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

commanded a somewhat cheerless view of an inner courtyard. ‘Look at it from the police point of view, Holt. A perfectly innocuous American student gets his face blown off and the murderer slips out unseen into thick mist, leaving no clues. No fingerprints, no weapon, no witnesses, no motive. There are some shaky alibis on the part of two girls, but otherwise there’s absolutely nothing for the police to go on. But we’ve got to start our investigations somewhere, so we throw out a net and haul into it all the dubious characters who were within a short radius of Deanfriston on the night of the murder. Naturally, not one in a hundred actually has anything to do with the crime, but they talk – they talk amongst themselves, little splinters of information pass from mouth to mouth … Now, in that net there are one or two characters with a foot in both camps.’

      ‘Your informers?’

      ‘Quite so.’

      Holt nodded. ‘So Curly, who owes you a favour from times gone by, was caught in the net the night Vance Scranton was murdered, and you have an idea that he knows something about the case?’

      ‘Correct. Unfortunately, Curly is sitting on his tongue. He refuses to talk. But they tell me he looks very uncomfortable whenever anyone mentions Vance Scranton or Deanfriston College.

      ‘And what’s Curly’s alibi?’

      ‘Oh, he’s too much of a professional to let us catch him out. His alibi’s no better and no worse than that of twenty others we pulled in. But he knows something, I’m certain.’

      ‘And you’d like me to find out what it is – by jogging his memory and reminding him that he’s still morally in your debt?’

      ‘Exactly. You see how unorthodox it is – you see why it’s something I can’t undertake myself?’ There was a pause. ‘Will you do it?’

      Holt nodded. ‘I’ll do it!’

      ‘Right! I’ll give you the details of Curly’s background in a moment,’ Hyde said briskly. ‘Now, how to find Curly and how to recognise him. His passion is horse racing. He spends most of his time in racing circles – stables, pubs favoured by jockeys and trainers, betting shops, and so on. On the night after the murder we picked him up in Brighton, but he’s back in London now, so the grapevine has it. I don’t think he’ll be hard to find, but he may be devilish hard to pin down. He’s as slippery as a weasel, and he can move incredibly fast despite his size.’

      ‘He’s a big man, I gather. How else can I recognise him?’

      For answer Inspector Hyde produced a yellow envelope and extracted three photographs: full face, left profile, and right profile.

      ‘Good grief!’ Holt exclaimed. ‘Now I know why he’s called Curly!’

       Chapter Three

      No one looked up or paid them any attention as they entered the betting parlour in Tottenham Court Road. Holt wore his oldest flannels and a faded sports jacket repaired with leather at cuffs and elbows, and Ruth had taken special pains to look dowdy, which was no easy task for one of her bright colouring and sparkling personality.

      When they had started their tour of the betting parlours they had felt acutely self-conscious and as a result had attracted much unwanted attention. But now, at their fourth attempt, they had grown accustomed to the seedy, half-feverish and half-weary atmosphere of a betting shop, to the smell of stale cigarette smoke and body-sweat, the petty triumphs and minor tragedies, the raucous clerks in shirt-sleeves, and the incessant jangling of the telephone. With the nonchalance of seasoned gamblers they strolled in, pulled crumpled newspapers from under their arms, and leaned against the wall, alongside unshaven taxi-drivers, barrow boys, shop assistants, petty crooks, and aimless drifters. Folding their newspapers into professionally neat squares, they took out pencils and ‘studied form’.

      This was an occasion when Ruth even went so far as to approve of Holt smoking. He lit a cigarette and squinted through a haze at a man chalking up runners’ names and their odds on a greasy blackboard which ran the width of the far wall. Now and again Holt jotted down figures, and his head jerked with interest whenever the loudspeaker crackled and news from the track was announced. His performance was masterly and for a moment Ruth almost believed her boss had developed a genuine interest in betting.

      Then he nudged her carelessly and tapped his paper. ‘Seen anything you like?’

      ‘Not really. Have you?’

      ‘Yes, I reckon so!’

      ‘Which race?’

      He pointed at the newspaper with his pencil.

      He had drawn some kind of diagram, Ruth realised. She took the paper from him. ‘I just hope you’re right, that’s all,’ she said woodenly. ‘We’ve wasted enough time as it is.’

      ‘Not any more, we haven’t!’ Holt ground out his cigarette on the filthy floor and strolled towards the blackboard as if for a closer look at the columns of odds.

      Though outwardly calm, Ruth’s heart was beating rapidly. The diagram indicated that the man they were looking for, Curly the ex-convict, was seated less than two yards away. Holt had sketched a bird’s-eye plan of the betting parlour and marked a bench on which sat four men. He had picked out the nearest with an arrow and the letter C.

      Ruth did not dare to look directly at the bench. For a moment she pretended to search for Holt, now realising that he had gone to the blackboard in order to get a better view of their quarry as he made his return. Then, with her back to the bench, she took out her compact and peered into it, dabbling crudely at her face with the powder puff. Presently, Curly came into view through the mirror.

      He wore no hat, and his huge head was shaped like a bladder of lard, utterly devoid of hair. The great dome of skin did not gleam; it had a curious, unhealthy colour resembling putty. The rest of the features were on a scale commensurate: staring eyes, flaring nostrils, and large ears lying like flaps close to the skull. A pair of deathly-pale hands the size of North Sea haddock hung listlessly over his knee-caps. They were the biggest hands Ruth had ever seen in her life. Despite his attitude of placid disinterest, she sensed a tense watchfulness just beneath the surface. The total effect of the man was frightening, and she knew that if she had bumped into him under a lamp-post on a dark night she would have screamed and run.

      Holt wandered back, a fresh cigarette in his mouth; it flapped crudely up and down as he spoke. ‘Well, girl, what you think?’

      ‘Could be. Shall we take a risk?’

      ‘I reckon we can’t lose.’

      ‘I hope you’re right.’

      ‘Don’t worry, girl! It’s a dead cert!’

      At the precise moment when Holt turned and was making a determined move towards Curly a taxi-driver in a voluminous coat barged past and the two collided.

      ‘Ain’t yer got no eyes, mate?’ the driver bawled.

      ‘Oh – I’m dreadfully sorry, I’m afraid I was—’ Holt began, then checked himself.

      The cab-driver swore, Holt bent to pick up the newspaper that had been knocked out of his hand, and when he straightened up Curly was nowhere to be seen.

      ‘Quick!’ Holt directed, and thrust his way out, Ruth hard on his heels.

      They were just in time to see Curly’s bulk spring with astonishing agility onto a passing bus. For a matter of two or three seconds, until his view was blocked by another vehicle, Curly stood on the conductor’s platform, looking back at them with pale, piercing eyes. Then he was gone.

      Holt stood at the pavement edge and swore quietly.

      ‘What on earth do you suppose frightened him off?’ Ruth asked.

      ‘God knows,’ Holt muttered through