Paul Temple and the Geneva Mystery. Francis Durbridge

the door and held out his hand. ‘But please, for her sake, don’t take her seriously. The poor darling isn’t herself these days.’

      Steve shook his hand and smiled icily. ‘It’s not really surprising, is it, Mr Lonsdale? You know what we women are like – we sometimes take things very much to heart.’ She swept from the room leaving Lonsdale staring.

      Paul followed her down to the street in silence. It was a full moon and the Thames was looking serene, the reflections of light almost motionless in the water. He took Steve’s arm and went along the Embankment in search of the car. They passed Cleopatra’s needle before he ventured to speak.

      ‘I love Westminster in January –’

      ‘I’m not talking to you!’

      ‘Oh.’

      They walked past the spot where Paul had thought the Rolls should be. It wasn’t there. He remembered that he had parked by a pillar box. Perhaps it had been another pillar box.

      ‘The whole evening was set up,’ said Steve. ‘You knew about that publisher and his mysterious accident. Scott Reed arranged the meeting with Lonsdale and I was taken for a prize idiot!’

      Paul stopped and held on to her hand. ‘Hang on, darling, that isn’t quite true. Scott isn’t as clever as that, and incidentally we seem to have lost the car.’

      ‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing: I’ve lost interest in going to Geneva. I want a holiday in the Highlands of Scotland.’

      ‘All right,’ said Paul as he glanced up and down the road, ‘we’ll go to the Highlands of Scotland.’

      ‘And I hated that man –’

      ‘So I noticed.’

      Steve launched into a savagely accurate imitation of Lonsdale’s manner. ‘You know what women are when they get ideas into their heads,’ she said angrily. ‘Of course I know what women are! Paul, are you listening?’

      ‘Yes, darling. But I’m afraid the car has vanished.’

      ‘Serves you right.’ She chuckled unsympathetically. ‘I hope the newspapers make an idiot of you in the morning. Paul Temple’s Rolls Stolen, that’s what the headlines will read, Private Eye Sends for Scotland Yard.’ The thought seemed to cheer her up and she took his arm again. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she said softly. ‘It’s very worrying. What are we going to do?’

      They walked across the road to Scotland Yard.

      The M1 was beautifully clear before them like a yellow band stretched forward into infinity. There were a few long-distance lorries on their way to Edinburgh flashing private signals at each other, an occasional car, but Den Roberts cruised smoothly past them all. It had always been his ambition to steal a Rolls.

      ‘Goes like a bird,’ he murmured for the fifth time.

      ‘Yes,’ said Lucas. ‘Listen, keep it down to seventy. We don’t want the law to stop us.’

      He was cautious. Den had wanted to drive through the gates of Buckingham Palace and watch the sentries salute. They could have driven round the parade ground and out again, nobody would have stopped a Rolls. But Lucas wanted to reach Birmingham by midnight.

      ‘I still think we should have hoisted an ordinary car,’ Lucas grumbled. ‘I mean, a mini can be re-sprayed and sold for a few hundred quid. But a bloody Rolls! You suffer from delusions of grandeur!’

      Den grinned happily. He didn’t try to explain. Lucas was a petty thief and he would die knocking off the occasional mini between stretches inside. But Den was an artist, he had soul. Through two years of Borstal he had sustained himself with the knowledge that he would drive his own Rolls one day and have every copper on point duty salute him.

      ‘You don’t need to worry about the number of miles on the clock with a Rolls,’ said Den. ‘You don’t need to worry about what year it was built. This is British craftsmanship!’

      ‘Shut up. We’re being followed.’

      Den peered into the driving mirror at the glaring headlamps behind them. It was impossible to see the car and it dazzled his eyes just to look. ‘Shall we leave it behind?’ he asked. ‘We could easy –’

      ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s trying to overtake us.’

      ‘Yes, maybe,’ Den muttered. ‘Although it’s been on our tail for a few miles now.’

      It was worrying. The other alternative was to stop. And if it were a police car…The car behind them slowed down as well. Den sighed and prepared himself for battle.

      ‘They’re coming round on us,’ Lucas hissed. ‘Quick, do something, Den, for God’s sake. Let them stop and then try a racing start to leave whoever it is behind.’

      Den glanced over his shoulder as the car drew level with them. It was a large black saloon – a Rover, probably, although it was too dark to be certain. He couldn’t quite distinguish the people inside it, though there seemed to be two, and the second was crouched by the open passenger window. Pointing a revolver at Den’s head.

      ‘My God!’ cried Lucas. ‘Look out, he’s got a gun!’

      Den stamped on the brakes and wrenched the steering wheel over to his left. At that moment a yellow spark flickered from the revolver and the windscreen of the Rolls disintegrated. Den struggled with the car as it slithered across the soft shoulder of the motorway and hit an RAC box. A second bullet thudded into the car, blowing away the side of Den Roberts’ face. Then the Rover accelerated towards Birmingham.

      ‘Are you all right?’ whimpered Lucas. ‘Den, are you all right? What’s the matter with your –? Oh my God!’

      Paul went down to breakfast feeling irritable. He had woken up with the knowledge that something was wrong, and it had taken him several seconds to remember what it was. Then it had dawned on him. As he dressed he peered casually out of the window, pretending not to expect the car to be parked in the mews. It wasn’t.

      Steve was already past the porridge and well into the bacon and eggs. Healthy breakfasts were her most serious character defect. She would follow with toast and marmalade. Paul tried not to notice. He went towards the door leading into the garage, but stopped himself. Instead he poured some black coffee.

      ‘A bath and shave haven’t done you much good,’ said Steve.

      ‘They wouldn’t help to get the car back,’ he said. ‘The Rolls was stolen last night if you remember.’

      ‘I know, I’ve been reading about it.’ She tossed the newspaper across to him. ‘You see, they’ve used that old photograph of you looking like a lean and glamorous bloodhound.’

      Paul read the item: ‘Mr Temple, usually so self-possessed, was highly irritable when our reporter spoke to him last night about the stolen car. “Don’t ask me what happened”, snapped Britain’s number one Private Eye, “I haven’t a clue.” The police are treating this as a routine case…’ He looked up at the spluttering sound coming from Steve.

      ‘I never said that,’ he complained. ‘I never said a word about not having a –’

      Kate Balfour bustled in from the tiny hall. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Mr Temple, but Inspector Vosper is asking to see you.’

      ‘Vosper?’ he stared at the housekeeper in disbelief. ‘But Charlie Vosper wouldn’t be on a routine case of –’ He stopped as she gestured that the inspector was standing behind her. ‘Oh well, ask him to come in, will you, Kate?’

      Vosper made his way directly to the coffee and sat at the table beside a spare cup. ‘Good morning, Temple. That’s very welcome, yes, I’ll have white with three lumps, please. Good morning, Mrs Temple.’ He was obviously pleased with himself. Either he had bad news for Paul or his retirement was due next week.

      ‘So what news about my car?’ asked Paul.