Paul Temple: East of Algiers. Francis Durbridge

the loyalty of a decent woman,’ she said in her most regal tone, and marched out of the bar.

      I was not left alone in the bar for long. Either by chance or because he had seen Steve leave, Tony Wyse appeared within a few moments. He greeted me enthusiastically, and after ordering a brandy and soda sat down beside me. He had changed for the journey into a dark grey suit, suède bootees and a striped tie. After the events of the previous night and the rescue operations that morning he was prepared to regard me as a long-lost brother.

      ‘One thing puzzles me about that business last night, Temple. When you opened the cupboard door and disclosed the simply ghastly spectacle of that slaughtered girl, your wife gave vent to a comment which has made me ponder more than somewhat. She seemed to know at once who it was.’

      Wyse raised his glass, but he was studying me closely as he put his question.

      ‘Was she a friend of yours?’

      ‘Not exactly a friend. We’d met her briefly in Paris. That’s all.’

      ‘In Paris?’

      The information seemed to surprise Wyse.

      ‘Yes. It was a chance encounter. She was very kind to my wife and we invited her to have a drink with us.’

      ‘You told the police this?’

      ‘Yes, of course. Did you imagine I was trying to hide something?’

      ‘No, indeed.’ Wyse hurriedly took a sip of his brandy and switched on the charm, which just for a moment had worn thin. ‘I’m sorry to appear to be so inquisitive, but one can’t help wondering about a murder, especially when one stumbles on the victim before she’s even cold.’

      ‘I’m afraid I can’t enlighten you,’ I said.

      Wyse seemed prepared to take the hint implied in my tone of voice and changed the subject.

      ‘This is your first trip to French North Africa?’

      ‘Yes, it is.’

      ‘Perhaps I can be of some service to you? I know both Algiers and Tunis pretty well. I would esteem it a privilege if you would permit me to conduct your wife and yourself round some of the curiosities.’

      I thought that a whole day of Wyse’s roundabout brand of conversation would send me out of my mind.

      I said: ‘It’s very kind of you, but we are hoping to meet friends there. Does your business bring you out here?’

      ‘Yes. I work for Freeman & Bailey – the engineering firm, you know. We have a good deal of business with Trans-Africa Petroleum.’

      ‘Trans-Africa Petroleum? Perhaps you know a slight acquaintance of mine who’s in that firm? His name is David Foster.’

      ‘David Foster?’ Wyse echoed the words with judicious thoughtfulness. ‘No. I can’t say I know him. Of course, I’m constantly on the move, so I miss meeting everyone.’

      ‘You are an engineer yourself?’

      ‘No. Not really an engineer. I am in the liaison department, as you might say – I hold a roving brief.’

      He smiled broadly, but I felt that where questions were concerned, he did not relish being at the receiving end. He excused himself, signalled to the steward and made his exit.

      The bar was becoming fuller, and I decided it was time I made way for someone else. I was already rising when the gentle pressure of a hand on my shoulder stopped me. I looked down at the hand. It was podgy and very white. Little dimples smiled at the backs of the fingers. Beyond snow-white silk cuffs was the black material of a very expensive suit. My eyes travelled upwards till they had taken in the appearance of the man who had sat down beside me.

      I disliked him at once. He was too reminiscent of a white slug. That sickly sweet perfume which he exhaled suggested that his own odour must be strong and unpleasant. His eyes were small, his mouth lascivious. He was growing bald on top but allowed his back hair to curl upwards over the back of his collar.

      ‘One moment, please. You are Mr. Temple, are you not?’

      He spoke with his mouth offensively close to my face, more in a whisper than in a normal speaking voice.

      ‘I am. I don’t think I have the pleasure of knowing you.’

      ‘Maybe not,’ the plump man said. ‘My name is Constantin. Blanys Constantin. You, I think, are Mr. Paul Temple?’

      I did not answer. The steward came to enquire what Constantin wanted to drink, but he waved him away impatiently.

      ‘You were in Nice last night, Mr. Temple, staying at the hotel where a girl named Judy Wincott was murdered.’

      ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘The newspapers made a good story of it.’

      ‘Not a complete story. They did not say that you had met Miss Wincott in Paris.’

      ‘Perhaps they did not consider it a very important piece of news.’

      ‘Other people might consider it interesting, though, might they not, Mr. Temple? Especially if they knew the reason for her visit to your flat in the Avenue Georges V.’

      The man had edged even closer, and his voice had dropped. As I was at the end of the couch I had no means of escape unless I was prepared to use violence on him.

      ‘You did not tell the police that she had entrusted you with a certain very valuable document, did you, Mr. Temple?’

      My anger was beginning to rise, but I continued to keep my voice down.

      ‘I did not tell them so because it would have been quite untrue.’

      ‘Come, come,’ Constantin said. ‘You and I know better than that.’

      ‘If you want the truth, Miss Wincott simply asked me to return a pair of spectacles to a Mr. David Foster who lives in Tunis – where my wife and I happen to be going.’

      Constantin blinked rapidly several times. For a moment he seemed floored, then returned rapidly to the attack.

      ‘You are being made a fool of, Mr. Temple. There is no such person as Mr. David Foster, and those spectacles will only bring difficulties for you.’

      ‘I think it is you who are being a fool, Mr. Constantin. The spectacles are a perfectly ordinary pair – there’s nothing mystic or magic about them, and there’s no possibility that they are connected in any way with the murder of Miss Wincott.’

      ‘Nevertheless,’ Constantin’s eyes flickered rapidly round to make sure that no one was taking an interest in our conversation. ‘Nevertheless, I will give you a thousand pounds if you will hand those spectacles over to me.’

      I began to laugh and shake my head, but Constantin pressed me back into my seat.

      ‘Five thousand pounds,’ he said with intensity, and then almost without a pause: ‘Ten thousand! Do not think that I cannot pay so much, because I can. You can collect the money as soon as we arrive in Algiers.’

      ‘You are wasting your time,’ I said bluntly, and this time I did push him out of my way so that I could get up.

      ‘No,’ he called after me quite loudly as I left the bar. ‘It is you who are wasting time. I tell you, you will never find your David Foster!’

       Chapter Three

      BACK IN the main compartment I found that Steve had sacrificed her seat to the French girl. The latter had, however, tired of gazing down at the unchanging sea; her head had fallen back and she was fast asleep, her chest rising and falling with each deep breath. I signalled to Steve, who moved quickly round to sit in the empty seat beside me.

      ‘Your