Paul Temple and the Geneva Mystery. Francis Durbridge

Paul snapped.

      ‘Very,’ he sighed. ‘I don’t suppose she’s going to die, but that isn’t everything, is it? She was obviously an attractive girl before –’ He smiled sadly. ‘The poor kid’s only spoken twice, and on both occasions she asked for you.’

      Paul went into the tiny ward. He scarcely heard the doctor say something about having given her an injection. He moved the screen aside and sat by the bed. The brutality of her attackers made him feel sick.

      ‘Can you hear me, Dolly?’ he asked softly. ‘It’s Paul.’

      Her hand moved slightly and Paul took it in his. A plastic bag was connected to her arm transfusing blood, and her face was swathed in white dressings. The room was silent except for Dolly’s laboured breathing beneath the broken ribs.

      ‘Who was it?’ he asked. ‘Who did this to you, Dolly?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered.

      ‘You must tell me,’ Paul said firmly. ‘I’ll make sure nothing else happens to you –’

      But she wasn’t listening. ‘I’m going to get better, aren’t I, Paul? I’m too young to die –’

      ‘Don’t be silly, of course you’re going to get better.’ He squeezed her hand and waited for her to recover herself. She seemed to have that phrase, ‘too young to die’, firmly lodged in her mind. It was the second time she had used it.

      ‘I asked the doctor about my face,’ she said, speaking with difficulty. ‘About the stitches. But he wouldn’t tell me anything. Is it a mess, Paul?’

      ‘You’ll soon be beautiful again,’ he said with false cheerfulness. ‘It’s a bit of a mess now, but you’re in good hands. Just be a good girl and tell me why you were attacked.’

      Eventually she whispered, ‘I told you, keep out of this affair. You mustn’t…’

      The nurse tapped Paul on the shoulder and indicated that his time was up. Dolly had fallen asleep and the drug would keep her that way for several hours. There was no sense, he thought, in such savagery, no necessity at all.

      ‘She’ll be all right, Mr Temple,’ said the house doctor as they left the ward. ‘But her head wounds are rather delicate so we have to take care.’

      ‘Of course,’ said Paul. ‘Do everything you can for her, please. I’ll pay whatever is necessary, and if it’s a question of plastic surgery phone Sir Thomas Staines, he’s a friend of mine.’

      ‘Don’t worry, Mr Temple.’

      Don’t worry. Paul went off down the corridor. His footsteps echoed and in the distance trolleys and pans made noises that reverberated through the tiled passages. Hospitals were full of impersonal sounds at night. No, he wouldn’t worry. The lift gates clattered and he left Dolly Brazier five floors behind. It read ‘Theatre’ on the signboard for Dolly’s floor.

      She had told Paul not to worry, throughout rehearsals and even after the appalling reviews. Don’t worry, darling, it’s your first play, you can always write another one. She had been a resilient, happy kid. Loyal and affectionate. She didn’t deserve to end up in a heap behind the Kilburn High Road.

      Paul stepped into the road and waved down a taxi.

       Chapter Three

      Margaret Milbourne said good evening to the commissionaire as he held open the door. It was ten past six, an appropriate ten minutes late. She didn’t approve of punctuality, it cheapened one so, however anxious she was to meet this mysterious Danny what’s-his-name. As she walked through the foyer she glanced at the wall mirror and lifted her head a shade higher. It was important to look serene in the midst of tragedy.

      Danny Clayton, that was his name. He had sounded young and American on the telephone, and he had some information about her husband. She pushed through the swing doors to the cocktail bar. A smattering of customers, a desultory air of opulence, and a forlorn man playing muzack at the piano. She thought it should be possible to recognise Danny Clayton by instinct – he would be the slim, hawk nosed youth who was watching the other customers with something like amused contempt.

      ‘Can I get you anything?’ asked the barman.

      ‘Not for the moment, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m meeting a Mr Clayton. I believe he’s staying here.’

      He was the slim, hawk nosed youth. He ordered drinks and guided Margaret across to a corner seat. His absentminded good manners unnerved her slightly. He said it was good of her to spare the time, but he spoke with such casual insincerity that she couldn’t think how to reply.

      ‘Who are you exactly?’ she asked. ‘What do you want?’

      ‘I’m Danny Clayton, I’m thirty years old, I was born in New York, I work for Julia Carrington, and I wanted to see you about your husband.’