Paul Temple: East of Algiers

‘Did you tell the police about your find? It’s rather important.’

‘No. I’d forgotten all about it until now. The thing is still in the pocket of my dressing-gown. You know the way a shock drives everything that’s happened previously out of your mind?’

‘Perhaps it’s not so very important,’ I reassured her. ‘Mademoiselle Lalange may have been shown the room before it was allotted to Mr. Sam Leyland, or she may have thrown it away at any time when she was passing by.’

‘Maybe,’ Steve said doubtfully. ‘But did you hear what she had to say about the murder? She seemed to have more theories than anyone else.’

‘Well, if you really do regard her with suspicion, I suggest you behave in a more friendly way to her. She’s more likely to open up if you don’t give her the cold shoulder.’

‘Did I give her the cold shoulder?’

‘Yes. You closed up like a clam the moment she’d lit your cigarette for you. I can’t really bring myself to believe she’s mixed up in this, but I think you should cultivate her. In any case she’d make a very interesting friend for the family.’

Steve’s glance had the glint of a dagger in it.

‘I know you think my theories are all very amusing,’ she said. ‘But I’m convinced that some very monkey business is going on, and equally convinced that it has to do with those spectacles. It was because of them that Judy Wincott was murdered, and because of them that we were run down by that launch this morning. Someone is prepared to stop at nothing to prevent us delivering them to David Foster.’

‘Whereas you are not prepared to let anything stop you doing so?’

‘Right first time,’ Steve answered belligerently, and her mouth set in the firm line which indicates that she really means business.

The aircraft had gained its cruising height now and had levelled off. I set my drink down on the low bar table and watched Steve with amusement.

‘If the glasses are so vitally important I’m glad you took charge of them, Steve. By the way I suppose you still have them?’

‘Of course I have. They’re in my handbag.’

She opened her handbag to prove the point to me, and a second later was groping about feverishly among the collection of assorted and mysterious objects she keeps in there. Then she withdrew her hand and closed the bag deliberately.

‘They’re gone! Someone must have taken them from my bag since we got on the plane. They were there when we showed our tickets. That French girl! I knew she—’

Steve was already rising when I put a hand to stop her. I patted my handkerchief pocket where the glasses were safely reposing.

‘I thought it wise to relieve you of the responsibility. Have you forgotten that since we’ve been married you’ve lost three of the handbags I gave you?’

Steve looked at me with undisguised repugnance as she rose to her feet.

‘You are not fit to command 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?’