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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 from one of the pockets and handed it to Temple.
‘Just in case there’s any query.’
Temple glanced at the card. It bore the name Stephen Brooks, written clearly in a Sweet Roman Hand, which he took to be a reproduction of the young man’s own calligraphy. He picked up his hat from the table.
‘Thank you for your help, Mr Brooks.’
‘Not at all, sir. I hope I may have the pleasure again some day.’
Even at the time Temple was puzzled by the peculiar emphasis which he placed on these words.
Temple drove himself home, his thoughts so occupied with his purchase that he did not pay any particular attention to the black Humber parked a little way down the street from his own entrance. He let himself into the flat, but before he could burst into the drawing-room, Charlie, the Temples’ cook, butler, handyman and watchdog, emerged from the door leading to his own quarters.
‘Hold it, Mr T.’
Charlie’s voice was hushed and conspiratorial. Temple tried to hide the annoyance he always felt when addressed by initial. The thirty-year-old Cockney was a faithful and irreplaceable servant but his familiarity sometimes bordered on insolence.
‘What is it, Charlie?’
‘I’ve a message for you. It’s from Mrs T.’
‘From Mrs Temple? Has she gone out?’
‘No. She’s in there.’ Charlie ignored the reproof implied in Temple’s correction and stabbed a finger towards the closed drawing-room door. ‘But Sir Graham Forbes and that Inspector Vosper are here. She told me to warn you so as you could start thinking up your defence.’
Temple smiled to himself as he laid a hand on the door knob. There was no need for Steve to worry. He had a good idea what had brought Sir Graham to the flat but he was as determined as she was not to be diverted from that trip to Paris. The knob turned under his hand as someone opened the door from inside. It was Steve. During the moment while the door screened them she shook one finger at him in a gesture of warning.
‘Ah, there you are at last, darling,’ she said loudly. ‘Look who’s come to visit us.’
Sir Graham was facing the wall at the far side of the room, scrutinising the picture hung there through a monocle which he used like a magnifying glass. Detective Inspector Vosper had declined to remove his overcoat. As Temple entered he rose to his feet and nodded but left all the talking to his superior.
‘Temple,’ boomed Sir Graham in the vibrant voice which in days long past he had developed in the forecourt of Buckingham Palace. ‘Good to see you again. I was telling Steve: I like the way you’ve done this place up. It’s honest. Reflects your personalities. None of this nonsense – the Louis XIV salon, the Marie Antoinette boudoir. What wonderfully proportioned rooms these old houses have! I was just trying to figure out this painting. Looks like one of those Venetian fellows. It’s original, of course.’
The picture that had attracted Forbes’ attention was a modest canvas about eighteen inches by twelve. It represented a wild, prophetic head with flaming cheeks and turbulent red hair.
‘As a matter of fact you’ve put your finger on the gem of the bunch. That’s a Tiepolo. John the Baptist.’
‘Is it, indeed?’ Sir Graham turned on his heel to quiz the picture again. ‘I thought he confined himself to painting ceilings. Trompe l’oeil and that sort of thing.’
‘By no means. He’s not so well known for his portraits but there are plenty of them.’
Temple tried to dismiss the subject by his casual tone. He caught Steve’s eye.
‘I was just telling Sir Graham about our plans to visit Paris, darling.’ Steve spoke pointedly and Temple spotted Vosper’s sudden embarrassed glance at Sir Graham. ‘What’ll you drink, Paul?’
‘Same as usual; Steve has looked after you, Sir Graham – Inspector?’
The two men lifted their still well-filled glasses to show that Steve had not failed to offer them hospitality. With a twinkle in his eye Temple watched Sir Graham move round the back of the sofa until he occupied the commanding position in front of the fireplace. It was the stance he habitually took up when he was about to broach some difficult business.
Forbes was an old friend of the Temples. He was a splendid example of an Englishman who has been shaped by the successive processes of school, university, military service and public office. At the age of sixty he was as fully in possession of his faculties as ever and had behind him a lifetime of rich experience. He was still handsome enough to attract the glances of women and when men saw him they were reminded of the Older Man who figures in advertisements for gentlemen’s clothing – broad shoulders, bristling grey moustache, bushy eyebrows and a certain aura of unshakable confidence and authority.
‘Well, Sir Graham, what brings you here? Did you and Vosper forsake the Yard to admire our pictures?’
‘Well,’ admitted Sir Graham, rocking his weight slightly to and fro and studying the liquid in his glass. ‘Not entirely, I must admit. Have you heard anything lately of a character called Harry Shelford?’
‘Harry Shelford?’
Temple repeated the name thoughtfully as he accepted the cocktail glass Steve handed him. He remembered Harry Shelford distinctly. He was a likeable bad-lot who had been mixed up in a fraud case some four years earlier. Temple had become involved in the investigations and was partly responsible for his being sentenced to two years in gaol. On his release Harry Shelford’s first action had been to call on Temple and ask him for the loan of four hundred pounds; he intended, he said, to give up crime, go back to his old job. His idea was to open up a chemist’s business in South Africa. Temple was so surprised – and amused – by the request that he lent Harry the money. Twelve months later, to his astonishment, he received repayment in full.
‘No, I haven’t heard anything from him – or about him – for over a year now. Why are you interested in him?’
‘So far as you know he hasn’t returned to this country?’
Temple shook his head.
‘If he had done so I’m sure he would have got in touch with me – if only for another loan!’
‘Mmm.’
Sir Graham glanced towards Vosper and finished his whisky. Steve moved forward to replenish it but he said: ‘No more for me, thank you, Steve,’ and held on to the empty glass.
‘Do you know anything about this Tyler affair?’
Steve looked at him sharply and then turned to study Temple’s expression as he answered.
‘I’ve read the headlines,’ he said casually. ‘That’s about all.’
‘It’s an interesting problem,’ Sir Graham continued in his most beguiling tone. ‘Just your cup of tea, in fact.’
‘I don’t want to get involved, Sir Graham. Steve and I are pretty busy at the moment. We’ve had quite a time settling into the flat and now there’s this trip to Paris.’
‘Suppose Harry Shelford is mixed up in the case – would you change your mind?’
‘What makes you think he is?’ Temple put the question warily. He had a soft spot for Harry.
Sir Graham looked down at Vosper and nodded. The Inspector opened the notebook he had been holding ready in his hand and balanced it on his knee. He eyed Temple sternly and cleared his throat. Sir Graham sank back into a chair, and Steve, passing close behind Temple’s back as he sat balanced on the arm of a couch, murmured: ‘Here we go again.’
‘Betty Tyler was an employee at the Mayfair salon de coiffure’ – Vosper pronounced the word as in Saloon Bar and with evident distaste – ‘of a hairdresser of Spanish nationality who is known by the name of Mariano. I understand that he’s quite the rage among the fashionable set now. This Tyler girl was extremely attractive and she became friendly with a Mr George Westeral – in fact she was soon engaged to him.’
‘Westeral?’ Temple cut in. ‘I seem to know that name.’
‘The Honourable George Westeral,’ Sir Graham confirmed and Temple nodded. Westeral was one of the most eligible bachelors in London – wealthy, intelligent and good-looking. Temple associated him with photographs in the Tatler of society people attending race meetings.
‘That must have put a few debutantes’ noses out of joint!’
‘It did,’ Sir Graham chuckled. ‘But his family didn’t raise any objections. You must have read about it in the papers. They made quite a story about the engagement. However, I mustn’t poach on Vosper’s preserves.’
The Inspector took a moment to pick up the thread of his tale after this interruption. He shot Sir Graham a slightly petulant glance before continuing.
‘Well, the engagement did not last long. It was broken off suddenly and no reason was given. Mister Westeral told reporters that he and the girl had simply failed to hit it off but there was a general feeling that more lay behind it than that. The girl was very upset about it. I questioned her employer – this Mariano fellow.’ Again Vosper’s nose wrinkled slightly as he pronounced the foreign name. ‘She asked him if she could be transferred to the new branch he was opening in Oxford. Mariano agreed. He gave her a few days off to find digs and she began work again the following week.’
Vosper licked a forefinger and turned over a page of his notebook. Steve, watching her husband’s face, had noted the two horizontal lines which always appeared between his brows when his interest was captured by a problem.
‘On Thursday of last week, Westeral travelled to Oxford for the purpose of seeing Betty Tyler. He took her out to lunch—’
