Paul Temple: East of Algiers

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by

Hodder & Stoughton 1959

Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1959

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

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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: 9780008125660

Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008125677

Version: 2015-06-23

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

About the Author

Also in This Series

About the Publisher

‘Pardon, monsieur. This chair – it is occupied?’

‘Yes. I am afraid it is. I am keeping it for a lady.’

For the tenth time a disappointed Frenchman turned away as I laid my hand possessively on the seat of the chair I was keeping for Steve. It was l’heure de l’apéritif, and the tables of all the cafés up and down the Champs–Élysées were filled. The nine gentlemen whom I had already prevented from sitting in Steve’s chair found places elsewhere and were now regarding me with a certain amount of suspicion. I could tell from their expressions that they were beginning to think that my long-awaited wife was a figment of the imagination. Steve herself had assured me that she would have ample time to finish her shopping by twelve o’clock. We had made our rendezvous for midday at Fouquet’s, half-way up the Champs-Elysees, and it was now twenty to one.

Luckily the morning was a glorious one, and the time was passing very pleasantly. The Arc de Triomphe stood out in its crisp greyness against a blue sky and the sun was warm enough to make most people decide to sit at the tables set out on the pavement rather than seek the shade and seclusion of the bar and brasserie inside. The show in front of me was as good as a Music Hall. The Parisian girls in their spring dresses were well aware of the male eyes focused on them as they walked with self-conscious elegance down the broad pavement. Every now and then a sleek car rolled to a halt, its wheels touching the edge of the pavement, and disgorged its passengers into one of the cafés. Further away, on the roadway proper, cars were racing six deep down the hill. Every time the traffic lights changed to red, their tyres shrilled as the brakes were mercilessly applied. A minute later, when the signal changed to green, every engine whined in misery as each driver tried to win the race to the next intersection.

I was just ordering a second Martini when one of the new small Dauphine taxis drew up in front of me. The driver opened his door, and I recognized the long, slim leg that felt its way down to the pavement. I was unable to see its owner because of the mass of parcels and boxes which she was trying to manoeuvre through the narrow door. With the true Parisian’s instinct to help a pretty woman, the taxi-driver had bustled out of his seat, and he now took charge of the two largest boxes. I think he was a little disappointed when Steve led him towards me and explained that I would pay his fare.

‘I haven’t a sou left, but I’ve found some of the most wonderful bargains. Really there’s nowhere in the world like the Rue St. Honoré. Darling, this is Judy Wincott. She’s going to join us for a cocktail.’

I suppose I had seen the girl follow Steve out of the taxi with the corner of my eye, but the business with the driver and the fare and the parcels and the general impact of Steve’s arrival had diverted my attention from her. I turned to shake hands. She was a smallish girl of about twenty-one. She could have been described as good-looking, for her features followed the pattern which is generally approved by film periodicals and fashion magazines, but I somehow could not find her very attractive. There was a suggestion of aggressiveness, or perhaps efficiency, which made me write her off as not quite my type. I don’t mind women being efficient, but I don’t think it ought to show.