Paul Temple: East of Algiers

‘Then why—’ Steve began.

‘No, of course not,’ I said, and tried to quell Steve’s protestations with a wink. ‘It was just one of those million to one chances. We’re none the less grateful to you for coming so promptly to the rescue. It looks as if we may still catch this afternoon’s plane to Algiers.’

‘You’re flying to Algiers to-day?’ Wyse queried. He smiled broadly and his eyes rested comfortably on Steve’s face. ‘But this is going to be delightful. I shall be on the Algiers plane myself.’

We caught the Algiers plane with only a minute to spare. It had taken me a long time to come to terms with the owner of the dinghy. We were forced to fling our things into the suitcases and bolt our lunch before careering out to the airport in a taxi. The other passengers had already been escorted to the big Air France machine. Luckily there were no customs or immigration formalities to be observed, and a smartly uniformed young woman marched us rapidly out to the aircraft, just before the steps were wheeled away.

Our seats were half-way along the aircraft. At our own request we each had a seat next to the window, and so were sitting opposite to each other. By no means all the available space in the aircraft had been booked, but the seat next to Steve’s was occupied by a vision whose age I put at somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-seven. That she was French seemed obvious from the start. She drew her legs demurely aside to let Steve squeeze past and, under the guise of a friendly smile, the two women exchanged a wary, appraising glance.

The contrast between them was very marked. Whereas Steve was dark and did not have recourse to much makeup, this girl was an ash-blonde. Her hair was so immaculately dressed and glistening that I felt certain she must have been to the coiffeur that morning. Her eye-lashes were too long to be all her own, her nails were varnished and her lips were tinted by a faintly mauve lipstick. Yet there was nothing flashy or cheap about her appearance. You felt rather that she was a very lovely woman who took the maximum care to present herself well.

She must have been a novice at air travel, for when the illuminated sign was switched on she fumbled helplessly with her seat belt and got her own straps mixed up with Steve’s. Steve showed her how to fasten herself in.

The French girl smiled charmingly and groped in her mind for words.

‘Sank you very mush,’ she said, and gave a shy laugh.

‘Not at all,’ Steve said. ‘You’re not very accustomed to air travel?’

‘Please?’

‘I said: you have not travelled by air-o-plane much before?’

The French girl shook her head a little, but not so much as to disturb the ash-blonde hair.

‘Yes, sometimes already but not since several years.’

The aircraft was turning on the tarmac, preparing to lumber out to the end of the runway. The stewardess, a reassuring smile on her face, was moving up the aisle, asking passengers to put their cigarettes out, making sure their belts were properly fastened. The French girl was leaning forward, looking out of the window rather nervously at the rapidly passing ground. I knew that Steve was trying to keep her mind from the take-off when she resumed the conversation.

‘You are staying in Algiers or going further on?’

‘I go to Tunis. But of course I must first stop at Algiers and catch the airplane to Tunis the next day.’

‘That’s what we are doing. We shall be fellow passengers again to-morrow then.’

‘Yes. I shall begin to know you very well. I saw you in the hotel last night when the police were questioning all the guests.’

‘Oh, you were staying there too, were you?’

‘It must have been terribly désagréable for you to find that poor girl like that.’

‘Yes,’ Steve agreed. ‘It was.’

‘How horrible to think that you were in the very next room while an assassin was committing his crime!’

Now that she was warming to the conversation the French girl’s English was improving. She seemed very interested indeed in all the circumstances of Judy Wincott’s murder and began to ply Steve with questions.

‘Do you believe it was an attempt to make the police believe you and your husband had committed the crime?’

Steve shot me a startled glance.

‘Good gracious, I don’t think so.’

‘But it is a fact that if the other monsieur had not been there you would have been in a situation – très embarassante.’

‘Well, perhaps we would—’ Steve began.

‘Though myself I think that she was murdered before she was brought to the room next to yours.’

‘Oh?’ Steve said. ‘Then why did the murderer make such a noise about placing her body in the cupboard?’

‘Well,’ the French girl said thoughtfully. ‘He may have wanted that you should do précisément that which you did – precipitate yourselves into the room where the body was finding itself.’

The aircraft had reached the end of the runway and the roar of the engines as the pilot tested them precluded further conversation. The stewardess had strapped herself into her own seat at the rear end. After a momentary hush the engines roared again and the machine began to rush over the ground at rapidly increasing speed. The French girl leant her head back against the seat cushion and I saw her throat move as she swallowed. It was the only sign she gave that she was nervous.

In a few moments our wheels were clear, the flight became smooth and the sea was below us, dropping away rapidly as the aircraft banked and turned southwards towards the North African coast. The sign enjoining passengers to desist from smoking went out, and from all around came the clinking of clasps as people released themselves from their safety belts.

As soon as her buckle was undone the French girl picked up her handbag, and her long, shapely fingers groped for a tiny gold cigarette-case. She took a cigarette, placed it carefully in a holder and put it in her mouth. Then she handed the case to Steve, who smiled and accepted one of the Egyptian cigarettes. The French girl felt in her bag again and produced a new container of book matches. The cover was plain blue, stamped in gilt with the initials S.L.

She struck a match and held it for Steve. I saw my wife staring in a very curious wav at the book matches. Then she collected herself and puffed at her light.

‘You like my matches?’ The French girl had also noticed Steve’s expression and was smiling. ‘These are my initials. Simone Lalange. It is quite charming, is it not?’

I thought Steve’s assent a little forced, and I was disappointed in her when she broke off the conversation. I began to wonder if she was feeling air-sick, for her expression had altered and she was watching me in an expectant kind of way.

I leaned across the table.

‘Feeling all right, Steve?’

‘Yes, thanks. More or less. I could use a brandy to steady my tummy though. We must have eaten that meal in record time.’

‘There’s a bar in the tail of this machine. Shall we go and have a drink?’

No one else had yet thought of visiting the bar, so we had the little compartment to ourselves.

‘Paul!’ Steve said excitedly as soon as the steward had moved behind his tiny counter. ‘You remember when we were standing outside that bedroom last night – just before we discovered the body?’

‘I do. Most emphatically.’

‘Well, I noticed something on the floor and picked it up. It was an empty box of book matches.’

‘Yes, I noticed you stooping and wondered what you’d dropped. I’d forgotten all about it.’

‘So had I. But I distinctly remember now. It had a blue cover with the initials S.L. on it.’

I shot an instinctive glance towards the seats we had just vacated.

‘You saw the book matches that French girl had,’ Steve pursued. ‘They were an exact replica.’