Paul Temple and the Tyler Mystery. Francis DurbridgeЧитать онлайн книгу.
novelist and criminologist. Knowledgeable observers, however, reaffirm that this case sets precisely the kind of problem in which Temple has so often assisted the police in the past”.’
Temple’s eyes were thoughtful for a moment. Then he knocked his drink back and carried the empty glass to the corner cupboard.
‘That’s just journalistic patter. I’ve no intention of becoming involved in the Tyler affair. We’ve enough on our hands as it is, Steve.’
‘That’s exactly what I think. When I read about this, I felt certain that Sir Graham would ask your help.’
‘So you hid the paper. Did you honestly think I wouldn’t notice?’
‘Not really.’ Steve grimaced at him impishly. ‘But I don’t want to miss out on that Paris trip.’
‘You won’t. The Tyler case is not going to upset our plans.’
‘I wish I could feel certain about that.’ Steve’s expression had become moody. She fiddled absent-mindedly with the flowers she had arranged in the bowl. ‘I have the funniest feeling that it’s going to upset our plans very much.’
‘You and your intuition! How often does it really mean anything?’
Steve straightened up with a frown of mock sternness.
‘More often than you’re prepared to admit, Mr T.’
The following Wednesday was the first day of summer; not the calendar summer, but the true summer, whose coming is like a thief in the night – no man can foretell it. Temple was glad that his business took him along New Bond Street. The thoroughfare was crisp and gay in the warm morning sunshine. The slow-moving cars sparkled and after a chilly spring every woman worth her salt had come forth in a new summer creation. Even Mayfair Man had reduced his habitual vigilance against the climate. Umbrellas had been left at home and though the bowler could not be discarded without affronting protocol, it was being carried in the hand rather than upon the head. Temple himself had greeted the coming of summer by purchasing half a dozen bow ties at Maddingly’s and had changed into one at the shop.
He called at Justerini and Brooks and over a glass of Conquistador sherry discussed with his wine merchant the vintages which he was going to lay down at the Eaton Square flat. His way back to Berkeley Square, where he had parked the Frazer Nash, took him past Anderson’s Art Gallery. His thoughts were on burgundy and château-bottled clarets and he was almost past the window when he stopped. His eye had been arrested by a splash of Mediterranean colour. He went back slowly and stood studying the picture in the window with half-closed eyes. Though it was the only painting in the window it was displayed rather artificially on an easel and the drapings behind it were distracting. Temple could not easily visualise it on his own drawing-room wall.
On an impulse he walked into the shop. The moment he crossed the threshold he entered a world of decorous coolness and silence. The light in here was subdued after the sunshine outside and his feet were cushioned by a thick carpet of a discreet buff shade. There were pictures everywhere, mostly modern. His eye was attacked by stark Gauginesque jibes at the female form and vivid fantasias on oriental or hispanic landscapes.
‘Good morning, sir.’
The voice might have come from a radio set. It was musical and carefully modulated. Its tone managed to suggest that the speaker was prepared to proffer the courtesy title of Sir to his customers but they must not infer thereby that he was in any sense inferior to them socially. The voice had come from behind Temple. He turned round.
The young man was quite as tall as Temple and met his scrutiny unblinkingly. He wore a very well-tailored suit of dark grey flannel with a horizontal stripe which Temple found a shade too bold. His shirt was of cream silk and the cuffs emerged just the correct distance from his coat sleeve. When he put a hand up to brush back a straying curl from his brow a set of gold cuff-links was displayed, stamped with some unchallengeable crest.
‘Can I show you something, sir?’
‘Yes. I’m interested in that picture you have in the window.’
‘Oh yes? The Kappel study of Port Manech.’
‘I thought it might be a Raoul Dufy.’
‘It’s very much the same style,’ the young man looked at Temple with a little more interest. ‘You like it?’
‘That’s rather hard to say. As a picture I like it very much, but I’m wondering how it will look on the wall of my drawing-room.’
‘That’s easily settled.’ The salesman had evidently decided from the cut of Temple’s jib that he was a customer and not merely a sightseer. ‘We can send it round and you can try it. If you don’t like the picture you have only to notify us and it will be taken away again. No obligation to you at all.’
Seeing that the suggestion did not please Temple as much as most customers, he added: ‘Alternatively I can have it hung in our display-room right away.’
‘I think that’s a better idea.’
The young man spoke the name Tripp on a register only a little above his speaking voice and an old character in a baize apron appeared from the back of the shop.
‘Tripp, will you bring the Kappel that’s in the window into the display-room. If you’ll come this way, sir.’
He led Temple to a three-sided space at the back of the shop. One wall consisted of a number of hinged panels so that the approximate colour of any room could be provided as a background to the picture displayed.
‘What colour is your drawing-room, sir?’
‘Well,’ Temple hesitated, ‘I suppose you’d call it duck-egg blue.’
‘Something like – that?’
‘Near enough.’
The young man offered Temple a cigarette while Tripp laboured by with the picture and hung it on the wall, slightly skew-whiff. Temple refused, but he noted that the cigarette-case was gold and the lighter with which the salesman lit his own Benson and Hedges belonged to the same set.
‘I like it,’ Temple said as soon as he saw the picture on the wall. ‘I can see what’s wrong now. It’s the frame. It would clash with the furniture. Our stuff is mostly antique.’
The other man’s eyebrows rose just a fraction, but he gave no other sign of his opinion of people who mingled modern art with antique furniture. He was too good a salesman. Temple interpreted his expression correctly but ignored it.
‘I’d prefer a slightly more ornate frame. And I think a little depth in the frame would give a more three-dimensional effect to the picture.’
‘Certainly we can change the frame, sir.’ The salesman nodded to the waiting Tripp and led Temple to another section of the shop. After some consideration he selected a grey frame flecked with gilt which gave the stippled effect he was after.
‘It will take a day or two to make the frame, you understand, sir. May we send it to you?’
‘If you would. What’s the price of the picture, by the way?’
‘Forty guineas, sir. We’ll send you the account in due course – and the name and address?’
‘Temple.’
‘Paul Temple?’ The young man glanced quickly up from the pad on which he was writing.
‘That’s right,’ Temple answered with a smile. ‘The address is 127a, Eaton Square.’
‘127a, Eaton Square.’
‘You’ve no idea what day it will be coming?’
‘I can’t say exactly, Mr Temple, but it should be early next week. Say Monday or Tuesday.’
‘The sooner the better.’
The young man had produced his wallet. He selected a visiting card