Paul Temple and the Tyler Mystery

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—’

‘Early closing day in Oxford,’ Temple observed. Vosper looked up sharply, caught off balance for just a moment. Then he smiled, like a batsman who spots a googly and plays it back to the bowler.

‘Not at Mister Mariano’s. The girl was back at work the same afternoon. But that night she was found by a police patrol in an abandoned car on the outskirts of Oxford – the Chipping Norton road to be precise. The car was a Jaguar which had been reported missing by its owner, an Oxford accountant named Gerald Walters. He had been at a late business conference and came out to find the car gone.’

‘She had been strangled and her body placed in the capacious luggage boot,’ supplied Temple. ‘That much I do know.’

‘Yes. Strangled with her own scarf.’

‘That’s established, is it?’

‘Quite definitely. It was a silk scarf of French manufacture printed with pictures of well-known monuments in Paris.’

‘“Strangling were surer, but this is quainter”,’ quoted Temple.

‘What’s that?’

‘Nothing. Go on with the story.’

‘Naturally we checked up on Westeral. He claimed he knew nothing about it. He returned to London on the 3.24 from Oxford and went straight to his club, where he stayed till late that evening.’ Vosper saw Temple’s eye stray and knew that he was thinking in terms of Bradshaw. ‘It’s all right, Mr Temple, there is a 3.24 from Oxford. And several people saw Westeral on that train. We checked at his club too and he definitely stayed there till close on midnight. He’s telling the truth all right.’

‘Did he tell you why he went to Oxford in the first place?’

‘Yes. I asked him that. He admitted that he went with the intention of persuading the girl to patch things up with him. He also admitted that he failed to do so.’

The telephone bell had been ringing in the hall for several minutes. Now Charlie put his head round the door and looked at Temple enquiringly.

‘I’m out, Charlie. Ask them to leave a number and I’ll call back later. Go on, Inspector, sorry about the interruption.’

Sir Graham, who was almost as accurate as Steve in assessing Temple’s reactions, thought to himself: ‘He’s hooked all right.’

‘I made exhaustive enquiries in Oxford,’ Vosper went on. ‘My best informant by a long way was a girl called Jill Graves, who also worked at Mariano’s salon in Oxford. The girl Tyler, she told me, seemed very depressed after her lunch date with Westeral. She also told me that during the afternoon she answered the telephone. The caller asked to speak to Betty Tyler and gave his name as Harry. She heard the girl arrange to meet this mysterious Harry that evening. Neither Jill Graves nor anyone else could throw any light on the identity of “Harry”. So far as is known she had never received a telephone call from him before.’

The introduction of the name ‘Harry’ was a cue for Vosper to pause and stare at Temple. Temple stared back. During the short silence they could all hear the clatter of knives and plates as Charlie laid the table for lunch in the adjoining dining-room. Steve began to hum gently. Only Temple realised the significance of the tune she had hit on: ‘I love Paris—’ He gave her an appreciative smile and helped himself to a cigarette from the box on the coffee table.

‘Why should you assume that this unknown Harry has anything to do with my old friend Shelford? It’s a common enough name.’

The question was directed at Sir Graham and it was he who answered.

‘When Betty Tyler’s digs in Oxford were searched a piece of paper was found in the handbag she had been carrying during the day – just a small piece of paper such as you might tear out of a pocket notebook. It had the name Harry Shelford on it and the numerals 930.’

‘I still don’t believe that Harry would have anything to do with murder. He’s a thorough-going rascal, we know that. But he’s not a dangerous criminal. He is the last type to commit murder.’

‘I agree,’ Sir Graham said peaceably. ‘But obviously that is a line of investigation which we cannot afford to neglect. That brings me to the real reason for our visit.’

He stood up and once again took over the centre of the hearth rug. Vosper snapped the band of his notebook and stowed it away in some secret part of his clothing.

‘Harry Shelford has a sister – a married sister called Mrs Draper – who runs an extremely popular hotel called The Dutch Treat at Sonning.’

‘I’ve heard of it. The food is reputed to be really good.’

‘Now, what I came to ask you was this: would you drive down to Sonning, talk to Mrs Draper, find out where her brother is exactly and what he’s up to?’

‘She’ll talk to you,’ Vosper put in with sad conviction. ‘If I approached her it would have to be on an official basis. She might take offence and refuse to help me at all. At the best she would be unlikely to say anything which might be detrimental to her brother.’

‘She knows you helped Harry when he was released. It will seem natural for you to inquire how he’s getting on.’ Sir Graham turned from Temple to Steve. She was watching the exchange with a mischievous smile on her dark, attractive face. ‘Surely you and your husband could drive down to Sonning for lunch one day, Steve. It would help us out.’

Temple relaxed. For Steve’s sake he had been prepared to refuse. Now that the question had been put to her direct he would take his cue from her answer. She looked quizzically up at Sir Graham.

‘We’re not doing anything special tomorrow, Paul. It would be rather fun to sample the cooking at The Dutch Treat and see if it’s as good as everyone makes out.’

Chapter Two

‘What do you know about this Mariano, Steve?’

Temple called through into the bedroom from his dressing-room. He and Steve had been to the theatre and then dined with some friends in Soho. They had refused an invitation to go on to a night club. Temple did not want to blunt his wits or palate on the eve of the outing to Sonning.

‘I’ve never been to him myself. I prefer to stick to my Doris. But I believe he’s really brilliant. Several of my friends have started going to him lately. He must be making a packet out of it. He’s opened several branches in provincial towns.’

‘What sort of person is he himself?’

‘Definitely rather glamorous, darling.’

‘Amorous?’

‘Gerlamorous,’ Steve sang. ‘It’s not very polite to shout at ladies from other rooms.’

Temple undid his tie and walked to the threshold between the two rooms. His own dressing-room was square, utilitarian and exclusively mahogany. It was rather like the captain’s cabin in a small naval vessel. After its dark severity the bedroom made his senses reel. He had given Steve a free hand with it. The carpet was a deep wine colour and all the furniture was white. Over the bed was suspended a kind of panoply, bordered with stiff nylon frills. Temple always felt a little like Don Juan when he invaded this essentially feminine domain.

Steve was sitting before her triple mirrors, sheathed in silk, combing her hair.

‘In what way glamorous?’ Temple asked suspiciously.

Steve stopped combing and gazed at her reflection.

‘Well, he’s handsome – and foreign, of course. Rather an actor, by all I can gather. I mean, he knows how to put himself across.’

‘Put himself across?’

‘Yes, darling. Hairdressing is an art – at least ladies’ hairdressing is. Mariano acts the part of an artist. But he’s a very shrewd business man at the same time.’

‘How long has he been operating this racket?’

‘I don’t know exactly. He’s only been fashionable since the war, but Mrs Tenby-Whiteside was boasting to me the other day that she patronised him over twenty years ago. So he must have come to England in the early ’thirties some time.’

‘Not very shrewd of Mrs T-W.’

‘What wasn’t?’

‘Giving her age away like that.’

‘We all give away something sometimes, darling,’ Steve said.

The silence which the Temples normally observed until they had finished breakfast was broken the following morning when Temple put the paper down beside his plate with an exclamation of annoyance.

‘What’s the matter, Paul?’

‘These confounded gossip writers. If they can’t mind their own business, they might at least try to get their facts right. The cheek of this: “Sir Graham Forbes paid a flying visit to the new home of the Paul Temples in Eaton Square yesterday morning. The conversation turned on the Tyler mystery which has been causing heads to throb in Scotland Yard this past week. This confirms the rumour we reported the day before yesterday that Sir Graham had decided to consult Paul Temple on the Tyler case.”’

‘They really are the limit.’

Temple pushed his chair back.

‘Aren’t you going to have your second cup of coffee, darling?’

‘Pour it out for me. I’ll take it into the study. I have a lot of work to get through before we start for Sonning. You’ll be ready at a quarter to twelve, won’t you?’

Thanks to his dictaphone Temple managed to shift most of his correspondence before he was interrupted by Charlie rapping on his study door. By the clock on his desk – a birthday present from Steve – it was still only a quarter to eleven. Charlie was in shirt sleeves and braces, a garb strictly banned by Temple, and he was wearing a shabby apron.

‘A gentleman to see you, Mr Temple.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Name of Books, Brooks or Broke – something like that.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘I showed him into the drawing-room.’

‘Did you answer the door like that?’

‘Well, I have to do housemaid’s work, see, so naturally I dress like a housemaid.’

‘Since when have housemaids taken to wearing braces?’

Charlie was still trying to think up some unprintable reply when Temple closed the door of the drawing-room behind him. He had been puzzled for a moment by the name but as soon as he saw his visitor he connected it with the young man who had sold him the picture the previous day.

He was standing in the middle of the room with a large rectangular parcel balanced against his right hip. Temple greeted him and nodded towards the parcel.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve brought my picture already.’

Brooks smiled rather self-consciously.

‘We managed to push it through more quickly than I anticipated. Shall I unwrap it for you?’

‘Yes, please do. I’ll ring for someone to take the mess away.’

Brooks produced a manicure set from his pocket and snipped the string with the scissors. Meanwhile Temple had been clearing the oddments from the mantelpiece. He turned his back on Brooks as the wrapping paper rustled.

‘Would you mind putting it on the mantelpiece for me? Then I can get a proper first impression.’

‘Not at all.’ Temple heard Brooks cross the room and place the picture in its place.

‘There we are.’

Charlie entered the room and found Temple in the act of turning. His eyes went past his master to the object on the mantelpiece, and he uttered a simple word:

‘Cor.’

‘Ah, that’s better,’ Temple exclaimed. ‘I really do like it now. What do you think?’

Brooks pursed his lips, studying the picture as if he’d never seen it before.

‘Yes, I must admit I do. When you said you were going to hang it among antiques I wondered. But it doesn’t really clash.’

‘Why should it? Charlie, cart that paper away and ask Mrs Temple if she’d join us.’

Rattling the paper as loudly as he could to illustrate his disapproval of Temple’s purchase, Charlie made a slow exit.

Steve was as delighted with the picture as Temple, but that did not prevent her from paying more than usual attention to Brooks. He had seemed to come to life on Steve’s arrival as if he had suddenly found a friend in a foreign country. It was obvious that he was at his best with women – preferably young and attractive ones – and equally obvious that they were attracted by him.

‘Haven’t you offered Mr Brooks a drink, darling?’

The reproof in Steve’s voice was evident, but Brooks was already holding up his hand.

‘It’s a little too early for me, if you don’t mind. Besides, I must be getting back to the shop.’

Temple was ready to move towards the door but Brooks seemed to be searching for some excuse to stay a little longer. There was that awkward pause which host and hostess feel offers guests a good opportunity to take their leave and which they so often fail to take.

‘I wonder if it would interest you,’ Brooks said hesitatingly – ‘there’s an exhibition of Kappel’s work on in Paris at the moment. I read in the paper that you were going there next week.’

‘That’s right,’ Temple nodded. ‘We must try and get to see it.’

To his annoyance, Steve made a remark which threatened to start the conversation off on a new tack.

‘Do you know Paris well, Mr Brooks?’

‘Yes, I do. I have to go there quite a lot in connection with pictures we buy and sell. As a matter of fact my brother lives there. He’s at the British Embassy. I was wondering—’ Brooks’ face had gone a little redder and he was registering almost boyish embarrassment. ‘I was wondering if I could ask a favour of you. You see, my brother’s birthday is just two days after you arrive in Paris. Would you think it awful cheek if I asked you to take over a present I’ve bought for him? It’s a box of some special Havana cigars which he can only get here in London. There won’t be any duty to pay because I’ll open the box and take one out.’

Temple was surprised at this request from a comparative stranger, but Steve seemed to find it quite natural.

‘We can do that, can’t we, Paul?’

‘Yes, of course, though in fact the customs—’

‘That’s very kind of you. I’ll drop them in a day or two before you leave. I only wish I could take them myself. Paris is marvellous at this time of year. Do you stay anywhere special?’

‘We usually go to the Hotel Pompadour,’ said Steve.

‘The Pompadour? Then you’ll be quite close to the Kappel exhibition; it’s in the Rue Royale.’

Temple at last managed to shepherd the talkative Brooks out of the flat. He went back to the drawing-room to find Steve at the window, waiting to watch their visitor as he went along the street.

‘Something peculiar about that chap. You and he seemed to be getting on like a house on fire.’

‘Does that make him peculiar? I liked him but I felt that we weren’t seeing the real person. All that surface charm seemed switched on for your benefit.’

‘For my benefit? Come on, Steve, you under-rate yourself. Now, we’ll have to get a move on if we’re to be at Sonning in time. We’ll hang that picture when we get home this evening.’

They were lucky with traffic and it was still only half-past twelve when the two-seater Frazer Nash passed the 30 limit sign on the far side of Maidenhead and Temple brought the speedometer needle up to 80, an easy cruising speed for the car.

‘I’m going to be ready for this lunch,’ Steve said, looking up at the blue sky. ‘I wonder if we can eat outside.’

The fine weather had continued and the trees lining the side of the road were a fresh, rich green. The hum of the tyres and the gentle swish of wind over the streamlined body were not enough to prevent conversation.

‘I wonder if you’ll get anything of interest out of Mrs Draper.’

‘I don’t expect to,’ Temple answered, his eye on the driving mirror. ‘I’m convinced that Harry Shelford had nothing to do with the Tyler business. I’m only doing this to make Sir Graham happy.’

‘Don’t you think that the coincidence of this mysterious Harry who telephoned and Harry Shelford’s name on the paper found in Betty Tyler’s handbag is too strong to be – well, just coincidence?’

‘Coincidences happen in everyday life which no one would accept in fiction. What does this ass think he’s trying to do?’

A white sports car Triumph had been catching up on the Frazer Nash for some miles and was now sitting on their tail about a hundred yards behind. Temple had waved the driver on but he had taken no notice. He was alone in the car and had lowered the windscreen flat onto the bonnet. His cap was pulled down over his face and he wore a fearsome pair of goggles. Temple was used to being challenged to a race by foolhardy owners of sports cars but he invariably declined, though he knew that the Frazer Nash was capable of showing a clean pair of heels to most of them.

He slowed to about sixty and at last the Triumph accelerated and went past them with a vulgar blare from its exhaust. The driver did not even glance at them. He then played that most infuriating of tricks: began to motor at a speed just slower than Temple’s usual gait. The noise of his exhaust drowned conversation. Temple made up his mind to give the Frazer Nash the gun and leave the Triumph behind.

The road ahead was a fast straight stretch divided into three lanes. About four hundred yards away a car was stopped on the left-hand side. A little beyond it, coming towards them, was a massive Marston Valley brick lorry. Temple decided to bide his time, but at that moment the driver of the Triumph put out a gloved hand and gave the slowing down signal. Just as he came up to the parked car he waved the Frazer Nash on. Temple assumed that he intended to brake sharply and pull in behind the stationary car. The brick lorry was just coming level with it, but the centre lane was clear.