Paul Temple: East of Algiers

Steve and I exchanged an amused glance. We had been speculating that morning on the convenience of those same telescopes for gentlemen who are keen on bird watching.

‘Did you see what happened?’ I asked him. ‘I’d like to lay my hands on the owner of that speed-boat. For one thing the dinghy’s a total loss and someone will have to pay for her.’

‘You needn’t worry about that,’ Wyse assured me airily. ‘They all have pretty comprehensive insurance.’

His day attire was as colourful as his night wear. He sported a pair of fawn flannel trousers which were as innocent of wrinkle as of spot, intermesh shoes, one of those Spanish-cut shirts with horizontal stripes and sailor neck, which you wear outside your trousers, and a silk neckerchief tied round his throat – more for beauty than for warmth. ‘Killer’ was written all over him, but strictly a lady-killer. He was not a man’s man.

‘He did it on purpose,’ Steve stated rather wildly. ‘I knew he was watching us in a malice aforethought kind of way. If we hadn’t jumped into the sea we would have been killed. I tell you, Paul, it’s all because of those confounded—’

‘It certainly was a freak accident,’ I interrupted quickly, and turned to Wyse. ‘How did it seem to you?’

Wyse raised a shoulder elegantly.

‘It’s hard to say whether he saw your boat or not. But you can’t seriously be suggesting that he ran you down on purpose, can you? I mean, you don’t even know who it was, do you?’

Wyse’s tone was that of an elder soothing the fears of children who have just awakened from a nightmare.

‘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.’

‘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?’

I did not answer. The steward came to enquire what Constantin wanted to drink, but he waved him away impatiently.

‘You were in Nice last night, Mr. Temple, staying at the hotel where a girl named Judy Wincott was murdered.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘The newspapers made a good story of it.’

‘Not a complete story. They did not say that you had met Miss Wincott in Paris.’

‘Perhaps they did not consider it a very important piece of news.’

‘Other people might consider it interesting, though, might they not, Mr. Temple? Especially if they knew the reason for her visit to your flat in the Avenue Georges V.’

The man had edged even closer, and his voice had dropped. As I was at the end of the couch I had no means of escape unless I was prepared to use violence on him.

‘You did not tell the police that she had entrusted you with a certain very valuable document, did you, Mr. Temple?’

My anger was beginning to rise, but I continued to keep my voice down.

‘I did not tell them so because it would have been quite untrue.’

‘Come, come,’ Constantin said. ‘You and I know better than that.’

‘If you want the truth, Miss Wincott simply asked me to return a pair of spectacles to a Mr. David Foster who lives in Tunis – where my wife and I happen to be going.’

Constantin blinked rapidly several times. For a moment he seemed floored, then returned rapidly to the attack.

‘You are being made a fool of, Mr. Temple. There is no such person as Mr. David Foster, and those spectacles will only bring difficulties for you.’

‘I think it is you who are being a fool, Mr. Constantin. The spectacles are a perfectly ordinary pair – there’s nothing mystic or magic about them, and there’s no possibility that they are connected in any way with the murder of Miss Wincott.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Constantin’s eyes flickered rapidly round to make sure that no one was taking an interest in our conversation. ‘Nevertheless, I will give you a thousand pounds if you will hand those spectacles over to me.’

I began to laugh and shake my head, but Constantin pressed me back into my seat.

‘Five thousand pounds,’ he said with intensity, and then almost without a pause: ‘Ten thousand! Do not think that I cannot pay so much, because I can. You can collect the money as soon as we arrive in Algiers.’

‘You are wasting your time,’ I said bluntly, and this time I did push him out of my way so that I could get up.

‘No,’ he called after me quite loudly as I left the bar. ‘It is you who are wasting time. I tell you, you will never find your David Foster!’

Chapter Three

BACK IN the main compartment I found that Steve had sacrificed her seat to the French girl. The latter had, however, tired of gazing down at the unchanging sea; her head had fallen back and she was fast asleep, her chest rising and falling with each deep breath. I signalled to Steve, who moved quickly round to sit in the empty seat beside me.

‘Your instinct was right. There is some curious significance in those spectacles. I can’t think why, but there are people who are prepared to pay big money for them. And when big money is at stake you have an ample motive for murder.’

I told her about my encounter with Constantin and the fabulous offer he had made. Steve nodded, her eyes on the sleeping girl. She took it all in as if it were merely the confirmation of something she had known all along.

‘The reason for the murders of those two girls is in your breast pocket,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve discovered something interesting too. I’ve had quite a talk with her.’

She gestured towards the sleeping Simone Lalange.

‘She practically told me her life history. Do you know what came out? Her reason for going to Tunis is that she has friends in Trans-Africa Petroleum. It seems an amazing coincidence.’

‘Does she know David Foster?’

‘I asked her that, but she said she still only knew the names of a few people in the firm.’

We both contemplated the girl in the opposite seat, and I think the same question was in each of our minds. What had she been doing at the door of room number twelve the previous night?

The rest of our flight was uneventful. Neither Constantin nor Wyse came near us again. As far as Simone Lalange was concerned our relations only grew more friendly. She now directed her attention more towards me, unmasking the full battery of her considerable charm. I alone was aware of the double meaning which was creeping into some of Steve’s apparently innocent remarks. I was quite relieved when the long North African coast line came into view and we began to lose height for the landing at Maison Blanche.

Air France had booked accommodation for most passengers at the Aletti Hotel, the most modern hotel in Algiers, which stands facing the harbour. When the company bus set us down at the door I noticed that both Tony Wyse and Simone Lalange were also to be at the Aletti. Of Constantin there had been no sign since the aircraft doors had opened. He had either been met by friends or found some private transport of his own.

In view of the disturbances in Algeria the police were insisting on all the regulations with regard to travellers being rigidly observed. The reception clerk asked us to fill in the usual fiche de voyageur even before we were shown our rooms. When I handed mine in he glanced at the name and then raised his eyebrows.

‘Mr. Temple? There has been a telephone call for you. A gentleman rang up about half an hour ago to ask if you had arrived yet.’

‘That’s odd,’ I said to Steve. ‘I don’t know anyone in Algiers. Certainly I haven’t told anyone I was coming.’

I turned to the clerk: ‘Did he give any name?’

‘No, monsieur. He said he would telephone you again later.’

Our room in the Aletti Hotel was a truly magnificent one, affording us a splendid view of the harbour which had once served as a base for the pirates who had terrorized shipping in the Mediterranean. A big French passenger liner was berthed in the inner harbour within a couple of hundred yards of Algiers’ busy streets. Though there was a general feeling of tension in the air, as if everyone was expecting a bomb to explode, there were few visible signs of the violence which was splitting Algeria apart and keeping a whole Army of French troops occupied in the mountains farther south. The pedestrians on the pavements below were an odd mixture of French and Arabs. Many of the latter wore European clothes with perhaps only a fez or their swarthier features to distinguish them, but there were a number of shambling figures in Arab dress. They wore the curious one-piece tweed garment with hood attached which goes by the name of cachabia. Often their feet were bare, their features pinched and soiled. They were very different from the romantic notion of the proud Bedouin astride his camel.

‘I hope there isn’t going to be a revolution while we’re here,’ Steve remarked as she carefully took her dresses from the travelling case and hung them in the wardrobe. ‘I know you’d think it was marvellous material for some book, but I personally don’t relish the idea of being knifed in the street. And talking of knifing, Paul, I wish you’d deposit those glasses in some safe place.’

‘You don’t trust me with them?’

‘It’s not that. If this man Constantin wants them badly enough to offer you ten thousand pounds he may easily make violent attempts to get them from you. You said yourself that when big money is at stake there’s an ample motive for murder. Why don’t you ask the hotel manager to put the glasses in the safe?’