Paul Temple and the Tyler Mystery. Francis Durbridge

clerk, hardly glancing at him, answered in the impersonal manner of his kind.

      ‘Can you tell me where I would find her?’

      ‘Perhaps I can help you, sir?’

      ‘I’m afraid not. This is a personal matter.’

      ‘Mrs Draper is not in the hotel, sir. She will not be returning till after lunch.’

      ‘Well, we are lunching here, so it doesn’t matter very much. When she returns will you tell her that Mr Temple would like to have a word with her?’

      ‘Very good, sir.’

      Temple was amused to note that as he turned away the clerk returned not to his register of guests but to study a copy of the Sporting Life. The reference book which he pulled down from a shelf was not a Bradshaw but Ruff’s Guide to the Turf.

      There was still no sign of Steve. Temple noticed a public call box at the end of the foyer. It was unoccupied. He went over to it slowly, closed the door on himself and asked for Vosper’s number at Scotland Yard. The Inspector had gone home to lunch, but his assistant was there. Temple gave him the number of the offending Triumph and suggested he should check up on it. He was about to open the door and step out, when he hesitated. A man, emerging from the passage which led to the dining room, had entered the foyer at the same moment as Steve reappeared. He was only a few yards from Temple’s call box. When he looked towards Steve he stopped dead, and a flicker of surprise crossed his face. He turned on his heel and went quickly back the way he had come. As he passed, Temple made a note of his features. He was aged about forty-seven or -eight, athletically built, though rather on the short side, clean shaven and well dressed in a tweedy kind of way. Steve had not noticed him and he had certainly not spotted Temple in the gloom of the call box.

      Temple claimed Steve and together they went through to the dining room. For the summer season the dining room had been extended on to the verandah and boxes of flowers on stands lined the glass walls. The whole effect was very French. It remained to be seen, Temple thought, whether the cooking came up to the same standard.

      A maître d’hôtel, poised before a desk bearing the list of table reservations, waylaid them as they entered.

      ‘Name, sir?’

      ‘Temple. I telephoned last night.’

      ‘Ah, Mr Paul Temple, isn’t it? I have a nice table for you, sir.’

      After an appreciative glance at Steve in her neat suit and flame-coloured shirt and shoes, the maître d’hôtel, walking with unction and brandishing his pencil as if it were a conductor’s baton, led them to a table flanked by tumbling geraniums. At a twitch of his fingers, a pair of waiters materialised from the carpet and set in front of Steve and Temple a couple of menus as big as railway posters.

      When they had given their order Steve folded her hands and looked around her with appreciation.

      ‘It’s rather nice to be alive, isn’t it? We so very nearly weren’t. You can’t fool me, you know. I saw you coming out of that call box.’

      Temple sipped his Tio Pepe and concentrated on Steve. A quick glance round the room had shown him that the startled man he had seen in the foyer was not here. Several faces had turned towards him with recognition, but there was no one he knew.

      ‘Perhaps it did look rather like a deliberate attempt—’

      ‘Looked like! If you hadn’t spotted that gap in the wall we’d have been finished. Was it anyone you’d seen before?’

      Temple shook his head.

      ‘Even if it had been I wouldn’t have recognised him with all that stuff on his face.’

      ‘But why pick on us?’

      ‘The only reason I can think of is that someone is under the impression that I am investigating the Tyler case. Though why that should justify my execution I fail to see.’

      At that moment the service squad arrived with the eats and drinks for the Temples’ first course. During the next hour they were far too preoccupied with the pleasures of living to worry about their escape from death. Mrs Draper’s imported chef was a genius and Temple rejoiced to have found for once an establishment which did not grudge the few shillings needed to supply the kitchen with adequate wine for the sauces.

      After the meal, at the maître d’hotel’s suggestion, they took their coffee in a pleasant sun lounge built out over the water. They were still there, fingering liqueur glasses, when Mrs Draper came up and introduced herself.

      Lucille Draper was a striking woman. She looked a good deal less than her forty-odd years; only a certain severity of expression, reflected in the cut of her black suit, showed that she had seen some of the darker side of life. She had accepted her widowhood as a challenge and had put all the money left by her husband into The Dutch Treat. She seemed to have an exceptional gift for business and in a very few years she had turned the hotel into one of the most popular out-of-town rendezvous.

      She had heard a great deal about Temple from her brother and her pleasure at meeting him and Steve appeared quite genuine. She accepted Temple’s invitation to join them for a few minutes, but refused a liqueur or coffee. She seemed to sense that there was more than affability in his request to speak to her. Temple was perfectly frank with her. After complimenting her on the cuisine and service he came to the point.

      ‘What I really wanted to ask you, Mrs Draper, was whether you could give me any news of Harry?’

      Temple purposely kept his eyes on his liqueur glass as he asked the question. He knew he could rely on Steve to watch her reaction.

      Mrs Draper answered without the slightest hesitation: ‘It’s funny you should ask me that. I had a letter from Harry only two days ago. He’s doing wonderfully well out there.’

      She leaned towards Temple and gave him the full benefit of very blue eyes.

      ‘I shall always be so grateful to you for helping Harry in the way you did. Giving him that money was the most generous—’

      ‘I didn’t give it to him,’ Temple said uncomfortably. ‘It was only a loan – which he repaid in full.’

      Lucille Draper, with a gesture which appeared sincere and impulsive, laid a hand on his arm. Her nails were deep scarlet and several diamonds glistened on her fingers.

      ‘But it was the gesture that counted! He felt that someone really had faith in him.’

      Temple tried unsuccessfully to imagine the hard-bitten Harry Shelford voicing any such sentiment. He tried to steer the conversation back on to course.

      ‘He wrote you from Cape Town?’

      ‘Yes. Of course he travels a lot – searching out really good second-hand cars, you know. He takes care not to sell anything shoddy.’

      ‘Forgive my interrupting, Mrs Draper. Has Harry ever talked of coming back to England?’

      Mrs Draper’s pretty mouth remained open for a few moments to express her amazement. Then she gave a tinkle of laughter.

      ‘That’s the last thing he would do. Why should he come back to England when he’s making a fortune out there? And an honest one, too. Harry’s going straight now, Mr Temple, I can assure you of that. He wouldn’t let you down; not after what you did for him.’

      Just for a moment Temple believed he detected real sincerity in her voice. He did not try to question her any further. After a few moments of small talk during which she turned rather ostentatiously to Steve, as if inviting her to join a private conversation, she claimed pressure of business and rose.

      When she had disappeared into the hotel proper, Temple turned to Steve with a smile. She was looking daggers.

      ‘Well?’

      ‘Bogus, from the peroxide down.’

      ‘I’m