FRANCIS DURBRIDGE
Paul Temple and the Madison Case
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by
Hodder & Stoughton 1988
Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1988
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.
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Source ISBN: 9780008125783
Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008157869
Version: 2015-10-26
Contents
CHAPTER I: My Name Is Portland, Sam Portland
CHAPTER IV: Hubert Greene Entertains
CHAPTER VI: Just a Red Herring
CHAPTER VIII: Introducing Madison
My Name is Portland, Sam Portland
‘I think I’ll go up on deck for a few minutes, Paul. I’d like to take a last look at the New York skyline.’
‘Isn’t it a bit late, Steve? You said you wanted to change your dress before going down to dinner.’
‘Yes, I know, but it will clear my head a bit.’
‘You’re not feeling off colour already, are you? It’s only ten minutes since we sailed.’
‘No, darling, I’m fine. It’s just that I feel a little sea air will do me good.’
‘Well, take a wrap or something. And for heaven’s sake don’t get lost. Do you know the number of this cabin?’
‘I know we’re on the Signal Deck and isn’t it eight hundred and something?’
‘We’re on the Sports Deck and it’s number 8020.’
Mr and Mrs Paul Temple were on their way back from a stay in New York. They had flown out by Concorde and were returning in more leisurely fashion on the newly refurbished Princess Diana. Temple had been attending the International Conference of Anti-Crime Agencies. As an eminent criminologist as well as an author of world renown, he had been invited to deliver the key-note address. His New York publishers had timed the publication of his new book to coincide with the conference and had offered to pay both his and Steve’s expenses. After a week of lectures and seminars, interspersed with book signings and television interviews, he was looking forward to five days crossing the Atlantic at 29 knots instead of the Mach 2 of Concorde.
Steve had not been telling the complete truth when she said she was feeling fine. She was a bad sailor and whenever she boarded a ship and knew that she had left terra firma she began to feel queasy. Even on this huge liner, the length of three football pitches, she had a sense of being somehow trapped and enclosed.
As always, coming out on deck made things better. She was glad that she had not missed this magical moment. The great liner, dwarfed by the soaring skyscrapers on Manhattan Island, was just passing between the upraised arm of the Statue of Liberty and the twin towers of the World Trade Centre. Already the city was beginning to sparkle as lights were switched on in offices where staff would be working till the small hours. She tried to pick out the Waldorf Astoria in the closely packed muddle of buildings. The hotel had been their home for the last six days.
‘Isn’t that just the most fantastic skyline?’
Steve did not turn round at once. The voice was American but she was not sure whether the remark had been addressed to her. She was adept at dealing with approaches from strangers who could not resist the lure of an attractive woman on her own.
‘The Big Apple. It’s a sight that always brings a lump into my throat.’
Steve turned. The man leaning on the rail beside her was wearing a white suit and a gaily coloured tie. His hair was grey and thinning on top, but she did not put him at much more than fifty. His colour was high but whether from recent sunshine or blood pressure she could not tell. There was an unmistakable air