It was the Danny Clayton whom Margaret Milbourne had described. The young slim one in a hurry. He had been using a great deal of urgent charm on Steve, it appeared. They were in the kitchen together eating the remains of lunch and finishing a bottle of wine. Steve loved Switzerland and had a weakness for people who could talk about the country as though they lived there. Danny had lived there for more than three years.
‘Darling, we thought you wouldn’t be back for lunch,’ Steve said lightly. ‘We waited till nearly two, and then Danny and I were so hungry –’
Paul glared at the visitor. ‘That’s all right, I had a turkey sandwich. What are you doing here, Mr Clayton?’
‘I came to see you. I’m Julia Carrington’s secretary, and she asked me to come to London and consult you –’
‘Did Miss Carrington give you my address, or did you get that from Mrs Milbourne?’
Danny Clayton laughed in a way that Paul found slightly offensive. ‘I looked you up in the telephone directory,’ he said, pushing away the cheese plate in a well-fed gesture.
‘You do know Mrs Milbourne?’ Paul persisted.
‘Yes, of course. I’ve met the woman. She’s mad. She telephoned me at my hotel just after I arrived from Geneva. I’m staying at the New Wilton and I was taking a shower after the journey when the telephone rang.’ He lit a small cigar and sat back expansively. Somehow he managed to convey that the size of the cigar was a move away from vulgar excess. ‘She wanted to meet me.’
‘And out of the kindness of your heart,’ Paul suggested, ‘you agreed?’
‘Yes, you could put it that way. The name Milbourne was familiar, and then I remembered that a publisher called Carl Milbourne had visited Julia a few weeks back. He got himself killed next day. So I agreed to see the damn woman. She was anxious, and I had a spare evening.’
Paul sat in the grandmother chair and settled down for a long story; at least this was something he could check. And so far it was wrong. Paul didn’t quite take to the brash young man. Engaging, but obviously not entirely scrupulous.
‘When Carl Milbourne visited Julia Carrington, did she see him?’
‘No,’ said Clayton. ‘I saw him instead. That’s the usual routine. Julia refuses to have anything to do with publishers or journalists, and it’s my job to give them the brush-off.’
Steve interrupted to ask whether it was true that Julia Carrington had written her memoirs.
‘No truth in it whatever, Mrs Temple. And that was what I told Carl Milbourne.’ Danny grinned. ‘I don’t think Milbourne believed me. He thought I was trying to get rid of him. The interview wasn’t exactly a pleasant one, I’m afraid. That was why I felt a trifle guilty the next day when I read about his accident.’
‘What happened when Mrs Milbourne turned up at your hotel?’ Paul asked. ‘I suppose she did turn up?’
‘Oh yes, she turned up all right. We had a weird conversation in the cocktail bar. She arrived looking like a neurotic Electra, chain smoking and radiating desperation. I can cope with women like that – I knew a lot of them in Hollywood.’ He laughed. ‘In fact, I suppose I work for a woman like that. Julia imagines that her life is a full-scale Greek tragedy.’
‘Tell me about the weird conversation,’ Paul murmured.
Danny Clayton had been confused. ‘She insisted that her husband was still alive,’ he said with a grin. ‘But her reasoning wasn’t up to much. She said she’d found proof in a hat that arrived through the post.’
‘But why did she want to see you, Mr Clayton?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose I was one of the last people to see her husband before he died. If he died. But I couldn’t help her to find the guy, and she wasn’t very coherent.’
‘Mrs Milbourne has been upset since she came back from Switzerland,’ Steve explained to him. ‘Her brother is worried about her.’
‘Boy, he has my sympathy,’ said Clayton. ‘He has a real problem on his hands.’
Paul poured himself some coffee before he spoke. He watched the American and tried to decide whether he was telling the truth. ‘Mr Clayton,’ he said eventually, ‘I’d better be frank with you. Mrs Milbourne gave me a very different version of her interview with you. She said it was you who told her that her husband was still alive. She said you showed her some photographs of Carl Milbourne, and that you offered the photographs and additional information for the price of five thousand pounds.’
Danny Clayton’s thin features narrowed in astonishment. ‘My God, that woman really is crazy!’
‘She said you asked her to take the money to a hotel near Maidenhead. The Three Star Hotel at Bray-on-Thames.’ Paul leaned across the table. ‘Did you go down to Bray-on-Thames this morning, Mr Clayton?’
‘I was in my hotel until eleven o’clock,’ he said defensively. ‘You can check that with the desk clerk.’
Paul was still sceptical. ‘So I take it you’ve never heard of a man called Peter Fletcher, or the houseboat he lived on called Peter’s Folly?’
‘That’s right, I haven’t.’ He stubbed out the cigar and turned to face Paul with a youthful frankness. ‘This is only my second visit to England, so I don’t know many people and I never heard of Maidenhead or the other place you mentioned. I promise you, Mr Temple, the only reason I’m over here is to see you.’
‘Ah yes,’ Paul said ironically, ‘you were going to consult me.’
Clayton rose to his feet looking pained. ‘That’s right, I was.’
‘Well?’
He walked irritably across to the window and stared into the mews, then he visibly regained his composure. ‘Julia Carrington has been receiving unpleasant letters, Mr Temple, letters threatening blackmail. She needs your help.’
‘What is in these letters?’
‘I don’t know.’ He returned to the table. ‘I haven’t seen them, but I gather they’re unpleasant. They’ve certainly frightened poor Julia.’
‘Has she consulted the police?’
‘Gee no!’ he said earnestly. ‘That’s the last thing she would do. If Julia consulted the police that would mean the newspapers, journalists and the lot! Why do you think she retired to Switzerland? You only have to mention publicity for Julia to go berserk. She had enough of that in Hollywood.’
‘All right,’ said Paul. He stood up to indicate that the discussion was over. ‘When are you returning to Geneva?’
‘The day after tomorrow.’ Clayton was unsure of himself, as if he were aware that the youthful brashness didn’t charm Temple. ‘I took the liberty of making reservations for you and Mrs Temple on the same flight. Everything’s taken care of. All you have to do is say that you’ll help.’
‘American efficiency,’ Steve intruded quickly. ‘You inspire confidence, Mr Clayton.’
Paul accepted defeat with a sigh. ‘All right, we’ll come out with you, Mr Clayton. Even if we fly back on the next plane.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve been wanting to have a chat with Miss Carrington anyway. I’ve recently been hearing so much about her.’
‘From whom?’ Danny Clayton asked as he put on a mink-lined overcoat.
‘From a film director friend of mine called Vince Langham. I understand you recently threw him out on his ear as well.’
Clayton laughed. ‘I wouldn’t put it as bluntly as that. But he had a novel he was crazy about and he wanted Julia to star in the film version. We get these approaches all the time.’
‘Did either you or Miss Carrington read the novel?’
‘Julia retired, Mr Temple, she doesn’t want to go back into the crazy world of films. So there’s no reason for her or me to read any of these scripts.’ He threw out his hands in a gesture of apology. ‘I hope I wasn’t too rough on your friend.’
‘Vince has a pretty thick skin.’
‘Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Mr Temple.’ He shook hands and thanked Steve for the lunch. His charm was still working for Steve.
‘Did you believe his version of the encounter with Margaret Milbourne?’ Paul asked her.
Steve smiled. ‘I found him rather persuasive,’ she said ambiguously.
Yes, Paul reflected, the fellow was a hustler. He had been a success in Hollywood, arriving there at the age of nineteen and scrambling to the top in the front offices, surviving palace revolutions, the reforms imposed by New York bankers and the conversion of the studios to full-scale television production. Danny Clayton’s power of persuasion had enabled him to survive and prosper. It was uncharacteristic of him to have thrown away his career when Julia retired.
‘So we’re going to Switzerland after all,’ said Steve.
‘So it would seem. I’d better find myself some holiday reading.’
Paul knew the fiction editor of Milbourne & Co. so he popped into the man’s office on his way to see Vince Langham. The pall of tragedy on the house was hardly noticeable. Milbourne & Co. was an old-fashioned firm which didn’t believe in excitement or salesmanship, and every day was like the day of a funeral. The men all wore city suits and spoke in hushed tones; the girls were discreetly attractive.
‘Temple, this is a pleasant surprise!’ said Norman Wallace. ‘Come in and have a cup of tea. Have you decided to get yourself a good publisher at last?’
Paul chatted for a few minutes about the world of books, who had been sacked and which was the latest masterpiece that would rock the world. The gossip was not something that Paul enjoyed, but he had to get Wallace on to the subject of new writers.
‘Ah yes,’ Wallace said regretfully, ‘Carl and I were just forming a bunch of really promising new writers.’
‘You mean people like Richard Randolph.’
‘And one or two others,’ Norman Wallace said loyally. ‘But Randolph was Carl’s own private discovery. Carl had great hopes that Too Young to Die would be a real winner. Do you know that we’ve already sold the film rights for fifty thousand dollars?’
‘Yes,’ said Paul as he mentally halved the figure and converted it to sterling. ‘Do you happen to have a spare copy of the book?’
Norman Wallace produced a copy on condition that Paul said something they could quote in the publicity. ‘A rattling good yarn from start to finish: I couldn’t put it down.’ Something that would sell it to the middle-class housewives with time on their hands. Wallace took a list from his left-hand drawer and was adding Paul’s name to it.
‘Is that the distribution list for advance copies?’ Paul asked casually. ‘I’ve always wondered how you choose the names to go on there. For instance, why should Peter Fletcher receive a copy?’
Norman Wallace read solemnly through the list. ‘He didn’t. Although the name sounds familiar. Isn’t he mentioned in the afternoon paper?’ A copy of the Evening News was in his filing tray. ‘Houseboat Murder near Maidenhead. Artist Found Stabbed’. Norman Wallace became more cautious. ‘Is that why you’re here, Paul? Are you investigating a murder?’
‘Well, yes, but not that particular murder. Incidentally, why isn’t Vince Langham’s name on your list?’
Norman Wallace read through the list again. ‘You’re quite right, it’s been left off. Langham phoned yesterday and we sent a copy round to his flat.’ He added the name in an illegible scrawl. ‘Although he read the book many months ago. In typescript, I suppose.’
Norman Wallace sat back and stared unhappily at the ceiling. ‘I was trying to persuade Carl to get some of Langham’s film scripts for publication. He’s a brilliant writer and I’m sure they would create the right kind of stir.’
‘I’ll mention it to Vince,’ said Paul. ‘I’m just off to see him.’
Somebody poked a bald head round the door and called, ‘Coming for a drink, Norman? Half past five. I said I’d meet –’ He broke off and advanced into the room with a friendly hand outstretched. ‘Hello, is this a spy from the enemy camp? Come on, Temple, join us for a quick half pint.’
A quick half pint with Ben Sainsbury could amount to a punishing evening: a battered ego and a hangover. But it was the best way to find out how Milbourne & Co. were surviving. Ben Sainsbury was the other half of the editorial team, in charge of non-fiction. He was totally different from Wallace, which was probably why they worked together so well. Ben was extrovert, aggressive and opinionated, chubby and indiscreet. Not a gentleman.
‘Love to,’ said Paul with cautious enthusiasm.
Ben had gone into publishing from journalism after writing a single, sensitive novel, which nobody ever mentioned in his presence. Ben didn’t like it to be thought that beneath the bluff exterior there was a sensitive soul asking to be left alone. He hunched inside his overcoat and talked all the way to the pub about the iniquities of the government.
It was a pretentious pub with lots of brass bedpans and wooden gargoyles, intimate partitioning and a landlord like a retired colonel. ‘I hate this place,’ said Ben, looking distantly at the pub on the other side of the road, ‘but it is the nearest.’ He borrowed a fiver from Norman Wallace and then generously bought drinks for the three of them.
‘Careful,’ he whispered to Wallace. ‘There’s Jameson over there.’ He turned conspiratorially to Paul. ‘He’s our accountant. An informer.’
Wallace looked faintly embarrassed and sipped his light ale. ‘He was telling me this afternoon that he’s thinking of leaving. There’s a job going with –’
‘Lies, he was trying to lull you into a false sense of security, so that you would leave. Do you know, the other evening he spent two hours with me, analysing what was wrong with the firm. Of course, I nodded from time to time out of sheer politeness, and he went back to Carl and repeated every word I said. Carl was terribly hurt.’
‘The other evening?’ Paul asked in surprise.
‘Yes, just after I’d come back from my summer holidays. Jameson had been busy. We nearly sold out to a bloody American airline. He’s a bloody accountant! What do we want with accountants in publishing?’
‘To keep an eye on your expense account,’ Wallace said with a laugh. He looked at his watch. ‘Oh well, six o’clock, I must be off.’ He shook hands with Paul and said how pleasant to see him again. ‘See you tomorrow, Ben.’
Ben was ordering more doubles at the bar, but he waved. ‘Norman lives in Wembley, in a semi. He has a wife. Have you ever been to Wembley?’
‘Well yes, actually,’ Paul confessed.
‘We do our best to keep Norman on the straight and narrow, but he has to be watched. He has secret yearnings to spend his Sunday mornings in the garden polishing the plastic gnomes.’
‘You can buy special wet-look gnomes,’ said Paul, ‘they don’t need polishing. Just a wash down with the garden hose.’
‘What a missed opportunity – I bought Norman a book for Christmas. He would have much preferred a wet-look gnome.’
Paul invested in three rounds of drinks before eight o’clock; they were repeatedly interrupted by Ben’s competitors and colleagues, name-droppers and grandiose talk about deals, but it was useful, especially when Paul asked directly what Carl Milbourne had been like.
‘To work for? Well, he couldn’t read, but I suppose that’s an advantage in publishing. He started the firm with his army annuity after the war, and he did quite well, don’t you think? All this, built on four hundred pounds. His early days were a struggle. He only really made the first division when he happened on a series of escape stories and second world war adventure yarns. That was when Norman and I joined him and turned Milbourne & Co. into a publishing firm.’
‘So he wasn’t really a businessman,’ said Paul.
‘This isn’t really a business,’ said Ben. ‘He was a dilettante. Very clever, but he preferred the social life. That was how the firm ran into trouble.’
‘During the summer,’ Paul murmured.
‘That’s right. He started to dabble in business. He sacked our old inefficient accountant who always balanced the books so that we made a profit and he brought in Jameson. Well, I mean, as long as you make a profit what does it matter? We were all doing very nicely, with big dividends and salaries and the books were selling. But Jameson had to prove himself.’
Ben ordered another large gin and another small whisky in some distress. ‘Cheers. Henry bloody Jameson changed the method of accounting and showed that we had been losing money for years. When he produced his figures for the last financial year we were almost bankrupt!’
‘What did you do?’ asked Paul.
‘Well, I thought there was only one thing to do, and that was to sack Jameson. But Carl had no head for business – he took one look at the balance sheets and he panicked. One week he tried to streamline the firm by sacking the publicity head and getting in a whizz-bang girl straight from art school, next week he wanted to sell out to an American airline. He didn’t know what to do.’
Paul laughed. ‘And what,’ he asked, ‘did Carl do eventually?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose he pulled himself together and forgot about it. Norman and I promised to cut down on our expense accounts and he went off to Switzerland a happy man.’ He sighed and stared significantly at his empty glass. ‘If it hadn’t been for Jameson he’d have still been alive today.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Carl would never have chased off to secure a film star’s memoirs, he’d have left it to me and I wouldn’t have bothered. We have film stars’ memoirs coming into the office from our American branch every day, and most of them are rubbish. I’d want to see what Julia Carrington had written before I’d go out to Switzerland. I’d want to know whether the Sunday papers would buy the serial rights. Carl went flying off to his death on a bloody whim.’
‘It must have been a blow to you.’
‘I suppose it doesn’t make any difference. Norman and I are still running the firm as we always did. But it was rather unnecessary, that’s all.’
‘What are you going to do now?’ Paul asked.
‘Sack the whizz-bang girl from art school, if Margaret Milbourne will let us,’ he said savagely. ‘Or do you mean tonight? I’m staying here. I said I’d meet a literary agent here around nine o’clock…’
Paul left him talking to a proof-reader on the other side of the bar. There was a fog gathering outside so Paul buttoned up his overcoat and hailed a taxi.
Vince Langham lived the life of a travelling showman; his Knightsbridge home was expensive, but it looked as if he were in the process of either moving in or moving out, and it had looked like that for the past sixteen years. Vince claimed that whenever he had a few months between films he tried to make it a home, but then he had to fly off on location, raise money or go on holiday. Vince was surrounded by packing cases, half-laid carpets and paintings waiting to be hung. He was sitting in the middle of the floor eating fish fingers, drinking whisky and listening to a Linguaphone course.
‘Hi,’ he called as Paul was shown in by Mrs Langham. ‘Have you eaten this evening, or can Sarah throw some more fish fingers in the pan?’
‘I told Steve I’d be back for dinner,’ said Paul. ‘She insisted that you would be too busy cutting and editing your new film.’
‘It’s the old film now. Somebody else does the cutting and editing. The studio janitor, as Orson would say. They think if they didn’t take all the cans away from me now the result might be art. So I’m working on my next project. If you chuck that tape recorder on the floor you should find an armchair underneath it.’
Paul sat amid the clutter and poured himself some whisky. ‘What’s the new project?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. I was thinking on the way back from Victoria Station about Julia Carrington. You set the whole thing going again in my mind. I thought maybe I’d go to Switzerland and have another crack at her.’
‘Ich stand an einer Strassenecke. Sie nannten es Einbruch,’ declaimed the record player.
‘Americans have a bad name for not bothering to learn the lingo,’ said Vince. ‘I thought I’d make an effort. I’m not going till Friday.’
Paul laughed. ‘I wondered why you had asked Norman Wallace for another copy of Too Young to Die. I suppose you lost your original copy?’
Vince joined in the laughter. ‘I’ve lost the new copy as well. I’m hoping Sarah will clear this place through for me while I’m away.’ They both looked through at Sarah in the kitchen and realised it was improbable. She had been an actress, and she bent over the sink like Marlene Dietrich waiting for the director to call ‘Cut’. She was a star. ‘I hired a charwoman a few months ago,’ said Vince. ‘She was nearly sixty and her voice was so cockney I couldn’t understand a word she said. But do you know she only came to me because she wanted to break into films?’
It was the same with being a novelist; Paul sometimes wondered whether he would ever fall into casual conversation with anybody who had not written a novel. The Linguaphone record ground on and then repeated itself, the whisky grew lower in the bottle and the evening passed. At ten o’clock, as Paul was about to leave, Vince Langham looked suddenly suspicious.
‘By the way, Paul, why did you come to see me this evening?’
Paul laughed. ‘I came to find out where your copies of Too Young to Die had got to. But you told me that some time ago. You said you lost them.’
Vince relaxed. ‘I lose everything, and it always looks bad on my record. What does it prove this time?’
‘It doesn’t prove anything. But it means that your copy of the book might have been on Peter Fletcher’s houseboat this morning.’
‘What, in Bray-on-Thames?’
‘That’s right. You were one of the two people who knew that I was going out to Bray this morning.’
Vince nodded solemnly. ‘To see Danny Clayton. I remember.’
‘Well, don’t sit there agreeing with me. Tell me that you’ve never heard of Peter Fletcher, that you were in bed at half past ten this morning. Come on, Vince, say something.’
Vince Langham looked pained and rose to his feet. ‘Temple, you tried to trick me there. You know perfectly well that I once worked with Peter Fletcher. I don’t think that was nice, it wasn’t British, after drinking so much of my whisky. Especially since on television tonight it said that he’d been bumped off.’
‘You worked with him a long time ago,’ Paul said lamely. ‘I thought you might have forgotten.’
‘He was a brilliant designer. Shallow as hell, of course, but he achieved exactly the effects I wanted, and that’s what I call genius.’ He laughed and punched Paul on the arm. ‘I always remember genius. I remember you, don’t I, from all that time ago when we worked together?’
It was such a nice remark that Paul decided to leave for home. Why spoil a nice compliment?
‘Is Tully about?’
The manager stared at something past Paul’s right shoulder. ‘No. And I’ve never heard of anybody called Tully. Who wants him?’
‘Tell him Paul Temple needs some advice.’
The manager’s gaze flickered across Paul’s face and settled on to his left shoulder. ‘Wait here, Mr Temple.’
He disappeared into Tully’s fun palace leaving Paul by the gymnastic display of photographs in the foyer. This had been a flourishing gambling club until Tully lost his licence under the 1968 Gaming Act, and now it was a night club. The advertisements proclaimed the hottest floor show in Soho.
‘This way, Mr Temple.’
The manager led him through a baize door and upstairs through the dressing rooms and offices to Tully’s personal suite. They passed numerous bored-looking girls resting between performances and a number of tough-looking bouncers. The atmosphere was decidedly menacing, which was appropriate to Tully’s taste for the dramatic.
‘Temple! Good to see you again. What is your wife thinking of to let you out at this time of night?’
Tully was loud and extrovert with a cockney accent. He was in his fifties but he didn’t yet look as if he needed all those bouncers to protect him. He went across to the cocktail cabinet and poured two large brandies.
‘I see from the papers you had an accident with your car,’ he said with a roar of laughter. ‘I hope you don’t think any of my boys would –’
‘No no, Tully, I know all your boys are law-abiding citizens. I’m here about one of the girls you employ.’
Tully stood thoughtfully in front of a blazing coal fire and warmed his bottom. ‘Ah yes, Dolly Brazier. Poor kid.’
‘You know what happened to her?’ Paul asked in surprise.
‘My manager told me she was beaten up.’
‘But you employ a hundred people, Tully. How did you guess I was here to ask about Dolly?’
He finished his brandy and put the empty glass on the mantelshelf before replying. ‘I know she’s a friend of yours, that’s how. We had a long chat about you a few weeks ago, when the producer threw her out of the Amazon chorus and I was supposed to sack her.’ Tully smiled. ‘For old times’ sake, I didn’t sack her. She has quite a crush on you, Paul.’
‘Do you know who attacked her?’
‘Not yet, but two of my boys are looking into the matter.’ It sounded dire. ‘I don’t approve of people who use violence on women. Or at least, not on my women.’
His moral earnestness almost made Paul grin. ‘She was told to warn me off a case, which she did. I suppose the violence was to make sure she doesn’t reveal who put her up to it.’
‘She obviously talks too much about her friendship with you, Temple.’
There was a buzz at the door. ‘I expect this will be my boys,’ said Tully. They were middle-aged boys with impassive faces and bulky clothes. They radiated suspicion as they shook hands with Paul.
‘Any luck?’ asked Tully.
‘Well, she lives in Kilburn, you see, chief. He was waiting for her to come out. That was how it happened.’
‘He? Who did it?’
‘She was done over by Mickey Stone and his side-kick,’ said one of them. ‘It was a cash job.’
‘Did you find out who hired him?’ asked Tully.
‘No chance, chief, you can’t intimidate Mickey Stone. But I tell you, he’ll be out of action for a few months.’
The two impassive faces broke into happy smiles.
‘I don’t like you going to see Tully by yourself,’ said Steve. ‘I know about those girls he has working at the dub.’
‘I thought it would save time if I went by myself, darling; surely you wouldn’t have wanted to come?’
‘No, but you could have taken Kate as a chaperone.’
‘She looks like an ex-policewoman. The girls would have taken one look at her and started to sing Gilbert and Sullivan fully clothed.’
‘What’s wrong with a few clothes?’ She smiled severely. ‘I wear clothes myself and make quite a striking impression.’ She turned out the light beside the bed. ‘Or do you think that I’m dull?’
‘Certainly not, darling. None of the girls who work for Tully have a tenth of your intellect.’ Paul climbed into bed.
‘I hate you.’