writing.

      ‘That’s right,’ Temple answered with a smile. ‘The address is 127a, Eaton Square.’

      ‘127a, Eaton Square.’

      ‘You’ve no idea what day it will be coming?’

      ‘I can’t say exactly, Mr Temple, but it should be early next week. Say Monday or Tuesday.’

      ‘The sooner the better.’

      The young man had produced his wallet. He selected a visiting card from one of the pockets and handed it to Temple.

      ‘Just in case there’s any query.’

      Temple glanced at the card. It bore the name Stephen Brooks, written clearly in a Sweet Roman Hand, which he took to be a reproduction of the young man’s own calligraphy. He picked up his hat from the table.

      ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Brooks.’

      ‘Not at all, sir. I hope I may have the pleasure again some day.’

      Even at the time Temple was puzzled by the peculiar emphasis which he placed on these words.

      Temple drove himself home, his thoughts so occupied with his purchase that he did not pay any particular attention to the black Humber parked a little way down the street from his own entrance. He let himself into the flat, but before he could burst into the drawing-room, Charlie, the Temples’ cook, butler, handyman and watchdog, emerged from the door leading to his own quarters.

      ‘Hold it, Mr T.’

      Charlie’s voice was hushed and conspiratorial. Temple tried to hide the annoyance he always felt when addressed by initial. The thirty-year-old Cockney was a faithful and irreplaceable servant but his familiarity sometimes bordered on insolence.

      ‘What is it, Charlie?’

      ‘I’ve a message for you. It’s from Mrs T.’

      ‘From Mrs Temple? Has she gone out?’

      ‘No. She’s in there.’ Charlie ignored the reproof implied in Temple’s correction and stabbed a finger towards the closed drawing-room door. ‘But Sir Graham Forbes and that Inspector Vosper are here. She told me to warn you so as you could start thinking up your defence.’

      Temple smiled to himself as he laid a hand on the door knob. There was no need for Steve to worry. He had a good idea what had brought Sir Graham to the flat but he was as determined as she was not to be diverted from that trip to Paris. The knob turned under his hand as someone opened the door from inside. It was Steve. During the moment while the door screened them she shook one finger at him in a gesture of warning.

      ‘Ah, there you are at last, darling,’ she said loudly. ‘Look who’s come to visit us.’

      Sir Graham was facing the wall at the far side of the room, scrutinising the picture hung there through a monocle which he used like a magnifying glass. Detective Inspector Vosper had declined to remove his overcoat. As Temple entered he rose to his feet and nodded but left all the talking to his superior.

      ‘Temple,’ boomed Sir Graham in the vibrant voice which in days long past he had developed in the forecourt of Buckingham Palace. ‘Good to see you again. I was telling Steve: I like the way you’ve done this place up. It’s honest. Reflects your personalities. None of this nonsense – the Louis XIV salon, the Marie Antoinette boudoir. What wonderfully proportioned rooms these old houses have! I was just trying to figure out this painting. Looks like one of those Venetian fellows. It’s original, of course.’

      The picture that had attracted Forbes’ attention was a modest canvas about eighteen inches by twelve. It represented a wild, prophetic head with flaming cheeks and turbulent red hair.

      ‘As a matter of fact you’ve put your finger on the gem of the bunch. That’s a Tiepolo. John the Baptist.’

      ‘Is it, indeed?’ Sir Graham turned on his heel to quiz the picture again. ‘I thought he confined himself to painting ceilings. Trompe l’oeil and that sort of thing.’

      ‘By no means. He’s not so well known for his portraits but there are plenty of them.’

      Temple tried to dismiss the subject by his casual tone. He caught Steve’s eye.

      ‘I was just telling Sir Graham about our plans to visit Paris, darling.’ Steve spoke pointedly and Temple spotted Vosper’s sudden embarrassed glance at Sir Graham. ‘What’ll you drink, Paul?’

      ‘Same as usual; Steve has looked after you, Sir Graham – Inspector?’

      The two men lifted their still well-filled glasses to show that Steve had not failed to offer them hospitality. With a twinkle in his eye Temple watched Sir Graham move round the back of the sofa until he occupied the commanding position in front of the fireplace. It was the stance he habitually took up when he was about to broach some difficult business.

      Forbes was an old friend of the Temples. He was a splendid example of an Englishman who has been shaped by the successive processes of school, university, military service and public office. At the age of sixty he was as fully in possession of his faculties as ever and had behind him a lifetime of rich experience. He was still handsome enough to attract the glances of women and when men saw him they were reminded of the Older Man who figures in advertisements for gentlemen’s clothing – broad shoulders, bristling grey moustache, bushy eyebrows and a certain aura of unshakable confidence СКАЧАТЬ