Paul Temple: East of Algiers. Francis Durbridge

      Steve had sat down and was disposing her purchases round her feet. I was doling out notes to the taxi-driver with one hand and signalling to the waiter to bring a third chair with the other.

      The girl was still looking at me as if she expected I might utter some Confucian epigram.

      ‘It’s amazing to think such things actually do happen,’ she said. There was a slight but unmistakable American intonation in her rather high voice.

      ‘What you read in the books is really not so extraordinary. My trouble is I can’t write about the most astonishing cases. No one would believe me if I did.’

      ‘Oh, I think you should,’ Judy Wincott said with a dazzling smile. ‘I would believe you at any rate.’

      The waiter produced a chair from somewhere inside the sleeve of his jacket and by judicious squeezing and elbow prodding we were soon all three ensconced around the small table.

      ‘Miss Wincott was very kind,’ Steve explained when I had ordered drinks. ‘I would never have found the kind of shoes I wanted if she had not told me about Chico’s.’

      ‘You know Paris well, Miss Wincott?’

      ‘Not really well, as I should like to. But I do know the principal streets. I’ve been over two or three times with my father. He come to Europe every year – to hunt out old pictures and antiques and things. He’s Benjamin Wincott, the antique dealer, you know. He has a very important shop in New York. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?’

      ‘No. I’m afraid I haven’t.’

      ‘It’s very well known,’ Miss Wincott resumed her recital cosily. ‘Of course he has to travel a great deal. It’s no good relying on other people’s judgement when so much money is involved, is it, and then again Daddy’s got such an amazing instinct for what is really good. There aren’t many countries in the world he hasn’t visited. China, Japan – why we’ve only just made a little hop across to Tunis to buy a collection of very rare amber pendants. Mrs. Temple tells me you’re planning to go on there yourselves in a day or two.’

      I caught Steve’s eyes for an instant, and her expression confirmed my suspicion that it was more by her own invitation than by Steve’s that Miss Wincott had favoured us with the pleasure of her company.

      ‘We may go on there after we’ve had a look at Algiers,’ I admitted.

      ‘To get material for a novel?’ Judy Wincott prompted quickly.

      ‘That’s the main idea.’

      The waiter set the three glasses down expertly, each in front of its proper owner. The American girl had ordered a champagne cocktail. I watched her hand close round the stem and suppressed the beginnings of a shudder. Her nails had been allowed to grow a quarter of an inch beyond the ends of her fingers, filed to a point and carefully enamelled a glistening blood-red colour. She took a sip of her drink and gave a quiet laugh, as if she were remembering some good but private joke.

      ‘I certainly had a good time in Tunis. Talk about champagne! I wonder if you’ll meet a boy I got to know quite well, even during the short time we were there. His name’s David Foster; he works for Trans-Africa Petroleum.’

      She gazed at me enquiringly. Not being a seer I could not tell her whether I was likely to meet Mr. Foster of Trans–Africa Petroleum or not. What I really wanted to do was have a chance to talk to Steve and find out what on earth she had in that mountain of parcels.

      I muttered: ‘Well, Tunis is a pretty big city, I remember hearing.’

      ‘You’re dead right,’ Miss Wincott agreed reminiscently. ‘David and I certainly turned it inside out that last night. The funniest thing happened…’

      This Judy Wincott was clearly one of those non-stop expresses. Here we were on a sunny spring morning in the most civilized city in the world, condemned to listen to the egotistical babblings of a spoilt child. I took a long pull at my Martini, but it tasted bitter.

      ‘You’ll never believe this,’ she forged on. ‘When we ended up at my hotel somewhere around dawn, David found he had lost his glasses. He was so high he hadn’t noticed till then. Well, we searched everywhere. He still hadn’t found them when Daddy and I left for Paris that afternoon. And do you know where they turned up?’

      Judy Wincott turned enquiringly first to Steve and then to me. Neither of us knew the answer.

      ‘You tell us,’ I suggested.

      ‘The customs man at Orly airport found them in my evening handbag when he searched my case.’

      Steve and I snickered politely. Miss Wincott laughed richly and then suddenly stopped. She had had an inspiration.

      ‘Say, this is rather a lucky coincidence. Your going on to Tunis, I mean. You could take David’s glasses back, couldn’t you? I hope you don’t mind my asking.’

      ‘Well, I suppose we could, though I think they’d get there much quicker if you sent them by ordinary mail. We don’t expect to be there ’till Thursday.’

      ‘No, I can’t do that. David’s cable said on no account to send them by ordinary mail. They’d be sure to get broken or lost. Poor lamb, he’s absolutely stricken without them.’

      I suppose it was the vision of a distant but stricken lamb that softened my heart. Steve shot me a glance which I interpreted as meaning: ‘Do the decent thing. Don’t let the nation down.’ So in a moment of weakness I consented.

      ‘That’s swell,’ Miss Wincott said, and polished off her champagne cocktail. ‘Now it’s just a question of how to get the spectacles to you. What hotel are you staying at?’

      ‘We’re not at a hotel this time,’ Steve explained. ‘Some friends of ours have a flat just round the corner in the Avenue Georges V, and they’ve lent it to us for a day or two. We’ll be in this evening. Why not come round about seven and have a drink with us? It’s number eighty-nine.’

      ‘Oh, no.’ Now that she had what she wanted Miss Wincott was prepared to play shy. ‘You’ve seen enough of me already. I’ll only pop in for a tiny moment.’

      I noticed with relief that she was gathering up her gloves and preparing to leave us. Lest she should change her mind I stood up and made way for her to pass by. Her farewells were hasty but effusive. We watched her weave her way through the pedestrians on the pavement and hail a passing cab with an imperious stab of her forefinger. She waved back to us as she was borne down the street towards the whirlpool of vehicles in the Place de la Concorde.

      ‘You do pick up some odd friends,’ I reproached Steve.

      ‘I couldn’t do less than ask her to join us. I was absolutely floundering in the Galeries Lafayette when she rescued me. She spent a whole hour showing me where the best shops were. Then when I told her who I was she seemed pathetically anxious to meet you.’

      ‘I didn’t think there was anything very pathetic about Miss Wincott. I would say that everything she does is aimed somehow to promote her own interests.’

      ‘Well,’ Steve said, ‘I think it shows a nice side of her nature to be so anxious to get that poor man’s glasses back to him.’

      ‘I suppose it’s possible,’ I admitted against my better judgement. ‘Drink up, Steve. We’re supposed to be meeting the de Chatelets at one, and we shall have to dump your parcels at the flat before then.’

      We lunched well but not wisely at the de Chatelets’, and then went to see the Exhibition of pictures at the Orangerie. It was almost seven when we got back to the flat in the Avenue Georges V. I had quite forgotten about Judy Wincott, and was sousing my head in cold water when the door bell rang. I combed my hair hurriedly and went to open it.

      ‘Ah,’ I said when I saw who it was. ‘Come on in. We’re just going to have a drink.’

      Judy Wincott