‘I don’t know why she wants to see me again,’ said Paul coming out of the shower, ‘but I know why I need to see her.’ He stood with his arms out for Steve to wrap the towel round his waist.
‘How does she fit into this Milbourne business?’
‘She’s at the absolute centre of it.’
‘I see.’ Steve contemplated the lithe body as he dried himself. ‘Do you think that Carl Milbourne was blackmailing her? That would fit, wouldn’t it, with the letters she received and the odd circumstances of his visit. Maybe Danny Clayton killed him.’ She looked unhappy. ‘That would be neat, but it doesn’t fit with my understanding of Danny. Does it fit with Carl Milbourne?’
‘No,’ said Paul, ‘not if he’s still alive.’
‘He’s had money troubles with his firm.’
Paul smiled encouragingly. ‘And why did Julia pretend not to know of Vince Langham?’
‘Yes, that’s a mystery, isn’t it? I’ve been wondering about those two.’ She took a rather lurid tie from the clothes laid out on the bed and replaced it with a sober blue one. ‘Darling, do you think she would have been the J who gave Vince that gold cigarette case?’
‘An expensive present.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s expensive, but a star like Julia might well have given something like that to her director at the end of a film.’
The telephone rang by the bed. It was the reception desk to announce that Paul’s car had arrived to take them to the Villa Serbolini. Paul said they would be down in five minutes and continued dressing.
‘Don’t you think it might have been Vince Langham out there on the ice cap?’ asked Steve.
‘No. If it were,’ he said with a laugh, ‘Vince must have had some damned good coaching since this morning. Just trying on a pair of skis he nearly wrecked the shop. But I think you’re right about one thing, darling, the J was for Julia.’
He took her arm, gave her a kiss, and led her from the hotel. It was nice to have somebody so attractive to do one’s thinking. It was a shame they had to go out in the snow.
It took them more than half an hour to drive to Pontresina. The blizzard was raging now and the roads were becoming impassable snowdrifts. Steve huddled in the corner of the limousine swathed in fur and tried to guess Danny Clayton’s reason for living out here with Julia.
‘Perhaps he needs a mother figure?’ she wondered. But that was hardly convincing. ‘Or maybe it’s the money?’ No, it couldn’t be the money or the style of life such money could buy. People such as Danny fight their way up to achieve power. But power was exactly what he didn’t have out here in Switzerland. He was more like a prisoner.
Steve looked at the high wall round the Julia Carrington estate. The house lay back in extensive grounds, like a prison. It was a lavish home, but for somebody like Danny rather suffocating. There had to be something about Danny that she didn’t know.
The car had turned into the approach to the wrought iron gates with wheels spinning in the snow. The chauffeur stopped and went to open the gates.
‘I think we might have to walk from here, darling,’ said Paul.
The chauffeur was apologetic. ‘You can see the lights through the trees, sir. It will take you two or three minutes, unless you care to wait while I clear the snow.’
‘I don’t think it’s as cold outside as it looks,’ said Paul.
‘No, it couldn’t possibly be.’
Paul helped her from the car and smiled at her obvious reluctance to get snow on the mauve suede boots. The essence of fashion, he reflected, was that it should be impracticable. But there was no alternative to walking. The huge gates were immovable and the drive was under swirling, thick snow. They went along to a wicket gate in the wall.
‘What time shall I pick you up, sir?’ asked the chauffeur.
‘Oh, about ten thirty,’ he said. The wicket gate opened easily into the grounds. ‘Come on, Steve, you can change your clothes when we get to the house.’
‘Huh! I’ll look like Blanche Dubois in Julia’s clothes.’
In fact Paul was enjoying the walk. The snow settled on their faces, freezing to their eyebrows and anaesthetising their jaws so that they had to proceed in silence. Paul flashed his pencil torch occasionally at the stone peacocks, urns and heads that lined the drive, but he could only see them as yellow blurs. The crunch of packed snow beneath their feet was the only sound until they heard a scream over to their right.
‘I could have sworn I heard someone shouting –’ Steve began.
The scream was repeated.
‘Stay here, darling,’ said Paul. ‘If I need any help you’ll be able to –’
‘Not on your life!’ She plunged into the undergrowth behind Paul. ‘I’m coming with you!’
The low moaning sound was consistent enough to guide them towards the injured man. Paul flashed his torch at the bushes as they hurried past until eventually they reached a clearing. A set of footprints was clearly visible, made by somebody running towards the house.
Paul looked uncertainly in that direction, undecided about giving chase or helping the injured. The moaning was becoming more faint, so Paul followed the direction from which the footprints had been running. He paused where the man running had clearly paused and looked about. Perhaps this was where he had been when he had heard Paul and Steve crashing towards him. Perhaps he had thrown away the dark object lying over there in the snow.
‘Darling,’ Steve called, ‘over here! I think I’ve found him!’
Paul bent down by a clump of ornamental shrubbery and with his gloved hands he picked up a common sheath knife. The sort of thing boy scouts carry, except that this one was covered in blood. Paul wrapped it in another handkerchief and then hurried over to Steve.
‘Who is he?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure.’
The man had been writhing in the snow and was now half buried beneath a snowdrift. There was blood everywhere, from the gash in his thick flying jacket. Paul scooped the body clear and turned him over, brushing the snow from his face and slightly lifting his head.
‘Vince,’ he murmured, ‘can you hear me?’
‘God, it hurts, Paul,’ he gasped in obvious agony. ‘It’s my back. A knife…’
Paul gave the torch to Steve and indicated the house. She ran off across the snow to fetch help.
‘Don’t worry, Vince, we’ll soon have you in a warm bed. Try to be still.’
Paul tore a strip from his shirt and made a wad to stem the bleeding from below Vince’s ribs. Then he covered the man’s shivering body with his coat. His breathing was regular but painfully laboured. Paul thought he had passed out, but after they had been waiting a few minutes Vince spoke again.
‘I’ve been meaning to tell you about Carl Milbourne –’
‘It can wait.’
Paul hadn’t realised how noisy a snowstorm could be. The continual swish of snow falling from branches, the low whistle of the breeze, the crackle of protesting trees heavy with ice.
‘It all started with Carl Milbourne,’ the voice continued weakly, ‘and that bloody novel.’
‘I know,’ said Paul gently. I suppose you wrote Too Young to Die. Are you Richard Randolph?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘It’s a bad novel,’ Paul said cruelly. ‘Reads like a film script.’
A slight chuckle turned to a coughing spasm. ‘Well, I wrote it some time ago and sent it to Carl Milbourne. I’d dealt with him before, I bought the film rights of a book from him a few years back. And Carl liked Too Young to Die, he thought it was well written and he wanted to see me.’ He paused to regain his strength. ‘I wish I’d never seen him.’
‘You shouldn’t have written the novel.’
‘True. I told Carl where I got the idea for the story, that was the trouble. It was while I was in Hollywood, making a picture for –’ He broke off in agony.
‘It’s all right, don’t talk,’ said Paul. ‘I can guess where you found the idea. It was base
d on something that happened to Julia Carrington.’
‘Yes.’ The voice in the darkness sounded surprised. ‘My back hurts like hell, Paul.’
‘I think somebody’s coming. You won’t be left here much longer.’ The flicker of lanterns and the buzz of voices were approaching from the house. ‘By the way, Vince, what were you doing out here this evening?’
‘I had an appointment’
Paul grunted. That was a story he had heard before from Vince, and it was usually disputed. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah, Danny Clayton phoned and said that Julia would see me. So I was on my way up to the house when someone came up behind me and –’ He broke off as the group of people came across to them. ‘I hope they can stop this pain, Paul, I can’t bear it much longer.’
Danny stared indignantly at the sick man. ‘There’s some mistake, Mr Langham. I didn’t phone you.’
‘But you did!’ He was lying in bed, deathly pale and weak, yet a flush of excitement lit his eyes. ‘You told me to come here –’
The doctor raised an authoritative hand for silence. ‘There must be no more talking, gentlemen. Mr Langham must have complete rest. We must leave him.’
The doctor was a daunting man who had taken over the guest room as if it were his own hospital, riding blithely over objections and discussion with imperious disdain. He had finally crushed Julia herself by saying that the whole villa would make an excellent sanatorium. He shooed them from the sickroom and turned out the lights. Paul followed the group down to the drawing-room.
Julia was looking more strained than she had been in Geneva, the slenderness was looking less regal and more like a wiry strength. ‘Mr Temple,’ she said irritably, ‘that man was obviously lying.’
‘I believe him,’ Paul murmured.
‘Do you mean,’ she asked fiercely, ‘that you don’t believe Danny when he says that he didn’t telephone Mr Langham?’
‘I think someone telephoned Vince. If it wasn’t Danny then someone must have impersonated him.’
Danny Clayton was looking nervous, as though he expected a display of artistic temperament from Julia at any moment. ‘It is possible,’ he said tentatively, ‘although why should anyone –?’
‘I find the whole business extremely annoying!’ Julia flounced across to the drinks tray and refilled her glass. ‘If the newspapers get hold of this story they’ll assume that I invited Langham here because he’s a film director…’
Steve sighed so audibly that the actress paused as if she had been booed. ‘There’s no reason,’ said Steve, ‘why the newspapers should get hold of the story.’
‘Of course not,’ Danny assured her. ‘I’ll have a word with Langham tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll be reasonable.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ Julia glared aggressively at Paul. ‘I’m not having my life ruined by reporters.’
She was obviously in no mood to be the perfect hostess, so Paul gave her a few moments to calm down while he helped himself to a brandy. Danny hovered about as though he should be pouring the drinks but was anxious not to stray too far from Julia. The longer the silence lasted the more difficult it became for Julia to continue her scene. Eventually Paul turned to her and spoke with quiet authority.
‘Would it be such a bad idea, Miss Carrington, if the newspapers were to print the whole of your story?’
‘What do you mean?’ she whispered.
‘I think it’s about time we put our cards on the table. After all, someone tried to murder Vince tonight, and they very nearly succeeded. Someone even tried to murder Danny in Geneva. I should have thought that by now you would realise how dangerous it is to pretend that nothing is happening.’
‘Are you suggesting that Julia is covering up the truth?’ Danny demanded loyally.
‘Yes,’ said Paul. ‘Now don’t interrupt. I’m suggesting that it’s about time Miss Carrington told me about Carl Milbourne and what it was –’
‘What do you know about Milbourne?’ Julia asked. She had stopped acting now. She was obviously frightened.
‘Carl Milbourne was blackmailing you.’ Paul sat on the sofa beside her. ‘Well, Julia, wasn’t he blackmailing you?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was almost inaudible. ‘He still is.’
‘I can deal with Milbourne,’ said Danny with an attempt at manly self-confidence.
She shook her head.
‘It started in Hollywood, didn’t it?’ Paul prompted. ‘Many years ago when you were drinking heavily?’
She glanced pleadingly at Danny, but Danny simply held out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. She was on her own. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I was drinking heavily. It’s a hell of a life at the top in Hollywood. I was a symbol of success, surrounded by people who thought I was wonderful. They must have hated me, but there were too many careers and to much money invested in me. In those days Hollywood’s revenge on its stars was to surround them with cheap glitter, to fill their lives with lavish parties, sex and empty excitement, meaningless power.’
Julia smiled ironically. ‘I’m sorry to sound puritanical, I might have enjoyed the sex and the money if only the people had been different.’
‘Believe me, Paul, it’s a rat race,’ Danny explained.
‘I wanted to get away, but I couldn’t,’ Julia continued. ‘It wasn’t only the contracts that kept me there; I suppose in some ways I enjoyed the success – I was an actress, and some of the films I made were good films. So I was enmeshed, Mr Temple, stuck. And I’m afraid I became a little self-pitying.’
‘Was that when you took to drinking?’
She nodded. ‘I had a hide-out in an apartment house in Santa Barbara. I used to go there by myself at weekends. And one night, during a drinking bout, I set fire to the apartment.’ She went across to refill her glass in the silence. ‘I escaped, but many people lost their lives that night. Including Danny’s mother and father.’
Danny took her hand encouragingly.
‘I don’t even remember how it happened. I suppose I was smoking and I probably fell asleep. There was an enquiry, but they didn’t discover how it happened because they didn’t know I was there.’ She looked directly at Paul. ‘I’d been to the head of the studio and told him the whole story. I wanted to accept full responsibility for what had happened. But the studio wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘They were halfway through a picture,’ explained Danny.
‘They hushed the whole thing up. The only person who knew that I was at Santa Barbara on the night of the fire was the manager of the apartment house, and the studio paid him forty thousand dollars to keep his mouth shut.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Not only that, they provided me with an alibi as well. The studio was capable of taking care of almost anything. They’d had plenty of practice.’
‘It must have been a ghastly experience,’ said Steve.
‘Yes, it was. One feels so guilty, so anxious to make amends, and of course there’s nothing one can do to help the people who were burned to death.’
‘So,’ said Danny, ‘she helped the survivors.’
‘I tried to take care of Danny – put him through college and get him a job at the studio. Although Danny didn’t need much help from me, he was soon running the whole outfit.’
‘I’m a rat,’ said Danny, ‘I enjoyed the rat race. Do you know, I even miss it sometimes. But Julia’s pretty helpless, so when she retired a few years later I had to retire with her. It was she who needed taking care of.’ He shook his head reprovingly. ‘She should have let me take care of the blackmail business. I came up against worse characters than Carl Milbourne in Hollywood. I could have sorted it out!’
Paul raised an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t you?’
‘No.’
‘I was afraid to bluff it out,’ said Julia. ‘When Carl Milbourne came to see me six months ago he showed me the manuscript of a novel called Too Young to Die. As soon as I read it I knew that it was my life story, that it was based on my experiences in Hollywood.’
Paul nodded.
‘Yes, Randolph heard your story from the manager of the apartment house.’
‘Then he demanded money. Milbourne told me that he was Richard Randolph and that –’
‘He told you he was Randolph?’ Paul asked in surprise.
‘Yes. Didn’t you know that? Milbourne was the author and he owned all the rights in the book. Naturally I asked him not to publish it, and he agreed. Subject to certain monetary considerations.’
‘How much,’ asked Steve, ‘did you pay Carl Milbourne?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Up to the time of the accident, about forty thousand pounds.’
‘I expect you were relieved,’ Paul said carefully, ‘when you heard about the accident.’
‘Of course. I thought that would be the end of the matter. But it wasn’t. A short time after it happened I had a phone call from Mrs Milbourne. She said she felt convinced that her husband was still alive, and she asked if I had heard from him.’
‘What did you say?’ asked Paul.
‘I lied.’ She shrugged her shoulders in weary resignation. ‘I said I’d never even met her husband.’
‘And then what happened?’
‘About a week ago I had a phone call from Carl Milbourne himself. He told me I had to make one more payment of sixty thousand pounds. That was when Danny found out about the affair, and insisted on becoming involved.’
‘Well, sixty thousand dollars,’ Danny said indignantly.
‘Did Milbourne tell you where to deliver the money?’ asked Paul.
‘No, he simply told me to come to St Moritz and wait. He said he would contact me here.’
‘And has he?’
‘No,’ she sighed, ‘not yet.’
‘Good. That gives us time to prepare.’
‘I begged Julia to go to the police,’ said Danny. ‘But she wouldn’t hear of it. She’s terrified of the law. So finally I persuaded her to see you.’ He shrugged. ‘Then at the very last moment, on the day you arrived –’
‘She funked it,’ said Paul.
‘Yes.’
Julia rose to her feet. ‘Well, I haven’t funked it now, Mr Temple. I’ve told you the whole truth. Shall we go through and have some dinner? I feel rather hungry. You can tell me what I ought to do while we eat.’
Paul Temple and the Geneva Mystery Page 11