Paul Temple and the Tyler Mystery. Francis Durbridge
special Havana cigars which he can only get here in London. There won’t be any duty to pay because I’ll open the box and take one out.’
Temple was surprised at this request from a comparative stranger, but Steve seemed to find it quite natural.
‘We can do that, can’t we, Paul?’
‘Yes, of course, though in fact the customs—’
‘That’s very kind of you. I’ll drop them in a day or two before you leave. I only wish I could take them myself. Paris is marvellous at this time of year. Do you stay anywhere special?’
‘We usually go to the Hotel Pompadour,’ said Steve.
‘The Pompadour? Then you’ll be quite close to the Kappel exhibition; it’s in the Rue Royale.’
Temple at last managed to shepherd the talkative Brooks out of the flat. He went back to the drawing-room to find Steve at the window, waiting to watch their visitor as he went along the street.
‘Something peculiar about that chap. You and he seemed to be getting on like a house on fire.’
‘Does that make him peculiar? I liked him but I felt that we weren’t seeing the real person. All that surface charm seemed switched on for your benefit.’
‘For my benefit? Come on, Steve, you under-rate yourself. Now, we’ll have to get a move on if we’re to be at Sonning in time. We’ll hang that picture when we get home this evening.’
They were lucky with traffic and it was still only half-past twelve when the two-seater Frazer Nash passed the 30 limit sign on the far side of Maidenhead and Temple brought the speedometer needle up to 80, an easy cruising speed for the car.
‘I’m going to be ready for this lunch,’ Steve said, looking up at the blue sky. ‘I wonder if we can eat outside.’
The fine weather had continued and the trees lining the side of the road were a fresh, rich green. The hum of the tyres and the gentle swish of wind over the streamlined body were not enough to prevent conversation.
‘I wonder if you’ll get anything of interest out of Mrs Draper.’
‘I don’t expect to,’ Temple answered, his eye on the driving mirror. ‘I’m convinced that Harry Shelford had nothing to do with the Tyler business. I’m only doing this to make Sir Graham happy.’
‘Don’t you think that the coincidence of this mysterious Harry who telephoned and Harry Shelford’s name on the paper found in Betty Tyler’s handbag is too strong to be – well, just coincidence?’
‘Coincidences happen in everyday life which no one would accept in fiction. What does this ass think he’s trying to do?’
A white sports car Triumph had been catching up on the Frazer Nash for some miles and was now sitting on their tail about a hundred yards behind. Temple had waved the driver on but he had taken no notice. He was alone in the car and had lowered the windscreen flat onto the bonnet. His cap was pulled down over his face and he wore a fearsome pair of goggles. Temple was used to being challenged to a race by foolhardy owners of sports cars but he invariably declined, though he knew that the Frazer Nash was capable of showing a clean pair of heels to most of them.
He slowed to about sixty and at last the Triumph accelerated and went past them with a vulgar blare from its exhaust. The driver did not even glance at them. He then played that most infuriating of tricks: began to motor at a speed just slower than Temple’s usual gait. The noise of his exhaust drowned conversation. Temple made up his mind to give the Frazer Nash the gun and leave the Triumph behind.
The road ahead was a fast straight stretch divided into three lanes. About four hundred yards away a car was stopped on the left-hand side. A little beyond it, coming towards them, was a massive Marston Valley brick lorry. Temple decided to bide his time, but at that moment the driver of the Triumph put out a gloved hand and gave the slowing down signal. Just as he came up to the parked car he waved the Frazer Nash on. Temple assumed that he intended to brake sharply and pull in behind the stationary car. The brick lorry was just coming level with it, but the centre lane was clear.
The Frazer Nash surged quickly from forty to sixty miles an hour as Temple pulled out to pass. It occurred to him that the Triumph was going to have to brake very sharply to avoid hitting the stationary car. Just at the last moment the goggled driver put his hand out and edged the Triumph on to the centre lane. Temple found himself being forced out towards the oncoming bonnet of the brick lorry, now only thirty yards distant, his only way through blocked.
There was no time to sound a horn or curse. The lesser of two evils was to shunt the Triumph but even that would mean an impact of fifty miles an hour and Steve’s forehead was terribly close to the dashboard.
The man at the wheel of the brick lorry, with the vigilance typical of British transport drivers, applied his vacuum brakes and stopped the vehicle in its own length. Temple swerved sharply to the right, aiming the Frazer Nash across the front of the brick lorry. Nothing but a machine developed in trials and racing would have accepted the brutal change of direction; tyres shrieked but the car remained on four wheels. She missed the lorry by two feet, rushed on to the grass verge and passed between two trees. Still miraculously in control, Temple put her through an open gate into a grass field beyond. The car skidded on the soft surface and ended up facing the gate through which it had come. Temple had kept his engine running. He selected bottom gear and drove back on to the grass verge.
‘Sorry, Steve. It was the only way out.’
Steve produced a compact and began to powder her nose with slightly trembling hands. Temple switched off his engine and took a deep breath before he stepped out of the car. The lorry driver had driven another hundred yards up the road and was climbing down from his cab. The white Triumph, now moving very fast, was just disappearing round a distant bend.
Temple went to meet the lorry driver as he walked towards them.
‘Your missus all right, mate?’
‘Yes, thanks. I’d like to thank you for keeping your brakes in good order and using them so promptly. It saved our lives.’
The driver scratched the back of his head and stared down the road.
‘Didn’t even stop, the—. Pity we couldn’t get his number.’
Temple offered his cigarette-case to the driver without answering. He had made a mental note of the Triumph’s registration number when it first passed him. He intended to write it down in his diary before he rejoined Steve.
‘Police ought to do something about them sort of drivers,’ the lorry man went on. ‘If he’d been trying to do it deliberate he couldn’t have put you in a worse spot.’
Out of respect for Steve’s nerves, Temple drove slowly the rest of the way to Sonning. Neither of them spoke a word until they had turned off the main road and were idling down the minor road that led to the village. Then Steve turned to examine Temple’s profile.
‘Paul. That was a deliberate attempt to kill us.’
Temple was ready for the remark. He took his eye off the road for long enough to give Steve a reassuring smile.
‘I don’t think so, Steve. Probably some idiot who doesn’t know his car. Too many of these fast machines get into the hands of people who can’t control them.’
‘I thought he controlled his rather skilfully,’ Steve remarked drily. ‘His timing was absolutely perfect.’
The Dutch Treat stood on the river bank just beyond the Sonning bridge. On a well-kept lawn between the verandah and the water were placed a number of gaily painted tables and chairs, shaded by striped Continental style sun-shades tipped at rakish angles. Temple parked the car, then Steve and he went into the building by the hotel entrance. Steve said she wanted to fix her hair, and while she went off to the Ladies’ Room Temple waited in the foyer.
He caught the eye of the reception clerk and went over to speak to him.