Paul Temple and the Tyler Mystery. Francis Durbridge

himself?’

      ‘Definitely rather glamorous, darling.’

      ‘Amorous?’

      ‘Gerlamorous,’ Steve sang. ‘It’s not very polite to shout at ladies from other rooms.’

      Temple undid his tie and walked to the threshold between the two rooms. His own dressing-room was square, utilitarian and exclusively mahogany. It was rather like the captain’s cabin in a small naval vessel. After its dark severity the bedroom made his senses reel. He had given Steve a free hand with it. The carpet was a deep wine colour and all the furniture was white. Over the bed was suspended a kind of panoply, bordered with stiff nylon frills. Temple always felt a little like Don Juan when he invaded this essentially feminine domain.

      Steve was sitting before her triple mirrors, sheathed in silk, combing her hair.

      ‘In what way glamorous?’ Temple asked suspiciously.

      Steve stopped combing and gazed at her reflection.

      ‘Well, he’s handsome – and foreign, of course. Rather an actor, by all I can gather. I mean, he knows how to put himself across.’

      ‘Put himself across?’

      ‘Yes, darling. Hairdressing is an art – at least ladies’ hairdressing is. Mariano acts the part of an artist. But he’s a very shrewd business man at the same time.’

      ‘How long has he been operating this racket?’

      ‘I don’t know exactly. He’s only been fashionable since the war, but Mrs Tenby-Whiteside was boasting to me the other day that she patronised him over twenty years ago. So he must have come to England in the early ’thirties some time.’

      ‘Not very shrewd of Mrs T-W.’

      ‘What wasn’t?’

      ‘Giving her age away like that.’

      ‘We all give away something sometimes, darling,’ Steve said.

      The silence which the Temples normally observed until they had finished breakfast was broken the following morning when Temple put the paper down beside his plate with an exclamation of annoyance.

      ‘What’s the matter, Paul?’

      ‘These confounded gossip writers. If they can’t mind their own business, they might at least try to get their facts right. The cheek of this: “Sir Graham Forbes paid a flying visit to the new home of the Paul Temples in Eaton Square yesterday morning. The conversation turned on the Tyler mystery which has been causing heads to throb in Scotland Yard this past week. This confirms the rumour we reported the day before yesterday that Sir Graham had decided to consult Paul Temple on the Tyler case.”’

      ‘They really are the limit.’

      Temple pushed his chair back.

      ‘Aren’t you going to have your second cup of coffee, darling?’

      ‘Pour it out for me. I’ll take it into the study. I have a lot of work to get through before we start for Sonning. You’ll be ready at a quarter to twelve, won’t you?’

      Thanks to his dictaphone Temple managed to shift most of his correspondence before he was interrupted by Charlie rapping on his study door. By the clock on his desk – a birthday present from Steve – it was still only a quarter to eleven. Charlie was in shirt sleeves and braces, a garb strictly banned by Temple, and he was wearing a shabby apron.

      ‘A gentleman to see you, Mr Temple.’

      ‘Who is he?’

      ‘Name of Books, Brooks or Broke – something like that.’

      ‘Where is he now?’

      ‘I showed him into the drawing-room.’

      ‘Did you answer the door like that?’

      ‘Well, I have to do housemaid’s work, see, so naturally I dress like a housemaid.’

      ‘Since when have housemaids taken to wearing braces?’

      Charlie was still trying to think up some unprintable reply when Temple closed the door of the drawing-room behind him. He had been puzzled for a moment by the name but as soon as he saw his visitor he connected it with the young man who had sold him the picture the previous day.

      He was standing in the middle of the room with a large rectangular parcel balanced against his right hip. Temple greeted him and nodded towards the parcel.

      ‘Don’t tell me you’ve brought my picture already.’

      Brooks smiled rather self-consciously.

      ‘We managed to push it through more quickly than I anticipated. Shall I unwrap it for you?’

      ‘Yes, please do. I’ll ring for someone to take the mess away.’

      Brooks produced a manicure set from his pocket and snipped the string with the scissors. Meanwhile Temple had been clearing the oddments from the mantelpiece. He turned his back on Brooks as the wrapping paper rustled.

      ‘Would you mind putting it on the mantelpiece for me? Then I can get a proper first impression.’

      ‘Not at all.’ Temple heard Brooks cross the room and place the picture in its place.

      ‘There we are.’

      Charlie entered the room and found Temple in the act of turning. His eyes went past his master to the object on the mantelpiece, and he uttered a simple word:

      ‘Cor.’

      ‘Ah, that’s better,’ Temple exclaimed. ‘I really do like it now. What do you think?’

      Brooks pursed his lips, studying the picture as if he’d never seen it before.

      ‘Yes, I must admit I do. When you said you were going to hang it among antiques I wondered. But it doesn’t really clash.’

      ‘Why should it? Charlie, cart that paper away and ask Mrs Temple if she’d join us.’

      Rattling the paper as loudly as he could to illustrate his disapproval of Temple’s purchase, Charlie made a slow exit.

      Steve was as delighted with the picture as Temple, but that did not prevent her from paying more than usual attention to Brooks. He had seemed to come to life on Steve’s arrival as if he had suddenly found a friend in a foreign country. It was obvious that he was at his best with women – preferably young and attractive ones – and equally obvious that they were attracted by him.

      ‘Haven’t you offered Mr Brooks a drink, darling?’

      The reproof in Steve’s voice was evident, but Brooks was already holding up his hand.

      ‘It’s a little too early for me, if you don’t mind. Besides, I must be getting back to the shop.’

      Temple was ready to move towards the door but Brooks seemed to be searching for some excuse to stay a little longer. There was that awkward pause which host and hostess feel offers guests a good opportunity to take their leave and which they so often fail to take.

      ‘I wonder if it would interest you,’ Brooks said hesitatingly – ‘there’s an exhibition of Kappel’s work on in Paris at the moment. I read in the paper that you were going there next week.’

      ‘That’s right,’ Temple nodded. ‘We must try and get to see it.’

      To his annoyance, Steve made a remark which threatened to start the conversation off on a new tack.

      ‘Do you know Paris well, Mr Brooks?’

      ‘Yes, I do. I have to go there quite a lot in connection with pictures we buy and sell. As a matter of fact my brother lives there. He’s at the British Embassy. I was wondering—’ Brooks’ face had gone a little redder and he was registering almost boyish embarrassment. ‘I was wondering if I could ask a favour of you. You see,