Dead to the World: Based on Paul Temple and the Jonathan Mystery. Francis Durbridge
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on to the mist-shrouded Downs.
‘What I like about modern air travel,’ growled Philip Holt, ‘is the speed, comfort, and convenience with which one is whisked from continent to continent! – Like now, for example!’
The crowded perimeter-bus in which they had been standing for nearly ten minutes gave a lurch, jolted forward a few yards, and jerked to an abrupt standstill on the tarmac again.
‘I expect we’re having to wait whilst another plane lands,’ said his secretary, Ruth Sanders, in a soothing voice. Ruth possessed an irrepressible enthusiasm for everything, which seemed to keep her strikingly bright and pretty throughout the most exacting day.
The young photographer ignored her attempt to placate him. ‘We’ve been hurled across the Atlantic at twice the speed of sound,’ he complained, ‘and since we touched down on British soil twenty minutes ago we’ve moved precisely four yards!’ He sighed, dragging his palm impatiently over the back of his head and ruffling his chestnut hair. ‘When we do eventually get to the main terminal we’ll probably have to wait half an hour while they find our luggage, and then—’
The bus gave a sudden jerk, preparatory to moving off, which sent Holt bumping into the man strap-hanging next to him.
‘Oh! My apologies, Mr Scranton. I really wasn’t expecting this thing to move!’
Scranton laughed. ‘It’s the same the world over, Mr Holt,’ he said in the pleasant drawl of Mid-Western America. ‘Like it was in the Army – hurry up and wait, men – hurry up and wait!’
‘You’re not being at all helpful,’ Ruth put in with a mischievous grin. ‘You mustn’t stop the boss here enjoying a good old British grumble.’
The American chuckled and turned attentively to his wife, a little woman in a mauve hat who had managed to gain a seat.
A little later the bus slid to a standstill and, in the mild confusion of getting out, Holt and Ruth became separated from the American couple.
‘Who’s your new buddy?’ Ruth asked as they trailed in the wake of a stewardess down endless corridors towards the arrival lounge.
‘The American? Oh, he’s from Minnesota. His name’s Robert Scranton. We got talking over a drink when you were sleeping on the flight. He manufactures washing machines. Nice chap – only he will refer to his wife as “Mother”.’
‘A lot of Americans do.’
‘I know; it’s an appalling habit. If I were a wife I’d rebel! It must make a woman feel so ancient.’
‘Perhaps Mrs Scranton is a mother,’ Ruth suggested.
‘As a matter of fact she is – he mentioned two daughters and a son. But that’s not the point! She’s Scranton’s wife, not his mother, and she probably likes to think of herself as still a young girl with—’
He was cut short by the announcement that passengers on the flight from New York should proceed at once to the Customs Hall.
They stood alongside the mechanical moving band and waited for their luggage to appear. For a long time nothing came up and it was obvious they had been called prematurely, before unloading had been completed.
Holt looked around irritably, anxious to be on the move again. ‘There’ll be a stack of work for us to catch up on when we get back to the Studio,’ he said dismally. ‘Another time I’ll think twice before going off to New York to give an exhibition of my work.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Ruth cheerfully. ‘Your photographs are absolutely super and the trip was a huge success! The publicity will do you no end of good.’
‘Then at least I’ll take care to leave my secretary in London to get on with the work while I’m away.’
‘Not on your life!’ she declared emphatically. ‘You know you couldn’t manage without me.’
‘Now what on earth makes you think that?’ he asked mildly, looking down at her and knowing it was true. There was no doubt about it, Ruth was an excellent secretary and a very capable photographic assistant, even if her efficiency was sometimes a little overpowering.
She began to enlighten him. ‘… Because you’d have been sure to lose your plane tickets – and been late for all your press shows – and you’d have been eaten alive by all those fabulous women who were prowling round the studios waiting to pounce on helpless males!’
Holt grinned suddenly, his ill-humour beginning to disperse. He turned, and caught the eye of Robert Scranton standing with his wife not far away. ‘As you said,’ he called pleasantly, ‘hurry up and wait!’
Scranton smiled patiently. ‘That’s how it goes!’ He looked at his wife. ‘Say, why don’t you step aside, Mother, and take it easy while I stay here and watch out for our bags? See if you can sit down someplace.’
Mrs Scranton nodded gratefully and moved away. She looked tired and none too strong, Holt thought.
‘Are you staying in London, Mr Scranton?’ he asked.
‘Yeah. Booked in at the Savoy.’
‘I’ve got my car here; can I offer you a lift up to Town? The Savoy isn’t very far from my Studio in Westminster.’
‘That’s real nice of you, Mr Holt!… I’ll have to ask Mother, though – there’s just a chance we may be met. I’ll go see what she thinks.’
Holt turned as the luggage from their flight began to tumble from the well below, on to the moving band, and climb slowly up towards them. He was concentrating on his search for their suitcases when Ruth gave a little squeal of excitement and grabbed his arm. She was staring beyond him towards the exit.
‘Look – isn’t that Inspector Hyde out there?’
‘Inspector Hyde?’ Holt peered in the same direction. ‘Yes, you’re right, it is.’ He waved his hand but the police officer did not respond. ‘I don’t think he’s seen us.’
‘Oh, how disappointing,’ Ruth said. ‘I wonder what he’s doing here. Maybe he’s come to arrest a dangerous criminal! Oh, Philip, how thrilling! You’ll be able to get some on-the-spot pictures, and Hyde might even ask us to help him again. Wouldn’t it be exciting if we could solve another mystery for him …?’ Her eyes sparkled at the prospect as she let her imagination run riot.
‘Oh, I shouldn’t think that’s likely, Ruth,’ Holt said soberly, recalling the events which had led to their being involved in the Maidenhead affair.fn1 ‘That was more than twelve months ago. I’m sure Scotland Yard can function quite well without us.’
‘Hold it! I think the Inspector’s seen us,’ Ruth cut in. ‘What’s more, he’s coming in here! And there’s a fat man with a press camera trotting behind him.’
Holt vaguely registered the thought that perhaps Ruth was right and that something unusual might be about to happen. It was strictly against the rules for anyone to contact air passengers before they had been cleared at the Customs Hall. There was no time for further thought, however; Hyde was only a few paces away.
‘Hello, Inspector! What brings you here? You haven’t come to arrest us, I hope?’
Holt noted that the older man had not changed much since their last meeting; his thick hair was just a trifle greyer at the temples perhaps. But he thought he detected a slight sense of urgency behind the habitually quiet and courteous manner as Hyde gave a tight smile and the three of them exchanged brief greetings.
‘This is an odd coincidence, meeting you here,’ the Inspector said. ‘But I must be quick! As it happens, you may be able to help me. That man you were talking to just now – the tall fellow with the lady in the violet hat – do you happen to know his name?’
‘Yes, we got friendly on the plane. I’ve