Paul Temple and the Madison Case. Francis DurbridgeЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘Well, that’s certainly a point of view,’ said Temple, laughing. ‘Is your wife an American, Mr Portland?’
‘No, she’s English although she’s lived in America for a great many years. As a matter of fact we’ve only been married six weeks.’
‘Oh!’ Temple quickly controlled his surprise. ‘Congratulations!’
‘Thanks,’ said Sam, accepting the congratulations with the satisfied expression of a cat that had scooped the milk.
‘Why are you making this trip – for business reasons or simply to meet Madison?’
‘Well, my wife thinks I’m making it because of Moira. Oh, Moira’s my daughter – by my first marriage, of course. She works in my London office. Actually, however, I must confess I’m coming over simply because of Madison. I’m sold on Madison, Temple. I really think he’s found something. Hello, here’s George.’ Portland had spotted a man pushing his way towards them beckoning excitedly with one arm. ‘Now what does he want?’
Temple estimated George Kelly’s age as about forty. He was wearing sneakers, jeans and a brightly coloured sports blouse. All in all he seemed an unlikely appendage for the multi-millionaire.
‘There’s been a ’phone call from the New York office,’ he announced excitedly. ‘I couldn’t find you so I told ’em you’d ring back. They seemed to be all steamed up about something.’
‘Yes, all right, George.’ Sam answered him with an almost fatherly pat on the shoulder. ‘How’s Mrs Portland?’
‘About the same. She don’t look too good.’ Kelly’s high pitched laugh twisted his thin mouth. ‘I reckon she don’t feel too good either.’
‘O.K. I’ll be right down.’
Kelly nodded, glanced at Temple, then departed.
‘That’s George Kelly.’ Sam was watching the man’s receding back thoughtfully. ‘When poor old Dan died I promised to find his son a job. He’s my secretary. I guess you wouldn’t think so though to hear him talk. George is a drip! He hasn’t got the old man’s guts, personality or anything else. Still, what can you do?’ He shrugged resignedly. ‘Well, I’ll go down and see how my good lady’s getting on. Nice to have met you, Mr Temple,’ offering his hand. ‘Let’s all have a drink together sometime.’
‘Yes, let’s do that.’
‘Say we meet in the Princess Bar at seven o’clock? I’ll bring Mrs Portland along. How’s that?’
‘Fine.’
‘And don’t forget to bring Mrs Temple.’
‘Well,’ said Temple, laughing. ‘I will if she can make it.’
‘She’ll make it all right.’
Sam was lighting another cigar as he moved away in the wake of George Kelly. Temple gave him a minute’s start then made his own way to the door that led to the Midships Lounge. He was less interested in the bouillon than in locating the ship’s Business Centre with its telex, fax, up-to-date financial reports and secretarial facilities.
The Princess Bar, adjoining the Princess Grill, was on the Boat Deck, conveniently placed for the occupants of the prestigious suites just aft of the signals and communications tower. By seven o’clock it was already well filled and virtually everybody there had already changed into evening dress. The sun was sinking towards the horizon and the orange glow of its reflection on the sea cast a warm light on the ceiling of the bar. There was little movement on the well-stabilised ship. The tremor of the nine diesel engines in the belly of the liner was hardly detectable. Already they had thrust Princess Diana seven hundred miles out into the Atlantic.
Temple was shepherding Steve towards an empty table by the window. She was walking gingerly, not too sure of her sea legs. More than one pair of eyes rested on them with frank appraisal. They were a striking couple. With his tall build, clean-cut features and the confidence with which he wore his London tailored clothes, Temple looked as British as the ship they were travelling on. Steve always turned heads, for she kept her figure in marvellous trim.
‘Are you feeling all right, Steve?’
‘Yes, I’m all right now, Paul.’
‘You certainly look better than you did this morning.’
‘I certainly feel better!’
They settled into low armchairs facing the colourful gathering. At once a waiter in the ship’s grey and green livery materialised before them.
‘What can I get you, madam?’
‘What would you like, darling?’ Temple enquired. ‘Have a champagne cocktail.’
‘Is that a good idea?’ She looked at her husband doubtfully.
‘It’s a very good idea. Two champagne cocktails.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The waiter hurried towards the bar. Steve’s eyes were checking over the men in their black and white tuxedos.
‘I don’t see Mr Portland.’
‘No, he hasn’t arrived yet.’ Temple had hardly spoken when he saw George Kelly coming in with a woman. The secretary’s wiry body had been crammed uncomfortably into a black jacket and trousers. He and his companion were ill-matched. She was a good looking blonde in her forties, with a generous, full figure and slightly florid face. Her dress was obviously a model from a top designer. ‘But here’s his secretary!’
‘Who’s he with?’
‘I don’t know, unless it’s Mrs Portland.’
‘She’s not that young, surely.’
George Kelly quickly spotted Temple. He pushed his way through the tables, clearing a passage for Stella Portland.
‘Excuse me, Mr Temple. Have you seen Mr Portland?’
‘No.’ Temple had stood in expectation of being introduced to the lady. ‘We arranged to meet here at seven o’clock but I am afraid he hasn’t shown up yet.’
‘I’m beginning to feel very worried, George.’ said Stella, biting her lip.
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Kelly reassured her. He added with his cracked laugh, ‘He’s probably found a quiet corner somewhere and fallen asleep.’
Stella shook her head. ‘That’s not like Sam. He doesn’t do that sort of thing.’ Then she turned her baby-blue eyes on Temple. ‘Are you Mr Temple?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Stella Portland,’ she said, holding out her hand.
‘I’m glad to meet you, Mrs Portland.’ Temple took the hand which was held for a moment in her warm grasp. ‘This is my wife …’
‘How do you do, Mrs Temple?’ Wisely, Steve did not stand up. ‘I hope you’re feeling better now, my husband told me that you were not too good this morning.’
‘I’m much better, thank you.’
‘Seasickness must be really dreadful,’ Stella said, with earnest sympathy. ‘I always feel frightfully sorry for anyone who suffers from it. Fortunately, I’m a very good sailor.’ She turned to the secretary who was staring at Steve with undisguised admiration. ‘George, I do wish you’d go and look for Sam. I’m really dreadfully worried.’
‘O.K.’ Kelly was reluctant to be banished from the party. ‘O.K., Stella!’
With unconcealed ill-humour the secretary departed, fidgeting his shoulders in his jacket.
‘I don’t know what’s happened to Sam.’ Stella was too worried to take one of the vacant chairs. ‘No one seems to have seen him