It was a spectacular journey by rail to St Moritz. The tunnels ran straight into the sides of mountains, through the rocks and out across broad plains of snow, across suicidal bridges, and far below them in the distance Swiss villages were clearly, neatly defined. Paul watched the scenery and thought about the ice age. He wondered whether the sun had been so crystalline in those days.
‘I’d like to retire to Switzerland,’ said Margaret Milbourne. ‘I suppose that’s one of the drawbacks of being a retired English actress instead of a Hollywood queen. I have to make do with Richmond.’
‘Won’t you be running your husband’s publishing firm?’ asked Paul.
‘No, because Carl is still –’
‘Mrs Milbourne, if Carl is still alive then he obviously doesn’t wish the fact to be known. He’s made perfectly certain that he remains legally dead. I wonder what his reasons are.’ He continued quickly as she tried to protest. ‘No no, listen. Why do you think he wants the world to think that he’s dead? Was he in some kind of trouble?’
‘I don’t know.’ She watched the countryside and her expression was of something like despair. ‘Perhaps I don’t care any more.’
Paul wondered briefly what she meant by that. It was obviously a private conversation she was holding with herself. ‘Wouldn’t he expect you to look after the firm?’ he insisted.
Her interest in the passing view faltered. ‘I couldn’t,’ she said unhappily. ‘Have you met Ben Sainsbury and Norman Wallace? The well-known pantomime horse. They terrify me. I’ll do the same as Carl did, and let them run the firm. After all, they know the publishing jungle.’
‘I thought they were rather a jolly pair,’ Steve said rashly, ‘a double act like Laurel and Hardy.’
‘Jolly? They’re much more like Burke and Hare. Norman Wallace is all charm and efficiency, and he alternates with Ben’s bluster and rage, so together they always get their way. You can never win an argument with Ben Sainsbury because next morning when he’s sober he forgets that any argument took place. I used to want Carl to give him the sack, but Carl didn’t dare. He was scared that Ben would go.’
‘That’s a thought,’ said Steve, ‘they could set up on their own; Wallace and Sainsbury, the old firm.’
‘Good lord no,’ said Paul. ‘Ben wouldn’t set up his own firm. That would make him a capitalist!’
Margaret Milbourne laughed for the first time in four weeks.
The train pulled into the station and they went off to the Grison House Hotel. ‘It strikes me,’ Steve said as she began unpacking, ‘that we’re not having much of a holiday. I think I’m going to rebel.’ She left the clothes strewn on the bed and went across to the window.
‘What form will the rebellion take?’ Paul asked.
‘I’m going skiing!’
‘But I have to visit the hat shop –’
‘Look at those slopes! See all those dots creeping down into the valley? Whoever visited St Moritz and didn’t go skiing!?’
Paul shrugged. ‘Whatever you say, darling. Why don’t you take Margaret Milbourne with you? I’d rather she wasn’t tagging along with me to the shop. I expect she’d look very glamorous in a hat with a bobble on it.’
‘She doesn’t look the skiing type to me,’ Steve said with a laugh.
‘Then she can watch.’
Steve shook her head. ‘I’ll take her off somewhere for a couple of hours, but then you’re coming down those slopes with me. Dammit, what do you think I married you for?’
‘Because of my grand slalom?’ asked Paul.
The hat shop, as it turned out, was a small Swiss equivalent of Fortnum and Mason that sold everything from hats to elephants. Paul amused himself as he went up to the third floor by wondering whether this was where Hannibal had bought his troupe, or whether those particular elephants had been breeding ever since.
‘God dammit!’ someone shouted.
There was a clatter across the store while Paul was passing through the sports section and a pile of skates fell on to a man whose feet were flailing in skis. His head was buried beneath the boxes, but there was no mistaking the scruffy trousers and the American accent muttering ‘Hell’s bells!’ It was Vince Langham.
‘I’m the only man who can break a leg buying a pair of skis,’ he said when Paul had dug him out. ‘I never even mastered the roller skates I had for my eighth birthday.’
‘What are you doing in St Moritz?’ Paul asked while he brushed some of the dust from his baggy jacket. ‘Are you following me?’
‘If I’m following you I’m the most conspicuous tail in the business,’ he laughed. ‘I thought you were following me.’
‘Never.’
Vince stared at him disbelievingly. ‘Oh well. I’m here because Julia Carrington is in St Moritz. And where Julia goes there go I. Just to save you too much sleuthing.’
‘I thought you had an appointment –’
‘So did I.’ Vince left the skis in the centre of the floor where he had fallen. ‘That slimy little Machiavelli must have set to work on her as soon as he got back. I’d like to murder Danny Clayton.’
Paul shook his head. ‘Why not admit the truth, Vince? Julia had never heard of you when I mentioned your phone call. She didn’t even know your name.’
Vince pushed his unkempt hair back over his collar. ‘Paul, I despair of you. Would I tell a lie? One of the best films Julia made was called The Shadow of Fear. It was a brilliant dramatic performance. Do you remember the film?’
‘Of course,’ said Paul. ‘I was young and impressionable –’
‘I directed the Goddammed thing!’
‘It wasn’t as good as the films you’ve made in Europe.’
‘What are you trying to do, prove me a liar?’ he asked wearily. ‘Would that make me a killer or something? Listen, I’m a simple film-maker, I bought a book and now I’m trying to find my leading actress. It’s a hard enough business setting up a film without people solving mysteries all around me.’
‘All right,’ Paul said apologetically.
‘Who’d be a film director? Do you know, last year I was making a film in the middle east and the Arab-Israeli war broke out again! It’s enough to make a man give up!’
He went off muttering in search of the novice ski run. The man was a liar; but perhaps it was all in the cause of filmmaking. Paul continued his search for the manager’s office. It was at the rear of the building.
‘Mr Paul Temple, the author?’ asked the manager politely. ‘I’m delighted to meet you, Mr Temple. I never read books myself, but you do very well in our book department. Let me take you down to meet the manager –’
‘Thank you,’ said Paul. ‘But I really came because –’
‘A Mr Neufeld, most enthusiastic. He sometimes manages to persuade eminent authors to make a personal appearance, sign copies of their books. Will you be staying long in St Moritz?’
‘No,’ Paul said quickly. ‘Mr Kroner, I’m making some enquiries about a man who was killed in this town last month. I hope you might be able to help me.’
Kroner gave an ironic smile. ‘I have a very bad memory.’
There was a pause. ‘Some of the most famous novelists have sat in what Herr Neufeld calls his hot seat.’
Paul laughed and agreed to sign copies of his books.
‘Mr Neufeld will be honoured, Mr Temple. So how can I help you?’
‘A month ago a man named Carl Milbourne bought a hat from this store and asked for his old hat to be posted back to an address in London.’
Kroner nodded. ‘I would have no personal knowledge of the transaction. But there’s probably a record of it in the hat department.’
‘Do you think I could have a word with the assistant?’ Paul asked.
Kroner browsed through a card index. ‘Unfortunately that won’t be possible, Mr Temple. At that time the assistant in the hat department was an Italian girl who has since returned to Naples. We take on a great number of extra staff just before Christmas, you will understand.’ He thought for a moment, and then smiled. ‘But wait a moment. Perhaps I do recall the transaction. The assistant came and asked me if it was possible to post your friend’s hat to England, I believe. The idea was new to her. She fetched me out to have a word with the customer.’
Paul took the photograph of Carl Milbourne from his wallet. ‘Would this be the man, Mr Kroner?’
Kroner stared at the photograph. ‘It is very difficult, we have so many tourists –’
‘Here are some more photographs,’ said Paul, spreading them on the desk. ‘Do you recognise –?’
‘I couldn’t be really certain. However, there was something else, Mr Temple. I don’t know whether it is useful, but as I remember, your friend was not alone. He was with a party of people.’ He smiled at the feat of memory. ‘Is that not so?’
‘Well, it’s possible, I suppose, although –’
‘A group of tourists, Mr Temple. They were all laughing and joking together, making quite a noise.’
‘With Mr Milbourne? Did you see anyone actually speak to him?’
‘Ah,’ said Kroner, ‘that I can’t remember. But I certainly formed the impression he was with them.’
Paul went towards the door feeling rather pleased with himself. ‘You’ve been most helpful, Mr Kroner.’ The cheerful little man was striding along beside him. As they passed back through the sports department Paul said, ‘I must give you a ring about the autograph session…’ Mr Kroner joined him in the lift.
On the ground floor he saw Steve and Mrs Milbourne laden with parcels making for the restaurant. Paul noted the new sunglasses, new hat with inappropriate ear flaps and fur boots. Maybe he should sign a lot of books, Paul reflected, before asking what the parcels contained.
‘Herr Neufeld’s department is through here…’
Maurice Lonsdale was waiting for them at a table by the window. He was still, thought Steve, the essence of an English financier, right down to the buttonhole. They sat beside him.
‘Steve is off skiing this afternoon,’ said Margaret. ‘Of course the slopes of St Moritz are gentle enough, but it makes one nostalgic.’
‘Have you done much skiing?’ asked Lonsdale in surprise.
‘Before I married Carl,’ she said. ‘Darling, don’t you remember? I used to enjoy the run from Gornergrat to Zermatt. I suppose that was ten years ago now.’
‘I never could keep up with your activities, Margaret,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I thought your idea of a holiday was lying in the sun.’
‘Always the cynic,’ Margaret sighed. She picked up her bag and went off in search of the ladies’ room. ‘Don’t eat the whole of that sausage while I’m gone.’
Steve smiled. ‘Any news of your friend Miss Sands?’ she asked politely.
‘Freda?’ He looked startled at her good memory. ‘Yes, I’m afraid the news isn’t good. I thought it was just a broken leg, but apparently the poor darling slipped a disc as well. She’s in a great deal of pain.’
‘I suppose you cheered her up?’
‘Oh well, a bunch of grapes, you know, and a few magazines.’ He leaned confidentially across the table. ‘Margaret’s feeling the strain, you know, she really is. If I’d been at home I’d have done my damnedest to have prevented her from coming out here.’
‘You don’t believe Carl is alive?’
Lonsdale gave one of his superior smiles. ‘Well, if he is alive, then who was the dead man? Why was he wearing Carl’s clothes and carrying his papers?’
‘That, as the politicians say, is a good question.’
‘They only say that when they know the answers.’ His manner suddenly dropped the assumption of male superiority and he seemed genuinely worried. ‘Do you know the answers, Mrs Temple?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’ She smiled as well just in case her dislike of the man was showing. ‘But then, I’m no politician.’
‘Carl was in Geneva on a perfectly straightforward business trip, to see Julia Carrington. For the life of me I fail to see why he should have become involved in all this mystery.’ He glanced over his shoulder to see whether Margaret was coming. ‘Mrs Temple, tell me, what does your husband make of it? He must have some idea by now of what’s behind it all.’
‘I’m afraid that like most husbands Paul doesn’t always confide in me,’ said Steve.
‘I don’t believe that.’ He pointed his fork at her. ‘I’m sorry to disillusion you, Mrs Temple, but I’m afraid you are a politician.’ Luckily Margaret returned before he could start waving the schlueblig about.
‘Darling, do you know who I’ve just seen? Paul was in the books department helping them put up a poster.’
‘He’s very good with a pot of paste,’ said Steve. ‘What did the poster say?’
‘It was in German. Something about der Autor signing his Bucher next week. I must say he looked rather abashed.’ She sighed. ‘I used to enjoy personal appearances. I once spent a fortnight going round local cinemas, making a little speech and thanking God for the British film industry. It kept one in touch with the British public.’ She ate briefly and then turned to her brother. ‘By the way, darling, Paul said he wants to talk with you.’
‘Is he going to join us?’
‘Yes, but he wants to talk with you privately. I suppose he means away from me. You really have convinced everybody that I’m an hysterical woman. But you know now – I was right, wasn’t I?’
‘Tell me, Temple, was it really Carl on the telephone?’
‘Your sister certainly seemed to think so.’
Paul looked in the bar mirror at Steve and Mrs Milbourne talking animatedly at their table. The sound of her husband’s voice had made her more sure of herself and in some ways more worried. She was a woman in trouble who didn’t quite know what the trouble was.
‘It’s unbelievable,’ said Lonsdale.
‘Yes. How do you find the brandy?’ It was the best. ‘Lonsdale, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Had your brother-in-law any worries? Financial worries?’
‘No more than most businessmen,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I gather publishing has its recesses and its booms. At one time Milbourne & Co. were having a tough time, but that passed.’
‘So you don’t think he’d be likely to – well, to fake the accident and then disappear? Such things have happened. Men who have been officially dead have been known to live for years on their insurance money.’
Lonsdale laughed easily. ‘Carl was the most under-insured man I know. There was a policy, but Margaret has refused to claim on it. She still believes…’ He put more soda into the brandy, which made Paul wince. ‘No, it hasn’t happened in this case. If Carl had been desperate he’d have come to me, or one of his friends.’
‘Did he ever come to you? Did he ever borrow money from you?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact he did.’ Lonsdale talked casually, as if it were a normal business matter. ‘I sank forty thousand pounds in his firm about six months ago. But it’s safe enough. I’m not worried. Will you have another drink?’
‘No thanks, I’m skiing this afternoon. I’ll need a clear head if I’m to survive.’