Paul Temple: East of Algiers. Francis Durbridge
key into the lock and felt for the light switch. The room sprang into relief as the indirect lighting above the wall fluting flooded the ceiling. I heard Steve’s sigh of relief when she saw that our room appeared to be just as we had left it. The telephone was ringing, but she ignored it and pushed past me to go towards the dressing-table. I saw her open the drawer, feel around inside, and then hold up the glittering brooch. She was smiling with relief.
‘I’m glad he didn’t find this.’
‘Steve!’ I remonstrated. ‘How many times have I warned you not to leave valuables in hotel bedrooms?’
‘I didn’t mean to, darling. If you hadn’t kept telling me to hurry up I would never have forgotten it.’
There is no answer to that sort of remark, so I crossed the room, sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the telephone receiver.
‘Hello. Temple here.’
‘Monsieur Temple? I am so sorry to disturb you, monsieur, but a police inspector is here and he wishes to speak with you immediately.’
It was the voice of the night-duty clerk at the reception desk.
‘Does he say what it is about?’ I asked. I was thinking that if they were already on to the hotel thief the police in this part of the world were pretty fast movers.
‘No, monsieur. He says it is very urgent and he must see you at once.’
I took time to light a cigarette before going down the stairs again. When I reached the foyer I saw the desk clerk nod to a man who was sitting in one of the arm-chairs. He rose at once and came forward to meet me.
Being accustomed to working with the officers of Scotland Yard I was prepared for something rather different. To begin with, this man’s size would have prevented him from entering our Police Force. He was too small, perhaps not more than five foot five. He was dark and concentrated, very neat in his appearance and turn-out, with black hair brushed smoothly back, slick collar and shirt cuffs, well-cleaned shoes. His head seemed big by comparison with his body and his eyes extraordinarily keen. He looked more like a musician than a policeman.
‘Mr. Temple?’ he asked, and I could tell at once that he was going to speak good English.
‘Yes.’
He perfunctorily showed me a little wallet. I caught a glimpse of his photograph behind a cellophane slip and a flash of the red, blue and white of official France.
‘Inspecteur Mirabel, of the Police Judiciaire. I would like to speak a few words with you in private. I think this room is empty.’
He motioned me into a small room which was only used by those of the hotel’s clientele who insisted on coming downstairs to breakfast. The chairs were all hard and upright, and when we sat down one on either side of a bare table, the whole situation seemed very official and unfriendly. Mirabel’s manner and tone of voice kept it that way. He opened a small notebook, but did not glance down at it. His eyes were fixed gravely on me.
‘Mr. Temple, it is correct that you came here to-day by the 2.20 airplane from Paris?’
‘Yes.’
‘And before that you were staying at number 89 Avenue Georges V?’
‘That is right. Some friends of ours lent us their flat for several days.’
‘Were you visited there by a Miss Wincott?’
‘Yes,’ I said, surprised at the unexpected question. ‘Only very briefly. She came to deliver a package and was not in the flat for more than two minutes.’
To myself I was thinking that the instinctive antagonism I had felt towards Judy Wincott had been justified. She was bringing trouble.
‘Did you know Miss Wincott well? Please tell me what your relations with her were.’
‘My relations were very casual. I had only met her that day. She was rather kind to my wife in Paris yesterday morning, and she invited her to join us for an apéritif.’
‘That was last night?’
‘No. That was before lunch. It was then arranged that she would call on us at the flat about seven that evening—’
‘And she did so? Can you remember the exact time?’
‘Yes. I think I can. My wife and I got back at seven and she arrived about five minutes later.’
Mirabel made a quick note. I was becoming curious as to how Judy Wincott had aroused the interest of the police, but decided that it was better not to ask any questions just yet.
‘Did she give you any address?’ Mirabel continued.
‘She was staying at the Hotel Bedford, I believe – with her father.’
‘Her father?’
Mirabel had looked up in surprise.
‘He’s Benjamin Wincott, an antique dealer from New York. The American Embassy can tell you more about him than I can. According to Miss Wincott they were dining there last night.’
Mirabel gazed at me for a moment and a little smile touched the corner of his mouth.
‘You mentioned a package, Mr. Temple. Please tell me what this was.’
‘Oh, it was just a pair of spectacles she asked me to deliver to a friend of hers in Tunis.’
Mirabel’s eyebrows rose. I went on to give him a résumé of the tale Judy Wincott had told me.
When I had finished he said: ‘I should like to see these spectacles. Would you show them to me, please?’
‘Certainly. I have them here.’
I took the case from my breast pocket and handed it over to Mirabel. He extracted the spectacles and turned them over slowly in his long and sensitive fingers. He smoothed the sheet of Hotel Bedford notepaper on the table. I saw his brows furrow. He balanced the case in his hand as if assessing its weight.
‘I should like to take these to my headquarters and have them examined by an expert,’ he said. ‘You do not object?’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘You will allow me to have them back? I feel under some obligation—’
‘I will give you a receipt,’ Mirabel said stiffly. ‘Unless there is any reason to the contrary these glasses will be returned to you in the morning.’
‘Thank you. May I ask—? Is Miss Wincott in some sort of trouble?’
Mirabel’s deep eyes focused on me again and his expression was whimsical.
‘I do not think you would say that she was in trouble. Her body was found by the concierge this afternoon in one of the rubbish bins behind your block of flats. She had been shot in the back. The police doctor’s estimate of the time of death coincides with your account of the time she left you.’
I didn’t say anything. I knew Mirabel was studying me as my thoughts flew back to Fouquet’s and the girl who had so exasperated me when she had sat beside me the day before. Murderers themselves usually make sense. It is the victims they choose that somehow startle and shock one. I could have imagined Judy Wincott being smacked by an exasperated suitor, being socially ostracized, even arrested for drunkenness – but not murdered.
‘You are surprised?’ Mirabel murmured.
‘What do you think? She left me at seven last night to join her father and dine at the American Embassy. Does it seem natural that her body should be found to-day in a refuse bin? Have you any ideas as to who did it, or why?’
Mirabel shook his head.
‘The assassin left no trace. It has taken us until now to find out who it was she was visiting last night and why.’
‘Surely her father notified the police when she failed to turn