Paul Temple and the Geneva Mystery. Francis Durbridge

think about it.’ Steve quickly refilled their glasses. ‘Yes! I’ve thought about it. But if we go to Switzerland –’

      Paul finished the sentence for her. ‘You’ll need an awful lot of new clothes, darling.’

      ‘Well,’ Steve laughed, ‘it’s true, isn’t it? You wouldn’t want me to look twelve months out of date.’

      ‘A fate worse than death,’ Paul agreed. But he knew as he spoke that he was being tiresomely male in joking about her clothes. ‘I want you always to look as elegant as you do tonight,’ he added gallantly.

      They discussed Switzerland for the next half hour. Steve wanted to book a hotel and arrange a flight immediately and Paul was reluctant to go before Friday. He was being interviewed on Friday by a lady from one of the posh Sunday papers, and Paul didn’t want to postpone it. She was bound to talk about symbolism in his work and the place of good and evil in the English detective novel. She would produce the kind of article that pleased Scott Reed.

      ‘Scott still feels that if a novel is popular he shouldn’t have published it,’ Paul laughed. ‘But a piece of pretentious criticism will knock ten thousand off my sales and he’ll be able to tell his accounts department that it’s literature.’

      He would have developed the idea, but Steve’s attention had strayed to a bland man at the table by the service door. He was wearing a well cut grey suit and made-to-measure shoes. The carnation in his buttonhole added a single touch of flamboyance.

      ‘Paul, that man over there keeps staring at us.’

      ‘I thought,’ he said flippantly, ‘that elegant women were accustomed to approving stares.’

      ‘Do you know who he is?’

      Paul nodded. ‘I’ve seen his photograph in the business supplements. He’s a financier called Maurice Lonsdale. He owns a lot of property in the West End, including several restaurants. As a matter of fact, I think he owns this place.’

      ‘How disappointing. I thought the man who owned this would wear a beret and have a perpetual Gauloise hanging from his lip.’

      The financier took a cigar from his waistcoat pocket, summoned the head waiter for a brief consultation and then left through the service door. It had been a minor intrusion, and Steve was quickly back on the subject of ski trousers.

      ‘Mr Temple?’ It was the head waiter. ‘Excuse me, but Mr Lonsdale wonders whether you could spare him a few moments, when you have finished your meal. Perhaps I could take you to his office…’

      Paul glanced across at his wife and shrugged. ‘I always enjoy meeting millionaires, don’t you? They help to reconcile me to being merely well off.’

      ‘What does he want?’ Steve asked severely. ‘Paul, I’m not having anyone come between you and my holiday in Gstaad. Just be careful!’

      Maurice Lonsdale was not the traditional unhappy, ascetic millionaire; his office at the top of the building was luxurious and smelled of cigar smoke. He poured them large brandies and waved to the antique sofa and armchairs.

      ‘Please sit down, Mrs Temple. Mr Temple. I’m grateful to you for coming. I hope you’ll forgive me for staring at you just now, but when I saw you sitting at that table I could hardly believe my eyes.’

      ‘It’s a first class restaurant, Mr Lonsdale,’ said Steve. ‘No need to be surprised –’

      ‘It seemed such a remarkable coincidence,’ said Lonsdale. ‘I was talking to Scott Reed only yesterday about you, and I was meaning to give you a call.’

      Paul sank back in the deep armchair and warmed the brandy glass in his cupped hands. He avoided the sharp glance from Steve. ‘What were you going to call me about, Mr Lonsdale?’

      The man hesitated apologetically and sat behind the old oak desk. ‘It may sound fanciful, Mr Temple. I expect I’ll be wasting your time.’ In spite of the good taste in dress, the grooming and good manners, Maurice Lonsdale had an edge of ruthlessness that was difficult to pinpoint. Perhaps it showed in the voice, with its trace of a Manchester accent, or in the watchful eyes. He was feigning the apologetic manner.

      ‘I wanted to discuss my sister Margaret. You may remember her as Margaret Beverley, she was an actress until six years ago when she married Carl Milbourne.’

      ‘Yes, I remember her,’ said Paul. ‘Although I didn’t know she married Carl Milbourne. He was killed in a car accident a fortnight ago.’

      ‘Yes, he was killed,’ said Lonsdale. ‘But of course, you probably knew Carl. I suppose as a novelist you know most of the publishers in London.’

      Paul was about to agree that he’d met Carl Milbourne once or twice at literary parties when Steve intervened. ‘Where did his accident happen?’ she asked suspiciously.

      ‘In Geneva.’

      Paul looked suitably astonished at the coincidence, but she merely glared at him.

      ‘It was a dreadful business,’ Lonsdale continued. ‘Margaret, poor darling, has been in a terrible state since it happened. I can tell you, Mrs Temple, the last two weeks have been pure hell for her.’

      ‘It must have been a dreadful shock,’ Steve said reluctantly. ‘Was she with her husband when it happened?’

      ‘No, he was in Switzerland alone, on business. One afternoon he went for a walk and was knocked down crossing the road. I had to take Margaret out to Geneva to identify the body.’ He emptied his brandy glass and shuddered. ‘Believe me, that was quite an ordeal. The body was difficult to identify. Carl was appallingly smashed up, his head had been crushed –’

      ‘It must have been an ordeal for both of you,’ Paul cut in.

      He nodded. ‘Poor Margaret was always highly strung, but I’m afraid this has quite unbalanced her. That’s why I wanted to discuss the case with you, Temple. You see, she’s got this extraordinary idea into her head that – well, that Carl isn’t dead.’

      ‘Isn’t dead?’ Paul repeated in surprise. ‘But surely you were satisfied? You saw the body?’

      ‘Yes, I saw it.’ Lonsdale poured them all more brandy. ‘The body was mutilated, but it was Carl all right. I’m positive it was Carl.’ He returned the bottle to the tray and remained there, fidgeting with the array of drinks. ‘Apart from anything else, I recognised the suit he was wearing. Carl had absolutely no dress sense. Nobody else would wear a mustard coloured suit like that.’

      Then why,’ asked Steve, ‘should your sister think it wasn’t her husband who was killed?’

      Lonsdale sighed and went back to his desk. ‘Well, for one thing she consulted a medium. A very well known medium, I believe, among people who know their mediums well. Margaret asked her to get in touch with Carl and the medium failed. Failed completely. I’m afraid Margaret thinks this proves that Carl is still alive. It’s ridiculous, of course, but you know what women are when they get ideas into their heads.’

      It was logical, Paul thought, although not very sensible.

      ‘To make matters worse for Margaret, she seems to have quarrelled with Carl just before he left for Geneva. They normally got on well together, but on this one occasion when they did happen to quarrel…’

      It was an unpleasant irony, Paul agreed.

      ‘I’m afraid my sister’s completely dominated by this obsession of hers,’ Maurice Lonsdale was saying. ‘So much so that she’s made up her mind to consult you, Mr Temple.’

      Which was the second time that Lonsdale had made an equation between mental imbalance and talking to Paul Temple. Paul decided he had reservations about the successful businessman’s sensitivity. ‘Why should she want to consult me?’ he asked.

      ‘Can’t you guess?’ Lonsdale was supercilious. ‘She wants you to find her husband for her.’