Paul Temple and the Margo Mystery. Francis Durbridge

visitor out.

      ‘You don’t like her, do you, Paul?’

      ‘No – but I’m glad she called. I wonder if this Daphne Drake place is worth investigating.’

      ‘Well, I can tell you one thing, the coat that was left in my car at the airport wasn’t bought from Daphne Drake’s.’

      ‘How do you know?’

      ‘The weight of the material. And it wasn’t their style. They have much more expensive stuff than that. They have some really lovely things.’ Steve put her head on one side and gave Paul a look. ‘You know, I think I ought to go along there tomorrow morning, and make a few enquiries.’

      ‘I know the sort of enquiries you’d make!’ Temple laughed. ‘Still, it’s not a bad idea.’

      ‘Thank you, darling.’

      ‘But, Steve—’

      ‘Yes, dear?’

      ‘One dress – one only, remember…’

      Dr M. C. Benkaray was in the telephone book with an address in Wimpole Street.

      ‘I hope he doesn’t shut up shop at five o’clock.’

      Steve broke off playing the piano while Temple dialled the number. ‘Why are you so anxious to talk to this Dr Benkaray, Paul?’

      ‘Tony Wyman told me that Julia Kelburn recently consulted a psychiatrist. I thought it might be a good idea to find out what her trouble was—’ Temple broke off and took his hand away from the mouthpiece as the ringing tone stopped.

      ‘Dr Benkaray’s practice.’

      Temple hesitated, puzzled by the man’s accent. ‘May I speak to the doctor, please?’

      ‘What’s your name?’

      ‘Temple. Paul Temple.’

      ‘Just hold on a minute, please.’

      Watching him, Steve saw two lines appear between his brow, always a sign that he was adding two and two and making five. ‘What is it, Paul?’

      ‘I could swear that the man on the other end – Hello! Is that Dr Benkaray?’

      ‘No, this is Dr Benkaray’s secretary.’ The voice was masculine but more like that of a car salesman than a doctor’s secretary. ‘The doctor is out of town.’

      ‘My name is Temple. I’d like to make an appointment—’

      ‘Then I suggest you ’phone again towards the end of the month.’

      ‘But surely—’

      ‘Any time after the twenty-fifth. I shall be pleased to make an appointment for you then.’

      ‘But I’m afraid that’s too—’

      ‘Goodbye, Mr Temple.’

      Slowly Temple put the receiver down.

      ‘Well, I’m damned! He cut me short and rang off. By Timothy, if that’s the secretary I wonder what the doctor’s like.’

      ‘Did you think you recognised the person who answered first?’

      Temple nodded. ‘He sounded exactly like that truck driver who nearly wrote me off. Ted Angus.’

      Steve was only forty minutes late for her rendezvous with Temple. They had arranged to meet in the cocktail bar of a small club near Ebury Street.

      ‘Hello, Steve! I thought you were never coming! Did you buy up the whole shop?’

      ‘No, darling, I didn’t.’

      She sat down on the button-leather bench beside him. One of the club waiters, in a short green jacket, came over to the table.

      ‘Can I get you anything, madam?’

      ‘I’d like a dry sherry.’

      Temple pointed to his own glass. ‘I’ll have the same again.’

      ‘Yes, sir. A Tio Pepe and a dry martini.’

      ‘Well, Steve?’ Temple knew from the way she kept glancing at him with a faint smile on her lips that she’d had a successful morning. He hoped the bill would not be too high.

      ‘I’ve got some news for you, Mr Temple!’