Paul Temple and the Geneva Mystery

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by

Hodder & Stoughton 1971

Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1971

All rights reserved

Francis Durbridge has asserted his right under the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover image © Shutterstock.com

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008125721

Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008125738

Version: 2015-07-24

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

About the Author

Also in This Series

About the Publisher

Paul Temple had returned to the real world after ten long weeks of concentration on death, disruption and deduction. He found to his relief that the world was not at war, he wasn’t being sued for libel and his wife was still radiantly attractive. All good reasons for a celebration.

‘Darling, how nice,’ Steve murmured as they went into L’Hachoire, ‘I haven’t been here before.’

‘They do the best pigs’ trotters in London,’ said Paul. ‘They were recommended to me by my publisher.’

‘Ah, Scott Reed. Was he pleased with the new novel?’

It was one of those exclusive little restaurants that achieve rustic simplicity at conspicuous expense, with genuine décor and furnishings from Provence and genuine Provençal chefs and waiters. There was a lot of unvarnished wood, an oven range squandered space that could have been occupied by three tables and a dog replaced three possible diners. The place was crowded with rather trendy Londoners and a few slightly surprised French tourists. The head waiter showed them to a table in the corner marked ‘Reserved’.

‘No no, we haven’t booked –’ Paul began.

‘A cancellation, Mr Temple. Please be seated. Madam.’

The pigs’ trotters were called pieds de porc Sainte Menehould on the menu, and Paul felt obliged to order them. The wine waiter brought the sherries they asked for at once and later produced a 1953 vintage Burgundy which they hadn’t asked for. Paul hoped that Steve wouldn’t notice the celebrity treatment they were receiving. It would have made her suspicious.

‘You didn’t answer my question, darling,’ she said. ‘Did Scott rub his hands together with joy at the book?’

‘He hasn’t read it yet, but I suppose he’ll call it a classic story of its kind. He always does.’

‘You sound jaded.’ Steve laughed mischievously. ‘When you finish a novel you always become like a woman who has just made love, rather tired and slightly depressed. The only remedy is to begin again or take a holiday. Darling, that’s a good idea – why don’t we take a holiday?’

Paul raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. ‘Do you feel depressed after –?’

‘It’s a dangerous mood. You’re inclined to become involved in other people’s crimes or contemplate writing a heavyweight psychological study of murder. Let’s go away while you still have your mind on me.’

‘Yes, why not?’ He paused thoughtfully and then said, ‘How would you like to go to Switzerland?’

‘Gstaad?’

‘Gstaad, or Geneva, wherever you like.’

‘I’ll think about it.’ Steve quickly refilled their glasses. ‘Yes! I’ve thought about it. But if we go to Switzerland –’

Paul finished the sentence for her. ‘You’ll need an awful lot of new clothes, darling.’

‘Well,’ Steve laughed, ‘it’s true, isn’t it? You wouldn’t want me to look twelve months out of date.’

‘A fate worse than death,’ Paul agreed. But he knew as he spoke that he was being tiresomely male in joking about her clothes. ‘I want you always to look as elegant as you do tonight,’ he added gallantly.

They discussed Switzerland for the next half hour. Steve wanted to book a hotel and arrange a flight immediately and Paul was reluctant to go before Friday. He was being interviewed on Friday by a lady from one of the posh Sunday papers, and Paul didn’t want to postpone it. She was bound to talk about symbolism in his work and the place of good and evil in the English detective novel. She would produce the kind of article that pleased Scott Reed.