Paul Temple and the Geneva Mystery. Francis Durbridge
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FRANCIS DURBRIDGE
Paul Temple and the Geneva Mystery
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
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.
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Source ISBN: 9780008125721
Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008125738
Version: 2015-07-24
Contents
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,