‘Carl had heard a rumour that she was writing her memoirs,’ explained Margaret Milbourne. ‘He was anxious to find out whether that was true.’
Yes, he would have been, Paul reflected. Julia Carrington’s memoirs would be a scoop for any publisher. A success and sex story with famous names thrown in. Beautiful women, temperamental stars and bankers with several millions of dollars at stake. The only people who could be more interested in them than a publisher would be the famous names, the film company and the bankers.
‘I didn’t want him to go,’ Margaret Milbourne was saying. ‘I had a feeling, I don’t know why. Julia Carrington doesn’t bring other people luck. She has a doomed aura –’
‘Mrs Milbourne, I don’t doubt your sincerity. I don’t doubt that you really believe that your husband is still alive. But feelings and aura and the word of a medium are not evidence.’
She smiled ironically. ‘I have evidence.’ She took a piece of paper from her handbag and passed it across to Paul. ‘Is this evidence enough for you, Mr Temple?’
When she and her brother had returned from Switzerland after the accident Mrs Milbourne had found a parcel waiting at her home. It was addressed to Carl Milbourne from a shop in St Moritz. It contained the hat which Milbourne had been wearing when he left.
‘Your husband’s hat?’ Paul repeated.
‘Carl had a weakness for buying hats, he was constantly buying them. His dress sense was something I never quite adjusted to, even after six years of marriage. I knew at once what had happened. Carl had bought a new hat in St Moritz, and he had asked the shop to post his old one home.’
‘But obviously,’ Paul murmured, ‘this must have happened before the accident.’
She raised an imperious hand. ‘I’m coming to that, Mr Temple. You see, the hat was no use to me and I gave it away. I gave it to the gardener, as a matter of fact. And the day before yesterday he came to see me. He had found this piece of paper in the brim of the hat.’
Paul examined the paper. It was a note, dated January the sixth. ‘Please don’t worry,’ it read. ‘Have seen Randolph and everything will be all right. Will contact you later.’ Paul looked enquiringly at Mrs Milbourne.
‘January the sixth, Mr Temple, was two days after the accident.’
He nodded. ‘Are you sure this is your husband’s handwriting?’
‘Positive.’
‘So who do you suppose was killed by that car, Mrs Milbourne?’
‘I haven’t the remotest idea.’
Paul sighed. ‘And I suppose you don’t know anyone called Randolph. All we know is that whoever this note was addressed to it was never sent, otherwise it wouldn’t have been in your husband’s hat.’
‘You’re the private investigator, Mr Temple.’
Paul winced. She made him sound like a man in a raincoat spying on adulterers. One of these days, when he was grey and sporting a beard, he would call himself a criminologist. ‘What did you want me to do, Mrs Milbourne?’
‘I’d like you and Mrs Temple to come out with me to Switzerland.’ She continued in a puzzled tone, ‘I’d like to know what Carl was doing in St Moritz. He didn’t tell me he was going there, and he hates winter sports.’
They were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. ‘Excuse me,’ murmured Paul. He picked up the receiver.
‘Is that Paul Temple?’ asked the anxious voice. ‘Darling, you won’t remember me –’
‘Dolly! Of course I remember you. How’s the dancing now? Are you working again?’ He shrugged apologetically at Mrs Milbourne. ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?’
‘I’d like to talk to you, Mr Temple, darling. It’s terribly important.’
‘Of course. Why don’t you come round –?’
‘No no,’ the voice said anxiously, ‘I’d sooner meet you somewhere else. In the open somewhere, the park or somewhere like that.’
‘The Zoo?’
‘That’s a wonderful idea! Just the place! I’ll be inside the main gate in about forty minutes. See you then, darling.’
Paul replaced the receiver and turned back to Mrs Milbourne. ‘I’m sorry, an old friend of mine seems to be in trouble.’
‘That’s all right, Mr Temple,’ she said. ‘I rather think we’ve finished, haven’t we? I’ll arrange the flight –’
‘There is one more thing. A personal question. Did you and your husband quarrel before he left for Geneva?’
She laughed dismissively. ‘Actually, yes we did. I suppose Maurice told you?’ She rose to her feet and began putting on her gloves. ‘There was only one subject we ever quarrelled about, but unfortunately it happened to crop up just before he left. Carl was anxious to avoid paying death duties. He always took it for granted that he would go first, and…’ Her voice quickened dramatically. ‘He just would insist on talking about death. I hated the subject, simply hated it, Mr Temple. I used to tell him, “You’re only forty-eight!” But he would insist on discussing it.’
‘He talked about death and estate duties the night before he left for Geneva?’ Paul asked thoughtfully.
‘Yes, he did.’
Paul Temple paid off his taxi outside the main entrance to the London Zoological Gardens. It was an exhilarating January morning with a low sun filtering through the clouds. Paul went in and bought a bag of peanuts for the monkeys; they deserved a treat in this temperature, although they looked perfectly cheerful.
The last time Paul had seen Dolly Brazier she had been in the dock for her part in a drugs scandal. He had known her for many years. She had played the part of a pop singer in a stage thriller he had written. The play had been a disaster, because the director had cut out most of the clues and all the explanations, but Dolly had remained his friend. A few years later when she was arrested Paul had persuaded Arnold Waldron to defend her, and Arnold had got her off with a twelve months’ suspended sentence.
There was no sign of her yet, so Paul found a telephone kiosk and put through a call to the Pentagon Garage in Newport Pagnell. The drive across London with a talkative cockney taxi driver had convinced Paul that he needed the Rolls.
The news was unpromising. His car had been returned to the factory for a new radiator, a new windscreen and some panel beating. The cheerful indifference of the mechanic was tiresome, especially when he concluded that it would be about ten days before the work was completed. Paul hung up and went back to feed the monkeys.
‘Hello, Paul! Here I am, darling!’
Dolly Brazier ran up through the west tunnel waving her handbag. She was a vivacious little red-head with a black maxi coat billowing to reveal the shapely legs of a chorus girl. She embraced him and left a smear of lipstick on his cheek.
‘Nice to see you again,’ said Paul. ‘Although you don’t look worried out of your mind to me.’ She had that kind of face. ‘Where are you working these days?’
‘Oh, I’ve done all sorts of things since the summer season in Scarborough last year.’ She laughed and took his arm. ‘I even did secretarial work, until they discovered that I couldn’t spell.’
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ said Paul. ‘Where are you working now?’
She