Paul Temple and the Tyler Mystery

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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First published in Great Britain by

Hodder & Stoughton 1957

Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1957

All rights reserved

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Cover image © Shutterstock.com

Francis Durbridge has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

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.

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Source ISBN: 9780008252908

Ebook Edition © July 2017 ISBN: 9780008252915

Version: 2017-06-29

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

By the Same Author

About the Author

Also in This Series

About the Publisher

At about ten-thirty on a Thursday evening in early May a prowl car of the Oxford Constabulary was patrolling the Chipping Norton road a few miles outside the city. There had been complaints of wild driving on this fast section during the lurid period immediately after the closing of the pubs.

Sergeant Long turned his Austin a few hundred yards past the Welsh Harp and began to motor decorously back towards Oxford. Only a few weeks earlier the landlord of the Welsh Harp had been warned for serving customers after the prescribed hour. He had made sure of emptying his premises in good time that night. The parking space out in front was already empty, and through the uncurtained windows the two policemen could see the proprietor and his barmaid as they moved among the deserted tables collecting the empties.

‘Not much doing tonight,’ Long remarked to the constable at his side.

‘Pay day tomorrow,’ Benson answered briefly. He was a man of deep thoughts and few words; he spoke in a curiously oblique way which implied more than he actually said.

Three miles further on, a signpost with the words Lay-by swam up into the headlights. As they passed the bay at the side of the road Benson screwed up his eyes to note the number of the solitary saloon car parked there.

‘4006 JDR.’

He repeated the number aloud and switched on the light which illuminated his message pad.

‘Same number, all right.’

Long had already applied the brakes. Both men had memorised the number as belonging to one of the cars stolen in Oxford that evening. He put the Austin into reverse and with one arm laid along the back of Benson’s seat, manœuvred the police car back into the lay-by. Before he had stopped with his bumpers almost touching those of the stolen car Benson was out on the roadway.

The now abandoned saloon was a black Jaguar Mark VII. It was complete and undamaged. Benson opened the door, felt for the light switch and turned on the side-lights. Immediately he did so the interior light came on. Benson sniffed. His sensitive non-smoker’s nostrils had detected a whiff of woman’s perfume. He noted the ignition key still in the slot, the neatly folded travelling rug that lay undisturbed on the seat beside the driver.

‘What’s up?’ Long called from the police car. ‘No ignition key, I suppose.’

‘Key’s there, all right.’

To Benson’s tidy mind something about the situation did not make sense. Cars were frequently ‘borrowed’ by young men who could find no other way of arranging an hour’s privacy with their girl friends. But if that were the case it was unlikely that the rug would have preserved its immaculate neatness. And how had the pair gone home? Surely they would not drive out of Oxford for the mere pleasure of walking back again. There were no houses close by to which they could have gone. A thought struck Benson and he checked the petrol gauge. The tank was still half full.

For no particular reason he walked slowly round the Mark VII. It happened that at this moment a pair of sports cars came racing up the road at full-speed – an Austin-Healey pursued by a Triumph. For a few seconds their brilliant lights floodlit the rear of the Jaguar and in that time Benson’s eye was caught by a minute triangle of green at the edge of the luggage compartment lid. It was dark again before he could grip the chromium handle and open the lid. Instantly an automatic light came on inside the compartment, and at the same time the scent of perfume became stronger. The light illuminated the body of a young woman lying huddled on the corrugated rubber flooring. She was dressed as if she had changed to go out for the evening – a green ballet length dress, small handbag, necklace and bracelet to match, court shoes. Round her neck was a colourful silk scarf picturing well-known views of Paris. Benson, though he had never been there, recognised the base of the Eiffel Tower, the pillars of the Madeleine and the façade of the Opera. This scarf, instead of being folded casually round the girl’s throat, had been knotted with savage tightness at the back of her neck. One look at her face was enough to show Benson that she had been strangled.