Dead to the World: Based on Paul Temple and the Jonathan Mystery. Francis Durbridge

as the dull white expanse of Curly’s head swam into focus. Suddenly he turned and his pale eyes seemed to stare straight at her. Startled, she lowered the binoculars and pretended to engage Holt in lively conversation. It was ridiculous – he was at least five hundred yards away – and yet she had the uncanny feeling that those great eyes were boring into the back of her neck.

      ‘What do we do now?’ she whispered.

      ‘We watch the race,’ replied Holt calmly, retrieving the binoculars. ‘I’ve placed two pounds for you on a French nag. It’s an outsider, but I liked the look of it in the paddock. Number Seven. There she goes, look – moving up on the inside rail!’

      Ruth was drawn back into the surging excitement of the race. Order was emerging from the confusion of brilliant jockey colours, flying hooves, the gleam of equine muscle strained to the uttermost. Three runners began to press to the front of the tight field, and the crowd rose with a mounting wave of excitement. Ruth found herself waving and shouting for Number Seven. The horses thundered round the final bend and down the home stretch. Number Seven inched forward – first a nose, then a neck, then half a length, and by the time it had flashed past the finishing post it was showing a wild pair of heels to its two nearest rivals.

      ‘Philip, you’re fantastic!’ Ruth cried, quite forgetting herself and throwing her arms round his neck. ‘You must have a nose for winners! How much is my booty?’

      ‘Something in the neighbourhood of forty pounds, I think. And what’s more,’ he added, turning from the Grandstand and lowering his glasses, ‘Curly’s looking pleased with himself too. I think this is the right moment for us to get chummy! Let’s get your money and then we’ll seek him out.’

      They jostled their way through the crowd towards the Totalisator and stood in the queue at one of the windows. They had barely reached the head of the queue and collected Ruth’s winnings when Holt stiffened, gave a tense, silent nod of the head, and broke from the line.

      ‘Philip, wait for me!’ Ruth wailed, scurrying after him.

      ‘Come on! I’ve just spotted Curly!’

      Holt was tall enough to keep his target in sight as they weaved through the crowd, but for Ruth it was simply a question of hanging on to her boss’s sleeve.

      ‘Hold it! He’s stopping. Don’t let him see us!’ Holt rapped out urgently.

      They took cover in the lee of a programme seller as Curly went up to a thin, raffish-looking man somehow clearly stamped with the hallmark of a bookmaker. Reluctantly the bookie produced his wallet and took out several five-pound notes. Curly’s great hand closed over the money like a bulldozer’s grab. For a few moments the two men remained in conversation, just out of earshot, and Holt discreetly slipped his Olympus Pen F camera from his pocket and took a snap of the couple; then Curly slapped the bookie on the back, glanced furtively around him, and strode with giant steps into the crowd where only the putty-coloured dome of his head remained visible.

      ‘Where’s he going, I wonder?’ Holt set off in pusuit. ‘This isn’t the way back to the Grandstand.’

      ‘As far as I can see it’ll take us to the car park.’

      It was indeed the car park for which Curly was aiming. Had he won such a large sum on the last race that he was content for the day? What if he drove off before they could pin him down?… Holt quickened his pace – only to realise with sudden dismay that Curly was no longer in sight. One moment he had been there, towering above the ranks of parked cars, and the next instant he had vanished.

      ‘Now how the hell did that happen! Hyde said he was as slippery as a weasel, but that beats everything!’

      Ruth shook her head in bewilderment. ‘What do we do now?’

      From the distance came the excited roar of the crowd at the race-course, but in the vast car park there was not a soul to be seen.

      Despondently they stared around them and discussed the situation, reaching no decision. Holt lit a cigarette, without protest from Ruth. He threw away the match and thrust his hands deep into his coat pockets …

      ‘Lookin’ for someone?’ a deep voice growled from behind them.

      They whirled round. Ten paces away, leaning nonchalantly against a mini-bus, stood Curly with a gun in his hand.

      Ruth choked back a cry of alarm.

      Holt gripped her elbow and said coolly, ‘Yes, Curly. We were looking for you.’

      ‘Thought so. Smelt it yesterday, when you was nosin’ round Tottenham Court Road. A couple o’ phonies, that’s what you are!’

      ‘Go on, Curly.’

      ‘Just a couple o’ phonies,’ he repeated. ‘You should ’ave kept yer mouth shut, mate, when that cabbie knocked the paper out yer ’and – you should ’ave kept yer mouth shut.’

      ‘Thanks for the advice. I’ll be more careful next time.’

      ‘If there is a next time. Get in!’ He jerked the muzzle of the gun towards the mini-bus.

      ‘Oh, are we – er – going somewhere?’ Holt appeared more self-possessed than he felt as he steered Ruth towards the bus.

      ‘S’right, mate! You said you was lookin’ for me, didn’t you? You and me and the bird ’ere’s going for a little ride. – Ah no, not that side, matey! You get in behind the wheel with the bird beside yer. I’m lazy, see? I prefer to sit in the back and watch while you keep yer mind on the traffic.’

      ‘Driving with a gun in my back is liable to make me nervous,’ Holt said.

      ‘I dare say. But don’t worry, chum,’ Curly replied, slipping the gun into his raincoat pocket.

      ‘I wasn’t plannin’ to wave it at them fancy coppers on the Royal Parade.’ Idly he picked up a thick piece of wood that lay on the ground. It was a sawn-off stump as thick as a fence-post. ‘Shouldn’t think it’ll be necessary, would you?’ he said, snapping the stump with his enormous hands as though it were a twig. Then he slid into the mini-bus behind Holt and rested his arms along the back of the driver’s seat with the huge hands clearly in view. They got the point.

      Holt started the engine and backed carefully.

      Once out of the car park Curly gave clear instructions for the route he wanted to take. Holt said nothing, giving all his attention to getting the feel of the vehicle. It might prove useful to be able to handle her well, in the event of a chance of getting rid of Curly. Driving the mini-bus was not quite like handling the controls of the Mustang, but the brakes seemed good and the second gear unusually powerful.

      Curly obviously knew Brighton like the back of his hand. He seemed anxious to get clear of the centre of the town as quickly as possible. They soon found themselves on the high cliff road out of Brighton that led eastward towards Newhaven. On a long, lonely stretch with green turf to their left, and on their right frequent glimpses of steep white cliffs dropping vertically to the sea, Curly gave the order to halt. He sat back and produced his revolver, evidently considering Holt a potential danger now that he was no longer occupied with the wheel.

      ‘All right, out with it! What is it yer want?’

      ‘Just a little information, Curly.’

      ‘Such as?’

      ‘What you know about the Vance Scranton murder.’

      Holt was watching him in the rear-view mirror. Curly was a poor actor. He turned even paler than normal, licked his flabby lips with a dry tongue, then struggled to assume a truculent air. ‘Sorry, mate! You’re on the wrong number.’

      ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘Dead sure.’

      ‘And if I offer to buy the information?’

      ‘I tell yer, you got the wrong number! I ain’t got nothin’ to sell.’

      ‘Would